“No, I’m not.” I looked at her parents. “I’m the one you had to talk her out of moving to Europe with.”
Her mother’s eyes widened.
Her father frowned. “When was—”
“Mom, you know if Devin loves this recipe so much, perhaps we can give it to him. He and his sister are looking at opening a club.” She turned to me, her eyes imploring me to shut the fuck up. “Will you be serving food there?”
I was slow on the uptake, but finally said, “We’re still working on the details. I’m all for a traditional pub, but my sister feels they’re a dime a dozen here in New York.”
I studied Serena wondering what I said that was such a big deal. She’d told me they’d been the ones to talk her into staying. Surely, they’d known.
“It seems to me that a Roarke pub would compete well though,” she said.
“What’s a pub?” Andrew said, putting his milk down, after sipping it and getting a milk mustache.
“It’s a type of restaurant and bar. Wipe your mouth, baby,” Serena said.
Mrs. Moore reached over to help Andrew, who turned away. “I can do it.”
“So, what made you return to New York?” Mr. Moore asked me.
“My father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s—”
“We knew that, Graham. It was all over the papers.” Mrs. Moore glared at him. Then she turned to me. “Such a devastating disease. How is he doing?”
“He’s a fighter.”
“So, you’re running things now?” Mr. Moore dunked his bread into the remaining stew juice in his bowl.
“Yes, sir. Mostly. It’s difficult for my father to relinquish control especially since he doesn’t always like my choices.”
Mr. Moore’s eyes narrowed. “Why would that be?”
“Dad, Devin is our guest,” Serena tried to intervene.
“If he’s spending time with my daughter and grandson, I have a right—”
“No. You don’t.”
“Serena,” her mother admonished. “He’s just trying to look out for you, and Graham, butt out.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I have ideas that my father sees as too new. I want to bring the Roarke and our other establishments into the twenty-first century. He doesn’t agree.”
“Mommy, is my daddy Irish?”
Everyone at the table went silent. Serena stiffened, looking at her parents and then me, before turning her attention to Andrew.
“Let’s talk about that later,
okay baby? Have four more bites of stew and then you can have dessert.”
“Devin is Irish like you and Grandpa and Grandma. I want to be Irish too.”
“You are honey, you are.”
I was surprised at Serena’s apparent distress.
“In the end, we’re all Americans,” I said hoping to diffuse the situation.