Page 7

CHAPTER 7

Jax

I had assumed that a small village like Ballybeg in Ireland would have everyone at church on Sunday morning. In Charleston, my family dragged me to Sunday mass as a child until I grew up and decided it wasn’t my thing.

So, I was surprised when I came down to the pub and found people in at eleven in the morning, scarfing down Ronan’s full Irish.

“I thought everyone would be at Church,” I told Saoirse, who poured me a cup of strong black coffee.

“I go to church on three occasions.” Saoirse held up a hand and started to close one finger after the other as she listed, “Weddings, funerals, and baptisms. And sometimes I go to Christmas Mass when my ma emotionally blackmails me.”

She leaned closer. “Mrs. Nolan goes every Sunday and comes right back here so we know what’s what even though we weren’t there.”

I arched an eyebrow.

“Church is gossip central,” Ronan, who was looking for something in the bar, informed me.

“Liam Murphy, Liam Ryan, and Seamus, well, they sneak into the back for the last five minutes ‘cause they don’t want to piss off Jesus any more than they already have,” this came from a man I hadn’t seen before who was in overalls.

“’Cause Liam’s dyin’,” Saoirse clarified.

“I don’t go ‘cause I need my beauty sleep.” Ronan had a bottle of Sherry in hand. “Dee, takin’ this, love, need it for the sponge cake.”

I looked at the blackboard where Dee had written the day’s offerings in her neat, precise handwriting, and my mouth watered. Roast lamb with Yorkshire puddings, roasted vegetables, and potatoes. Wheaten bread—whatever the hell that was. And a sherry-soaked sponge cake to top it all off. I was already stuffed from yesterday’s beef and Guinness pie and a lemon posset, which was a creamy citrus dessert that I couldn’t pass up. I needed to find a gym to lift weights and squeeze in a long run because my usual workout routine wouldn’t cut it, the way I was eating, and I wasn’t doing my usual in Ballybeg.

“Hey, Yank, your car parts came in yesterday.” A man thumped my shoulder, catching me off guard. When I turned, he extended a hand. “Connor Kelly, Ballybeg’s postmaster. I dropped off your bits from Porsche—straight from Germany, mind you—to Paddy last night.”

I shook Connor’s hand. “Thanks.”

He took a seat next to me at the bar. “Love, Dee, I’m in desperate need of a pint.”

Dee who had been working on the other side of the bar, going through her laptop computer, raised her head. “Connor, you know the rules. You can have a drink after five in the evening.”

Connor frowned. “But it’s Sunday.”

“And the rules don’t change. Sheila will have my arse if I serve you this early in the day.” Dee went back to her laptop.

Connor grumbled. “You married?”

I shook my head.

“Don’t do it. They give you no peace, these women folk. If they aren’t getting into your face about your eating, then it’s about your drinking, and if it ain’t that, it’s somethin’ else.” He dropped his voice and bid me to lean in closer, which I did. “And when you get older, they keep talkin’ about your prostate and not in the way you want them to, if you catch my drift.”

Before I could formulate an appropriate response for that, thankfully, Dee came up to us and poured Connor a cup of black coffee from the carafe. “It’s almost as good as a Guinness.”

“You’re a hard woman, Dee Gallagher, you are,” Connor retorted but picked up his cup.

Dee set the carafe and leaned forward. “I never ever want to restart your feckin’ heart again, Connor Kelly, so behave yourself.”

She swayed her hips extra hard when she went back to the other end of the bar, and I turned to Connor, my eyebrows raised.

He sighed. “She does CPR one time… one feckin’ time , and she thinks she’s all feckin’ that.”

I stared at him in shock, and it took a moment before I asked, “You actually had a heart attack?”

Mrs. Nolan, who’d just walked into the bar, slapped Connor on the back of his head. “He sure did, and Dee saved his life. You ask her for beer again, and I won’t just tell Sheila; I’ll tell your ma.”

Connor went pale. “Now, Eileen, you do no such thing. Ma finds out, and it’ll turn into the feckin’ Night of the Big Wind all over again!”

Mrs. Nolan sighed. “Dee, love, I’m going to be at my usual table. Mr. Nolan is going to join us today.”

“Saoirse, one full Irish for Mrs. Nolan and one without mushrooms for Mr. Nolan. I’ll draw you a pint in a second, Eileen,” Dee called out.

The older woman turned around and regally went to the table I always saw her at.

“She thinks she’s the mayor of the village or some such thing,” Connor grumbled. “Always in everyone’s business.”

“I can hear you, Connor,” Mrs. Nolan scolded him, and Dee said, “I think she can hear you.”

Connor finished his coffee, dropped a couple of euros on the bar, and walked out, still complaining about how no one was serving him what he wanted.

“You having the full Irish?” Dee asked me as she began to polish glasses after finishing whatever it was she’d been doing on her laptop.

“I’m still digesting last night’s pie,” I told her.

She laughed. “Are we fattening you up, Yank?”

“Speaking of which, is there…like a gym or a place I can work out, lift weights?”

Dee nodded. “Aye, there’s a spot. Just past the green, behind the old community center. It’s nothin’ fancy, mind you. There will be no towel service.”

“I can manage without service of all kinds.” I grinned. “I mean, you promised to put chocolate on my pillow every night, and you haven’t, not even once, and see how well I’m doing.”

