Page 6 of Irish Legacy

“I’ll get you one.” Jack was gone before Trish could tell him not to bother.

Trish wrapped her hand around the new pint. A good pour. Tight head, no spillage down the side. She’d taught him that herself.

Jack came back with a Corona, lime wedged in the neck. He set it down in front of Quinn and stepped back like he might need the distance.

“You have a really nice voice.” Quinn tilted her head at him. “That was beautiful.”

Jack’s ears went pink. Right to the tips, the way they always did when someone complimented him. He scratched the back of his neck and said something that might have passed for thanks if you caught the shape of it.

Trish hid her smile in her glass.

“Jack, I’ll go thank the groom before he thinks I’ve forgotten him.”

She slid out of the snug and crossed the floor through the thinning crowd.

Donal stood near the fire with a pint in one hand and the other arm hooked around his new wife. His face was flushed and loose with drink. Trish touched his elbow.

“That was kind of you. You didn’t need to.”

“Ah, you’ve been looking after us all week.” He swayed on his feet. “Least I could do.”

“Trish.” A voice from the table behind them. One of the aunts, glass raised, grinning wide. “Give us a song.”

Trish turned. Not now. Not with real singers in the room, people who’d spent their lives on the sessions in the far corner. Refusing would just mean they kept asking. They would get louder and longer until the whole evening turned into a negotiation she always lost.

The mother of the bride leaned in from the next table. “Come on, Trish.” Her hand landed on Trish’s forearm. “You’ve a lovely voice.”

4

Emma stood, pushing her stool back. “I’m going to close the blinds. This has the makings of a lock-in.”

Quinn stared at her. A lock-in. The phrase sounded entirely literal.

“The chances of the guards—the police—coming by are slim,” Natalie explained, catching Quinn’s confusion. “But it’s still kind of tradition, I guess. Lock up and make it look like nothing’s going on.”

Out in the main room, a woman’s voice cut through the chatter. “Come on, Trish. You’ve a lovely voice.”

Quinn leaned sideways, trying to peer around the scarred wooden partition of the snug. The angle was useless.

Natalie grabbed her pint. “Come on. Let’s sit out there for a while.”

Quinn followed her out of the snug. The atmosphere in the main bar had shifted into a dense, closed-door privacy. By the front door, Emma was dragging heavy curtains across the frosted glass. A solid metallic thud echoed as she locked the main entrance.

Over by the peat fire, Trish was shaking her head.

“Go on, Trish,” Jack said from the far end of the counter. “Give us The Parting Glass.”

Natalie claimed a small, round table near the edge of the crowd, surrounded by four low wooden stools. Quinn sank onto one of them.

Trish stood by the hearth looking like a woman about to walk a plank. She wore a black blouse that draped loosely, hiding the curve of a waist Quinn suddenly wanted to trace with her palm. If Quinn had to guess, she’d put her at forty-six or forty-seven. She had a grounded, unbothered gravity that Los Angeles women spent thousands trying to manufacture. The heat of the room brought a natural flush to her skin, highlighting those dark, piercing eyes. Quinn had been caught staring into them at least three times tonight without managing to look away once.

Emma navigated the standing crowd and dropped onto a stool beside them. She set her own stout on the table, along with Trish’s half-finished glass from the snug.

Someone shushed the room. The noise died down to the crackle of the fire.

Trish closed her eyes.

The first note filled the space, entirely unaccompanied. It was a rich, low timber that pulled the air right out of the room.