She sighed but smiled. “The worst thing that can happen is that I forget and they boo me, right? Not so bad,” she said, wringing her hands.
“Let’s go,” I said, taking her warm hand.
“No, no. I think I can do this. They don’t call it liquid courage for nothing, right?”
I smiled.
January took the keyboards and began playing softly before winking my direction.
“An Irishman walks into a pub,” she begins and the bar went silent. “The bartender asks him, ‘What'll you have?’” Her Irish accent was spot on. “The man says, ‘Give me three pints of Guinness, please.’ The bartender brings him three pints and the man proceeds to alternately sip one, then the other, then the third until they're gone. He then orders three more.
“The bartender says, ‘Sir, no need to order as many at a time. I’ll keep an eye on it and when you get low, I'll bring you a fresh one.’ The man replies, ‘You don't understand. I have two brothers, one in Australia and one in the States. We made a vow to each other that every Saturday night we'd still drink together. So right now, me brothers have three Guinness stouts too, and we're drinking together.’
“The bartender thought this a wonderful tradition and every week the man came in and ordered three beers.” January’s playing and voice became more solemn, dramatic. “But one week, he ordered only two.” The crowd oohed and ahhed. “He slowly drank them,” she continued darkly, “and then ordered two more. The bartender looked at him sadly. ‘Sir, I know your tradition, and, agh, I'd just like to say that I'm sorry for your loss.’
“The man looked on him strangely before it finally dawned on him. ‘Oh, me brothers are fine - I just quit drinking.’”
The pub erupted in laughter as January played briskly through their whoops and hollers and when they’d quieted down, she stopped only to immediately start a heart-stopping rendition of Cooley’s Reel. The pub kept beat on the wooden bar tops with their fists and the drummer joined in on the bodhrán.
I watched her. God, how I watched her. She was in her element, totally immersed in her playing and from the look on her face, probably didn’t have any idea people were even listening. I knew that feeling. I reveled in that feeling when I was with The Ivories. She was amazing, breathtaking, actually, and that’s when the realization hit me like a two-ton bomb. I was in the deepest of troubles.
Chapter Five
One Foot
January
When Cooley’s Reel came to an end, I awoke from my piano-induced stupor to shouts and applause. I was rushed in that moment, not really even aware what people were so happy about. I searched the crowd for Thomas to see what he thought of my performance but came across Ailin’s face first. He gave me a thumbs-up, so I smiled back. I continued my search but fell upon the wrong person’s face again in Cillian.
“By heavens, lass! You are everything your uncle claimed you to be and more! I will never give him shite again!” He kissed the top of my head in drunken amazement before turning to talk to James, the Alba whistle player.
I searched the crowd again, almost frantic this time, for no real reason I could fathom other than I just wanted to see Tom’s face. I smiled and shook hands politely, scanning the crowd until I caught his face in the back, standing by the tables we’d sat at earlier with Shane’s friends.
He grinned softly at me, making my heart palpitate in my chest, my blood boil. No one and nothing had ever made me feel the way he did every time he looked upon my face. I felt the warmth of his gaze from the tips of my hair to the tips of my toes. My smile pulled on one side as I lifted my shoulders softly in a shrug. His grin got bigger and he shook his head at me. My nose crinkled and my smile began to match his, reaching both sides of my mouth. He gestured toward the door and we moved in unison until we met at the entrance. I pushed through the doors first and spilled out into the late night air.
Outside, I stood underneath the soft lamplight, reminding me of the scene from New York, the one where he thought I’d played him but, in truth, hadn’t. I’d been just as surprised by his confession as he was. I just chose to let him think I wasn’t. In hindsight, knowing how cynical he was, I shouldn’t have done that. I was new to flirting and obviously so terrible at it he mistook my playfulness for cruelty. I was too embarrassed to correct the misunderstanding.
Tom approached me slowly and met me under the light on the stone walkway. He leaned over me so closely, my neck craned to see his face. His expression was one of confusion as he studied my own.
“What is it about you?” he asked me.
I gulped. “What do you mean?” I whispered, closing my eyes and swallowing again, my breaths becoming labored.
He lifted his hand and dragged the backs of his fingers across my jaw so lightly I barely felt them, but they made me feel dizzy all the same.
“How can you be this extraordinary, January MacLochlainn?” He leaned closer, a look of pure frustration and anger lit his eyes and pressed his lips. “And why couldn’t I have met you before I realized I didn’t want anyone...ever?”
“What?” I asked, astonished.
“Come on,” he said, jerking me down the walk, but I pulled back.
“Stop!”
“I have to walk you back to the inn,” he said, with no feeling at all.
“No, stop. Just, stop for a second,” I said, feeling like crying but not really sure why, I had no real reason to. I laid my hand over my pumping chest. “What did you mean by all that?”
“Nothing,” he said, coldly staring right through me.