rolling in her grave.”
“Geena Davis is not dead, Mal!”
“Come, Madame Semantics. Let me feed you.”
Three corned beefs and a shepherd’s pie later, Mal points at me with his half-finished Guinness pint—his fourth. I’m still nursing my first vodka Diet Coke.
“You wanted to ask me something.” He squeezes one eye shut, like he’s zeroing in on me with a gun, licking the white foam of the Guinness from his upper lip.
Here goes…
“I came to Drury Street on your granddad’s advice. He knew I was Glen O’Connell’s daughter. He said you’d be able to tell me more about him.” I study his face carefully.
He takes my hand, flips it, and trails the lines on the inside with his finger. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“I used to go to Granddad’s church every Sunday when I was a kid. Glen lived behind it. He’d let me listen to his records. He taught me a few notes and helped me string a sentence together when I started writing songs. Taught me how to bleed onto a page. So, yes, we knew each other quite well. Well enough for him to tell me he’d kill me if I ever touched his daughter.”
Huh?
“The other one.” He shakes his head, laughing when he sees the look on my face. “Not you. God, Glen would have died on the spot had he met you in person. He would’ve appointed an army to protect your virtue.”
“From you?”
“And the rest of Europe.” He smirks.
Is that his weird, Mal way of telling me I’m pretty?
“Why didn’t Granddad send you to Kathleen, Glen’s daughter? She lives right down this street.” Mal frowns, finishing off his pint.
Kathleen.
My sister’s name is Kathleen.
The penny drops, and he realizes I didn’t know her name.
“You knew you had a sister, yeah?”
I nod slowly. “My mom refused to tell me her name. She said it shouldn’t matter, because no one here particularly wants to know me. How come this entire village attends a church in Dublin if you all live here? Kinda weird.” I circle the straw inside my drink.
Mal sits back. “Not the whole village. Just us. Mam works weekend shifts at Lidl, so Kathleen’s mam took us both to Sunday mass to support my granddad’s Dublin gig, essentially babysitting me. I usually went home with Granddad, but sometimes I stayed with Kathleen when she hung out with Glen afterwards.”
“What kind of father was he to her?”
“A good one,” he says, then frowns and amends, “but not good enough for you.”
“And how old is Kathleen?” I ignore his attempt to make me feel better.
“My age.” Mal still studies my hand like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Twenty-two,” he adds.
“You must know her well.”
“We grew up together.” He clanks his empty glass on the sticky wooden table. “Why he would direct you to me and not to her, I wonder.”
“He said she was in a state and didn’t want to see anyone.”
“Bollocks. Kathleen’s more social than a penguin.”
What an odd thing to say. I try not to smile at his choice of words. Everything about him is so…different.
“What’s she like?” I feel like an FBI agent, but it’s hard to keep myself in check when I want to learn everything there is to know about Dad. About my sister. Plus, if my lips keep moving, I don’t have to stop to examine the stain of jealousy in my voice. Kathleen had years of growing up with Dad. And being next to Mal.
“Sweet. Nice. Saintly. You’ll see. Let’s go see her. She must have a load of photos of him.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Well, I do. You’re not getting out of here empty-handed. Let’s go.”
He takes my hand and yanks me to my feet. He slaps a few bills onto the table, and I don’t even attempt to pay for my portion of the meal, because with the hotel, I’m already deep in the red on this trip.
My hand clasped in his, Mal blazes through Main Street like a bullet. It starts to rain, and I duck my head, trying to dodge the downpour.
He laughs, his voice muffled by the storm. “I can’t believe it’s raining in the summer. It’s like you brought winter with you, Rory.”
It is weird, but it keeps us close and touching, so I don’t care.
“Why not take the car?” I yell.
“Her house’s right in front of my car, actually. Besides, she’ll have mercy on us if she sees us wet and miserable.”
“I