“Shocker! An Irishman named Sean who owns an Irish pub,” I said. “Let me guess, it’s called Sean’s Bar. Or Sean’s Place. Something like that.”
“No, smart ass,” she said, poking a finger into my arm. “It’s called O’Hara’s. My grandfather called it that when he opened the place back in the fifties.”
“Ah, so your dad is a second-generation bar man,” I said. “Tell me about Sean O’Hara.”
“Sean O’Hara is your stereotypical Boston Irish Mick,” she said with an air of pride. She loved her old man. It was easy to tell by the lilt in her voice. “He is a big, barrel-chested, bear of a man, nose broken half a dozen times in street fights when he was a kid. He loves his friends and hates his enemies, and thinks Donald Trump is the Lord’s gift to mankind.”
“Ouch, and how do you feel about that?”
“Don’t get me started,” she said, making a sour face. “Anyway, his grandparents came off the boat from Dublin at the turn of the century and settled in Southie. He still lives in the same house my grandfather bought when he was just a boy. He had three brothers, all cops, and four sisters who married cops. He was a cop himself for a while, but took over my grandfather’s bar when he got sick, and never left.”
“I assume O’Hara’s is a cop’s bar.”
“You would assume correctly,” she said. “I grew up around cops. They were all like uncles to me. I thought about joining the force myself, then realized that dealing with assholes all day was not my idea of fun.”
“So, you became a lawyer,” I said. “Where you…”
“Yes, deal with assholes all day. Ironic, huh.”
“What about your mom?”
“My mom’s name was Lanie. She passed away several years ago. Cancer.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, putting my hand on her knee for a moment. I gave her knee a pat and pulled my hand back. It was too soon to start getting handsy. “What kind of cancer?”
“Liver,” she said. “It was a horrible death, but she was strong for her family. She smiled whenever we were around. Never complained.”
“She sounds like an amazing woman.”
“Yes, she was.”
“What about siblings?” I asked, shifting gears away from her dead mother. “Let me guess, you’re the youngest—and only daughter—with a dozen older brothers, all cops, who would gut me like a deer if they ever caught me looking at you.”
She giggled. “Jesus, I am a walking stereotype, aren’t I?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Actually, I have six brothers, not twelve, all older than me. Three are cops, one works at the bar with my dad, one is a fireman, and one is a history teacher at a high school in Southie. And all are very protective. They wouldn’t gut you like a deer. They’d just cram you into a garbage can full of cement and drop you in the harbor”
“Is that why you’re living in New York?” I asked. “To get away from your overprotective brothers?”
“Not really,” she said. “I’m not one of those girls who saw the need to run away from home.”
“So, you moved here for work?”
“Yep, pretty much. Yates Hamilton & Booz made me an offer right out of law school. My Uncle Allen was here, so I moved here and never looked back.”
“Do you go home much? To Southie?”
“I go home for Thanksgiving and Christmas,” she said. “And of course, for St. Patrick’s Day. After the resurrection of Christ, that’s the biggest holiday at my house.”
“I’ll bet. Are you going home for St. Patrick’s Day this year?”
“Of course. My dad would have a stroke if I didn’t come home to celebrate at the bar. It’s like a family reunion. We’ll all be there.”
“That sounds like fun,” I said.
“Okay, it’s my turn to as you a question,” she said, giving me the serious eye. “What’s going on between you and Cassandra Leone?”