Love & Luck(54)

“There’s a hole in the radiator,” I insisted. “I already found it.”

His mouth twisted into a patronizing smile. “We’ll see.”

Before I could blow up, Ian yanked me toward the door. “We’ll be in touch.”

We hustled down the waterfront streets, carrying our bags past candy-colored row houses with lines of laundry out back. Ships bobbed against the wooden docks like massive rubber ducks, and a spiky stone cathedral stood tall and commanding, its steeple piercing the clouds.

The church was surrounded by visitors, and as we approached, bells suddenly split the air, their song surprisingly cheerful for such a grim-looking structure. “Wow.” I skidded to a stop, my neck craning up toward the bell tower.

“Man down,” Ian called over the clanging, circling back to grab my elbow. “Those bells mean we’re supposed to be there by now. You can stare at churches later.”

“We have to come back for our homework anyway,” Rowan said, pointing to the harbor.

“Fine.” I sighed, slinging my backpack up higher on my shoulder and breaking into a run.

Au Bohair Pub was hard to miss. The two-story structure had been painted a startling robin’s-egg blue and was sandwiched between a lime-colored hat shop and a cranberry-colored bakery. Even this early in the day, it had a festive, game-day feel, music and people spilling out onto the sidewalk in front of it, a collective cloud of cigarette smoke hovering in the air. When we got to the edge of the crowd, Ian ran up to a man standing near the doorway wearing worn denim overalls. “Do you know where I can find Miriam?”

“Miriam Kelly?” He smiled wide, revealing corncob-yellow teeth. “Stage left. She’s always stage left. Just make sure you don’t bother her during a set. I made that mistake once.”

Ian nodded nervously, shoving the handle of his suitcase into my hand. “Addie, could you just . . . ?” He shot through the doorway, disappearing in a crush of people.

“Nope, don’t mind at all,” I called after him. It wasn’t like I already had my suitcase to deal with. The man gave me an amused smile.

“Here, let me help you,” Rowan said, absentmindedly shuffling the guidebook from under my arm and disappearing just as quickly as Ian had.

“Really?” I muttered, grabbing hold of the bags. I bumped clumsily through the entryway, running over toes and sloshing people’s drinks as I went. It was only when I’d squeezed into the middle of the room that I took a moment to look around. Wooden tables littered the floor, and the walls were almost completely eclipsed by music posters. A well-stocked bar stood in one corner of the room, customers filling every inch of remaining space.

“Ian!” I called. He and Rowan stood on tiptoe, staring hungrily at the stage. “Stage” was a bit too grand of a word for it. It was actually a small wooden platform, just a foot or two off the ground, that was somehow managing to accommodate a large tangle of musicians, their various instruments belting out a decidedly Irish tune.

I mashed my way over to them. “Could have used a little help.”

Neither of them acknowledged me. They were too busy fanboying. Hard.

“That’s Titletrack’s first stage,” Rowan was saying, his glasses practically fogging up with excitement. “This place is lethal. So, so lethal.”

“I can’t believe we’re here,” Ian said. “We are standing in the first place Titletrack ever performed.”

I wriggled between them to get their attention. “Remember when you left me with all the bags?”

“Is that my baby music journalist?” a raspy voice boomed from behind us.

We all spun around, coming face-to-face with a short, round woman wearing thick spectacles and a shapeless brown dress, her hair pulled back into a tight knot.

“Um . . . are you . . . ?” ?Ian managed.

“Miriam Kelly.” She yanked him in for a hug, patting him enthusiastically on the back. “You made it! I was worried you’d stood me up.”

Ian cleared his throat, trying and failing to get over the shock of the most important woman in Irish music looking like the kind of person who baked banana bread and crocheted afghans in her spare time. “Um . . . ,” he said again.

Suddenly, she dropped her smile, pointing a finger at him seriously. “So, tell me, Ian, is the garage band really dead?”

“You read his article!” I crowed, recognizing the title from when I’d read it back at the Rainbow’s End.

She turned her bright eyes on me. “Of course I have. This young man left me five voice mails and sent an ungodly number of e-mails. I either had to turn him over to the guards or arrange a meeting. You must be the little sister.”

“I’m Addie,” I said, accepting her firm handshake. “And this is our friend Rowan. He’s a huge fan of Titletrack too.”

“So, so nice to meet you.” Rowan pumped her arm, his face splitting into a smile. “Such an honor.”

“An Irishman amongst the Americans. I like it.” She turned back to me. “Addie, your brother here is quite the writer. I was very impressed.”

“You—you were?” Ian’s face lit up like a birthday cake, and he stumbled back a few steps. I’d never seen a compliment hit him so hard, and on the field they rained down on him constantly. “Thank you,” he choked out.