Page 2 of Irish Legacy

The front door rattled in its frame.

A blast of wet October air cut straight through the heat, carrying the roar of the rain outside. Trish wiped the loose peat dust from her palms onto her apron and straightened up.

A woman stood on the mat, shoving a dripping dark hood off her head.

Quinn Fallon.

Trish recognized her straight away. She was easily the most famous out lesbian actress.

Here in the pub’s dim amber lamplight, her blond hair was dark with rain, sticking in wet strands against her jaw and the hollow of her throat. She had her grandfather’s sharp bone structure and those pale blue eyes.

Trish didn’t reach for an autograph book. A customer was a customer.

Trish left the fire to catch and walked back behind the bar.

Quinn took two steps into the pub, her gaze sweeping the crowded tables with a quick, defensive glance, waiting to see who was going to point or pull out a phone. But the Sullivan wedding was four choruses deep into a badly tuned pop song, the bride’s cousins were arguing over the rules of a dart tournament that wasn’t happening, and nobody was looking at the door.

Quinn spotted the counter and crossed the stone floor, her leather boots squeaking against the wet flagstones as she headed straight for the spot where Trish stood.

Trish braced her hands on the edge of the bar and looked the woman over.

“What can I get ya?”

Quinn’s eyes went past her, scanning the room. The lads at the board. The wedding party at the long table. The drinkers lined up along the wall. Then she turned and read the row of taps one by one, the stout, the lager, the pale ale, the cider, and her face did nothing to hide that none of it meant anything to her.

“A bottle of Corona. Please.”

Trish opened the low fridge under the counter and reached in. She set it on the drip tray, hooked the opener under the cap, and popped it off with a small hiss of gas that lifted her thumb with it.

“Lime?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

There was a small plastic tub of cut wedges on the shelf beside the till. Trish took one, pushed it down into the neck of the bottle, and set the beer on a coaster.

Quinn reached into the pocket of her coat and produced a card. It was matte black. She pushed it across the mahogany toward Trish’s hand.

“Can you start a tab for me?” Quinn asked.

Trish looked down at the metal card, then back up at the woman standing in front of her.

“We don’t do that here,” Trish said. “Pay as you go.”

Quinn blinked, her brain clearly lagging several seconds behind the conversation.

“Quinn,” Natalie said, coming out of the snug.

Quinn turned, her posture shifting the second Natalie pulled her into a warm, solid hug. The wet waxed coat bunched under Natalie’s hands.

“Look at you,” Natalie said, pulling back just enough to hold Quinn by the shoulders, a genuine smile breaking across her face. “How long has it been? Three years?”

“How could I ever forget Vancouver,” Quinn said, her voice softening with real warmth. “God, it’s good to see you, Nat.”

“It’s so good to see you.” Natalie let go of her, took one look at the black card sitting on the bar, and pulled her own card from her jeans pocket. She tapped it flat against the terminal next to Trish’s hand.

The machine beeped.

“Put that away,” Natalie said, nodding at Quinn’s card before slipping her own back into her pocket. She hooked an arm through Quinn’s, already steering her away from the draught taps. “Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet. My partner, Emma.”