The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(67)

As I approached, I pulled a smile that felt forced, and too big for my face.

“Hey!” I said.

“You’re here!” Simon looked pleased, and not a whit embarrassed. He stood. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Joanna, this is Meg.”

To my dismay, Meg was even prettier up close. “I’ve heard so much about you,” she said. Her voice was warm, her smile sincere. “I’m glad we could meet.”

I took a seat across from them. “I’m glad, too. But I have to say I never heard—”

“Simon never mentioned me? No surprise. He’s off in his own world sometimes.” She shook her head at him affectionately. “You’re settling in, are you? At the farm?”

Before I could answer, a big man appeared, shirtsleeves hitched above his elbows.

“This the new one, is it?” His Irish accent was thick, and he was gesturing at me with a toothpick. “You can call me Mahenny. You like Italian food, do you?”

“I . . . adore Italian food,” I said.

“Lovely, then. I’m an old mick, but my wife’s from Firenze. She’s the cook. I recommend the lasagna.”

He glared, as if daring me to refuse.

“I’ll have that, then,” I said.

“Brilliant. I usually only take orders at the bar, but on this particular occasion, I’ll make an exception. Understand?”

No, I didn’t understand. But I wasn’t about to tell him that.

“I appreciate it,” I said.

“Now, for wine you got two choices: red or white.”

I was sure any pub owner—married to an Italian, no less—knew what to serve with lasagna. Mahenny was playing with me.

“Surprise me,” I said.

The glare softened. “That I will, darlin’. Lasagna all ’round, then?”

“Not for me,” said Meg. “I’m off to rejoin my husband.”

Husband? I smiled with relief.

Meg smiled back with what looked like—understanding? Apology?

“His name’s Will,” she said. “You can meet him later.”

Then Meg and Mahenny were gone, leaving me sitting across from Simon in an awkward silence. Simon broke it first, but not on the topic I’d hoped.

“He seems gruff, but he’s a sweetheart,” he said. “Not that he can’t toss a guy out on his ear if he has to. His wife—she’s the sister of Schiavone, the baker.”

“And Mahenny’s not from these parts, either.”

“County Armagh.”

I nodded. “Meg seems like a sweetheart, too,” I said lightly, trying to strike the right note of disinterest.

“We’ve known each other for years. She’s the kid sister of an old friend. Back then, she was just a tomboy, trailing me like a puppy. Then one day I turned around and the tomboy was all grown up.”

Mahenny swooped past, setting a wineglass in front of me. Then he was off again. I took a sip and smiled—Chianti. I focused on its rich red color, the better to avoid Simon’s eyes.

“A long time ago,” he continued, “Meg and I were sweet on each other, but . . . things didn’t work out. She and Will are very happy. Five kids.”

“Five?” I stared at him in disbelief. “With that figure? That has to be . . . physically impossible.”

He laughed. “You can meet them someday. Meg and Will are heading back to Colorado tomorrow.”

He reached for my poems, and I slapped the pages back on the table.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’d rather you didn’t. I can’t explain it—”

He didn’t seem offended, but amused. “Artistic temperament,” he said. “I can wait.”

Jessie and Olin joined us—Jessie already pink cheeked from the sherry in her hand, Olin nursing a bottle of Rio Grande beer. Lasagna arrived for the four of us; Mahenny was right—his wife was an excellent cook.

Soon, Jean stepped to the podium with her clipboard, tapping the microphone to test the sound, then introduced the first of the poets. One by one, they took the stage, reading from note cards, from paper or from memory.

A tense older executive type in horn-rimmed glasses went first, followed by an academic with white hair and precise diction. I was surprised to see Faro take the stage next. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands behind him, just as he’d done before he produced Laurel’s yellow boots, and let loose with a love poem that had Liz looking cross, then pleased. After him, Jean read three works—compact and clipped works that reminded me of Emily Dickinson. Then a young woman with multiple piercings on her pretty face read fierce free verse about an ill-fated love affair.