deserted,â Mary Helen said when the waitress had gone for their order. The high-backed benches made it impossible to tell if any other diners were in the alcove. If there were, they were awfully quiet. In fact, the entire pub was eerily quiet.
âEveryone must still be in the tent.â Eileen rubbed her hands together in an effort to warm them. âI wonder how longit will take Father Keane to find Owen Lynch in that crowd?â she whispered, in case there was anyone to overhear. âAnd after he does, theyâll have to take care of Tommy Burns, poor lad. I hope heâs not frozen to death.â
âSurely theyâll call the police, too,â Mary Helen said.
âWhoâll have to come from Oranmore,â Eileen speculated. âAt this time of night, it shouldnât take more than fifteen or twenty minutes.â
âMaybe you are right about our needing energy,â Mary Helen said as the waitress set down two large triangles of rhubarb pie topped with a mound of whipped cream. âIt looks as if it is going to be a very long night.â
She was amazed at how quickly the pie disappeared. And Eileen was right, Mary Helen thought, as she resisted the temptation to order another piece: she had never tasted rhubarb pie quite so delicious.
The sweet aroma of hot tea filled the alcove. Cradling the cup in her hands, Mary Helen felt its warmth slip down her throat and settle in her bones. A medley of traditional Irish tunes played softly in the background. She was afraid to close her eyes. Surely she would fall asleep. Or maybe she was asleep. Maybe this was all a dream.
âJust what the doctor ordered!â Eileen sighed and settled back against the high bench.
Voices floated in from the bar. âDid you hear the one about the fellow who had a little too much to drink?â someone asked the publican, who said he hadnât.
âDriving home from the pub heâs weaving and the garda stops him.
â âIt looks as if youâve had quite a few,â the garda says.
â âI did, all right,â says the fella.
â âDid you know that a few miles back your wife fell out of the car?â
â âOh, thanks be to God,â says the fella, âfor a minute there I thought Iâd gone deaf.â â
âThatâs a good one,â the publican said, laughing.
âUnless youâre
herself
,â the waitress said to the nuns as she cleared off the pie plates. She stifled a yawn. âThatâs old Terry Eagan,â she said. âHe thinks heâs quite the card. I say ignore him. Is there anything else I can get for you?â
âNo, thank you,â Eileen said. âWe are waiting forââ
âNo matter,â the waitress interrupted, untying her apron strings. âWait as long as you like. You can settle up with the publican when youâre ready. I have got to get off my feet.â
With the waitress gone, the Monksâ Table grew even more deserted. Mary Helen stared dreamily into the crackling fire. Without warning, a log crashed to the hearth. Sparks exploded, hitting the screen.
Eileen jumped and her hand flew to her chest. âIf I had a heart, Iâd be dead,â she said, standing up to make sure no embers had fallen on the rug.
âOver there.â Mary Helen pointed to a small glowing spot on the other side of the alcove. âWhile youâre doing that, I think Iâll make a little visit.â She moved toward a hallway with a large sign that read, âToilets.â
No confusion there,
she thought, stopping at the narrow door marked âLadies.â
Pushing open the door, she was greeted by a faint flowery smell that seemed to be fighting with a sharp acrid odor. Although the small room appeared unoccupied, the stall door was shut. Quickly Mary Helen stepped outside. Everyone appreciates a little privacy.
For several minutes she studied the framed
Pierre V. Comtois, Charlie Krank, Nick Nacario