He shakes my hand. “Sit.”
We take seats and Michaela’s aunt brings us each a bowl of chicken and vegetable soup. As I hear a hen clucking from the back of the house, I can’t help thinking that one ended up in the pot as lunch. The vegetables are probably fresh from the garden as well.
I taste a spoonful and it’s delicious. Her aunt passes a basket with baked bread, still warm from the oven.
“I haven’t had cooking this good in a long time,” I say by way of compliment.
Her aunt smiles, stirs her soup, but doesn’t speak.
“How’s the pub?” her grandfather asks.
Michaela stirs her soup, her eyes on the bowl. I stare at her, wanting to comfort her, and reach over to cover her free hand with mine. The old man doesn’t miss it.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, sharp as a tack.
She tries to smile, but it fades. “Nothing, Grandpa.”
“Bull. Tell me.”
He’s a no-nonsense guy, and I like him already.
“Michaela.” His voice is low and serious, and I can’t imagine him brooking any arguments. The man obviously won’t tolerate being put off.
“The health department shut Mooney’s down.”
He chomps his jaw, staring at the tabletop, and then drops his spoon with a clatter. “Johnson? Lyle Johnson? He the one who shut you down?”
She nods. “You know him?”
“He’s a little prick, just like his daddy before him.”
“Grandpa!”
“Well, he is. Don’t worry about him. I have to, I’ll go down there and raise hell in his office.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Aunt Kathleen snaps.
Michaela stares down into her bowl again and murmurs, “I don’t think I can do it. I’m failing at all of it.”
“The pub?” the old man asks.
She nods.
He stands, his knuckles on the table to keep his balance, and then shuffles over to a bookcase. He returns with a leather-bound album about four inches thick and drops it on the table with a thud.
He sits and flips it open. The first picture is a black-and-white photo of a farm.
“That’s the farm back in Donegal. The family was dirt poor, living in a sod house. My father went back in the thirties and found the ruins still standing. Took this picture.” He flips to the next page, and two faces stare back in two ovals, obviously taken in a photographer’s studio at the turn of the century. He taps his finger on first one, then the next. “Your great, great grandfather, Sean Padraig, and his brother, Finn Hugh. They came to this country with nothing. Worked their way west from New York. Earned money prize-fighting and any other way they could, some legal, some not. Settled in Uprising with enough money to start the pub.”
He flips the page. The next photo is the outside of Mooney’s back in the town’s early days. The streets are still dirt, wooden boardwalks line the buildings, and a mule-drawn wagon sits out in front, loaded down with barrels of beer.
He flips again and Michaela points at the picture. “I know that photo. There’s a copy of it in the bar.”
It’s a shot of the inside of the pub, the long bar, and two young men with mustaches and long white aprons, posing.
The old man skips a few pages. “During prohibition, your great-grandfather and his two brothers were in the moonshine business.” He points to a shot of two men next to a 1930s Ford. “Those were hard times. The pub sold root beer and ice cream to stay in business but had a back room for gambling and drinking late at night. The local police took payoffs and looked the other way.
“Then I took over, and we suffered through the Great Depression, then your father, and now you, Michaela. So you see, this place is your legacy. Hardships come and go, but the family has hung on through all of it. I’m sorry I can’t help you more, so I guess I’ve got no right to expect you to give up everything for that place, but I sure would hate to see Mooney’s end with you after almost a hundred and twenty years.”
I hate the pressure the old man’s putting on her, but I have to admire the way he laid it all out for her. It’s her decision what to do from here on out. Doesn’t sound like he’ll stand in her way, no matter what she decides.
When her grandfather closes the book, he studies Michaela’s eyes. “You having any trouble with those bikers?”
It’s then I become aware that he doesn’t realize I’m one of them. I’ve always been in civilian clothes and only used my truck anytime I’ve been introduced to any of her family members. Apparently, Michaela hasn’t told them about the club, the money, or me. But he knows something, so maybe Cullen told him, or he just knows from word on the street with other businesses.
Either way, something about this man makes me want to be straight up with him. Aunt Kathleen has carried the dishes into the kitchen, so I take the opportunity to lay it out for him.
“She’s not going to have any trouble with the club.”
His eyes cut to me, and there’s that sharpness again. “And you know this how?”
“I’m one of ’em. She’s not gonna have any trouble from us. Got my word.”
I can see in his eyes he’s reserving judgment on whether my word is good. “Time will tell, I guess.”
I nod. “Time will prove it.” I look at Michaela. “She needs help, I’m there for her.”
Twenty-Two
Michaela—
The sun is setting when Sly drops me off at the pub. I kiss him then climb the back stairs while he waits to make sure I get in. He’s got club business to handle and can’t stay. I watch through the back window as he rides off.
The things he told my grandfather surprised me, but then he’s been surprising me all week, day after day. It felt good to think I could count on him to make sure I didn’t have to worry about the club amongst everything else. I only hope it proves true.
I’m suddenly exhausted, physically and emotionally, and kick off my shoes and shuffle into the living room. The temperature has dropped and the room is chilly, so I light a fire log and curl up on the sofa with an afghan and a shot of whiskey. The bottle’s been sitting on the coffee table since the night Sly and I shared a drink and he left me tucked in on the couch, sound asleep.
I’d been shocked when I awoke in the morning to find myself with a pillow and blanket on top of me and Sly gone with the apartment locked up tight.
I stare at the fire now, contemplating everything my grandfather told me, and I know what I have to do. I have to save the bar, even if that means cashing in all my savings and selling my car. I didn’t want this responsibility, but it’s been thrust on me. I’ve fought it, but now I see that this legacy means something not just to my family, but to me as well. I want to keep the bar going; I want to succeed, but I just hope I’m able to keep my head above water long enough to do it.
I set the glass down and stare at the fire, lying down on the pillow from my bed that’s still on the couch.
I must have drifted off, because the next thing I know, my phone’s ringtone rouses me. I blink and squint at the glowing screen, then pick it up off the coffee table, noticing the fire has burned itself out. My voice is scratchy as I answer, “Hello.”