She rolled her eyes. “Mickey Byrne runs the place you need.”

I waited for her to explain who the hell this Mickey was.

She smirked, crossing her arms. “He’s a retired boxer. Went pro in his day but came back to Ballybeg years ago. Like I said, the gym’s not much—some old weights, a few punching bags, a makeshift ring. He trains some of the local kids there. Keeps them out of trouble.”

A boxer in Ballybeg? I couldn’t help but be intrigued. “He fought professionally?”

“He most certainly did,” she said with pride, and it was obvious this Mickey person was highly regarded by Dee. “He fought all over the world. Had a mean left hook. But Ballybeg’s his home. He set up that gym to give back. It’s become a bit of a sanctuary for the kids who need it.”

“He’ll let me use his place?”

“Why not?”

Why not, indeed ?

It was a rare pleasure to be in a place like Ballybeg, where everything was out in the open, and the people were unapologetically themselves. This was a community that wouldn’t pour a pint for a man with a heart condition, but they’d happily nick a biscuit for a toddler and turn a blind eye when a dying old man pinched the pub owner’s arse—just for the fun of it.

“Where can I find this…ah…gym?”

“You know where Paddy’s garage is?” When I nodded, she continued, “It’s right by there. Paddy and Mickey are old friends.”

* * *

As I walked the ten minutes to Paddy’s garage, the thought hit me—I didn’t want to leave Ballybeg on Tuesday when the Porsche was fixed. I wanted to stay a little longer. To actually be on…vacation. I was enjoying myself, and while I knew I’d eventually get bored, I wasn’t there yet.

I pushed open Paddy’s garage's metal door and stepped into the cavernous space. The scent of oil and metal hit me immediately.

Paddy was under the hood of an ancient truck, muttering to himself. He straightened up when he saw me, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Aye, how’s my favorite Yank doing?”

“I’m good, Paddy.” I shook hands with him. “I hear you got my parts.”

“Connor Kelly came by The Banshee’s Rest,” Paddy deduced.

“He certainly did.”

“Dee kick him out for wanting beer first thing in the morning?”

I laughed. “Yeah, she did.”

“You want some tea?” Paddy asked, walking to the counter where he had a stove and a sink.

“Sure.”

We sat down at the small table with tea and biscuits . There was something almost Southern about the Irish hospitality. You were offered a drink and a snack—just as you would if you walked into any home in Charleston.

“Your car will be ready in a couple of days.” Paddy picked up a biscuit.

I took a deep breath. “I need a favor.”

Paddy nodded and bit into the biscuit, waiting for me to spill my guts.

“I need you to lie for me.”

“Boyo, I’m happy to lie for a good cause. So, what kind of lie are we talking about?”

I grinned. “Can you pretend the car isn’t ready.”

He let out a low whistle, glancing over at the sleek black Porsche in the corner. “You’re telling me you’d rather stay in Ballybeg than drive that beauty out of here?”

“Yeah, well, I’m not in a rush to get back to real life.” I drank some tea. “And the pub’s growing on me. Or maybe it’s the company.”

“Ah.” Paddy wiggled his eyebrows knowingly. “So, it’s our Dee, is it?”

I shrugged, playing it cool, even though my mind immediately went to the way her green eyes lit up when she gave me a hard time. “Maybe.”

Paddy turned serious. “You won’t be hurting her, will you?”

“No! Never intentionally. I…she stirs something in me.”

“She’s special, is our Dee,” he said with a smile. “Hard life she’s lived. Broke her heart to lose her parents and then Maggie. That O’Farrell asshole was never good enough for her, and I’m glad she didn’t end up marrying the wanker.”

I didn’t want him to get the wrong impression, so I clarified, “Nothing is going on between us, and there may never be anything. I just…like it here. I like the fresh air, the easy life, Ronan’s food. I’ve been working hard for years, and this has become a welcome break.”

“You and Dee are grown. It ain’t any of my business. Just treat her with respect. That’s all I ask.”

“That I will do,” I promised.

Paddy finished his tea and took it to the sink. He rinsed it and set it on the drying mat. “Fine. I’ll tell her I’m waiting on new parts. But you’re paying for the storage fee.”

I quirked an eyebrow. “How big are the parts?”

Paddy laughed. “What do you care?”

I pulled out a thousand euros and set it on the table.

“I was jokin’, lad. I wouldn’t take your money for nothing. Keep that in your pocket. I’ll bill you when the car is ready.”

I did as he asked. This village was not about money—this was about heart and being honest. He hadn’t said, you have to marry Dee, just that I treat her with respect. Fuck me, but I liked the people of Ballybeg.

“Ah, can you take me to Mickey Byrne’s…gym?” I wasn’t sure what to call it. “I need a place to work out if I’m staying here longer.”

Paddy chuckled, shaking his head like I was the most entertaining thing that had happened in Ballybeg in years. “How long are you planning on staying, boyo?”

I shrugged. “A few weeks.” I couldn’t stay longer—I had responsibilities. Tournaments. Meetings. All of it suddenly felt like a burden when it never had before.

“Come on, I’ll take you to Mickey’s place. He’s a good egg, our Mickey is, and he’ll whip you into shape.”