Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(105)



Rich green pleading eyes stare down at me. “I truly hope it does.”

EPILOGUE

Amber

“Look at that! Me pint seems to be empty around the same time that me instrument cocks up. Now, how’s that?” Collin chirps over his microphone.

I look across the bar to River, who’s already holding a glass to the Smithwick’s tap, shaking his head at their demanding musician. He’s grinning, though. He’s been grinning all day since the first customer walked through the doors of Delaney’s at eleven this morning. A steady stream has followed since, old regulars and newcomers, curious to step foot into the “new and improved” Irish pub.

It’s a zoo in here now.

Fourteen months after the bombing, with overwhelming support from the community to get the new building up and running, River and his family are once again pouring pints. They’ve done surprisingly well to replicate the look of the old place with antiques and mismatched tables that fit eclectically well.

“Would you mind passing this on to him so he’ll start playing again?” River leans across the bar to chase the request with a kiss. He’s also been doing that all day, and all day yesterday, since picking me up from the airport.

I weave through the crowd with the pint in hand, narrowly avoiding several elbows and backs.

“Oh . . . I must be special, to have this one serving me.” Several whistles sound around the crowded bar and my cheeks burn at the attention. “Thanks, love.” Collin winks at me once before sucking back a large gulp. He sets his glass down beside him and begins strumming his guitar again. “Would you look at that? Is there anything beer can’t fix?”

A chorus of “no!” explodes.

“Amber!” Marion hollers from her makeshift station some fifteen feet away, stirring a cauldron’s worth of stew that sits on a portable heating element. “You must be hungry!” River said she’s been cooking for days, getting ready for the grand opening.

“I’m good, actually!” I yell back, because it’s getting so loud in here.

“You’re too skinny. Come here and take this now. Don’t make me call your father and tell him you turned your nose at me stew.”

Rowen passes between us with a tray full of drinks, his stride different from before but solid. If I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t know he relied on a prosthetic leg. Luckily the nerve damage that the doctors warned about is minimal. “She’s trying to fatten you up so you can bear her grandchildren.”

I laugh, though I’m sure he’s right. I’ve traveled back and forth from Portland to Dublin nearly once a month for almost a year now, and I don’t think I’ve left once without Marion or Seamus making a comment about a wedding or a baby. “River said you and your old girlfriend have been spending a lot of time together. Maybe you two can hurry it up then?”

He snorts. “Irene and I are just friends. She can’t handle all these birds clamoring all over me, waiting to get a look at my stump.”

“Oh my God.” I smack him playfully across the arm, but I’m laughing.

He grins. “By the way, have you seen Ivy lately?”

“No, but I talked to her. She’s loving San Francisco.” Ivy’s a bit of a nomad, it would seem. She left Dublin last fall, ready for another change. I keep meaning to go down and visit her in California.

“Good. Well . . . tell her I said hi when you talk to her next.”

“I will. She’ll be happy to hear that.” Whatever they were to each other, I’m glad Rowen and Ivy left things amicably.

“Amber!” Marion slops a spoonful into a Styrofoam cup and holds it out to me, her expression stern. Seamus sits beside her, watching with amusement.

“You had better take it before she tries to spoon-feed you,” Rowen warns.

I make my way over and accept the cup with a smile, earning her nod of approval. “Grand turnout, isn’t it?”

“It is! I’m so happy for you.”

She lifts her pint in the air. “And for you. You’ve been a blessing to us all, lending your help, bringing such joy to River in these difficult times.” Sadness flickers in her eyes as she takes a sip, and I know she’s thinking about her oldest child. River told me that she visited him just last week, on his birthday, after months of no contact from anyone in the family. She’s the only one who has. Apparently, he begged her to try and convince his brothers to see him.

I can’t bring myself to persuade River to visit.

“Amber!” River waves me over to join him behind the bar. I’ve spent so much time in Delaney’s in the last two months, helping get it ready, that it feels comfortable for me now. I even know how to pour a perfect pint of Guinness. Rowen and I have regular competitions.

River holds one arm out and I happily settle against his chest, willing to stay right here until my plane leaves for Oregon in five days. He nods toward someone. “Look who decided to visit us.”

I turn and find myself face-to-face with Detective Garda Garret Duffy.

“He even ordered a beer. Can you believe it?” River jokes, setting a pint down in front of the lanky man.

Duffy dips his head. “Good to see ya, Amber.”

I smile at the sound of his leprechaun accent. “You too. I hear you’ve been busy.” I’m much more in tune with Ireland’s happenings than I am of those of my own country now, especially since last October when Jimmy Conlon—the mastermind behind the St. Stephen’s Green bombing and the head of the “IRA” gang that Aengus belongs to—was gunned down on a quiet side street at night. Three months after that, someone killed his rival—that Beznick guy—in prison. The prison that Aengus is serving his time in. They have yet to charge anyone with either murder.

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