A Match Made in Ireland

Nothing was going to ruin Ruth Davenport’s night tonight. Not even her leg. It was a good omen that it didn’t ache. If she could whistle, she would, and if her limbs were more reliable, she’d skip and hop up and click her heels together in a Julie Andrews, Sound of Music kind of way.

Her phone pinged with a new text, and when her editor’s name appeared across the screen, Ruth rubbed her bottom lip with her finger. She was supposed to be working on her next book, and her editor wanted an idea what it was about. The only problem was that Ruth didn’t know what it was about. Yet.

She tossed her phone into her purse, grabbed her lavender cardigan, and shrugged it on over her knee-length, sleeveless floral dress. Glancing in the mirror on the way out, she nodded in approval at the look of her red hair, with the sides clipped back.

The late spring evening was warm, and a smile crossed her face as she strolled along South Street toward the Mill Street pub, the neighborhood bar slash microbrewery where she hung out with her sister and friends.

As fast as her legs could take her, she made her way toward the pub, humming the tune of a love song from one of the many romcoms she liked to watch. Most of the bars and restaurants in this area were recent. There was a time when she wouldn’t have been caught dead in this part of town.

Arriving at the pub, she checked her reflection in the front window. She rubbed her damp palms on her dress and drew in a deep breath before pushing open the door of the bar. Raised voices and music from the jukebox spilled out, and the smell of popcorn made her stomach growl.

Tonight was the night. After three months of crushing on Steve Acola, she was going to ask him out. It had taken her two weeks to get to this point.

Months ago, she and Steve had been randomly assigned as teammates in a dart tournament. He had been solicitous and engaging. After that, whenever they’d run into each other at the bar, they’d share a drink and a few laughs, and she found herself frequenting the place more often than usual with the hopeful expectation of running into him.

He reminded her so much of the heroes she had written. And with five romance books under her belt, she knew a hero when she saw one. Clean-shaven and tall with blond hair and blue eyes, he was exactly the kind of leading man she liked to write about. Dream about.

After giving it serious consideration, she’d decided she’d ask him out to dinner. She’d convinced herself that he must have a little bit of interest in her, as well. Maybe he was shy and just needed a slight push. Ruth was more than willing to give him a gentle shove in the right direction.

As she scanned the crowd for any sign of him, she smiled and waved at the familiar faces who greeted her. Thursday nights was the dart league and a special on the tacos, and it was two deep at the bar. She tried to squeeze through to order a drink, but the man in front of her stepped back without looking and landed a sharp elbow to her breast. Her smile was quickly replaced with a grimace. By morning there was sure to be a bruise. The stranger turned around and raised his eyebrows. “Uh, sorry.”

He moved along, and Ruth pushed her way into the vacated space, lifting her purse and placing it on the bar. When Johnny, the bartender, eyed her, he nodded and asked, “The usual?”

She nodded, and he pulled a glass from underneath the bar and filled it simultaneously with tonic water and a shot of vodka. He topped it off with a slice of lemon and slid it across the bar. She laid a twenty down and waited for her change, then tipped him and threw her wallet back into her purse.

Her mouth dry, she took a quick sip of her drink as she scanned the room, looking for an empty table. The faces in the crowd were familiar; like her, they were regulars. But this was her first time going to a bar alone. Her stomach growled, and she rolled her eyes. How could she possibly be hungry? Earlier, she’d eaten two servings of a roast beef dinner.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a couple standing up to leave a table over by the popcorn machine. Perfect. She hurried over and laid her drink on the high table, claiming it. It was far enough away from the speakers so she wouldn’t have to shout, and with a great view of the entrance, she could watch who came in. Namely Steve. His pattern was Thursday and Friday nights after nine. Hopefully, he’d stay true to form tonight.

A baseball game played on the big-screen TV, and normally Ruth would watch it, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the door, almost willing Steve to appear as if by magic. She didn’t have to wait long to be rewarded. As her heart rate picked up, her courage faltered.

The object of her affection had walked in, greeting people he recognized. There wasn’t a hair out of place or a wrinkle in his shirt.

When he saw her, his eyes widened, and he broke into a smile. Ruth melted, delighted to have caused that reaction in someone. She was further encouraged when he made his way through the crowd toward her.

“Hi, Ruth, how are you?” he asked.

Nodding and smiling, she leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I’m well, thank you.”

“Can I get you another drink?” he asked, nodding toward her nearly empty glass.

“Yes, please. A vodka and tonic,” she said.

He pointed his finger at her. “With lemon, not lime, right?”

She reddened, secretly pleased that he remembered this little detail about her.

As he headed toward the bar to get a round of drinks, she practiced asking him out in her mind.

Soon he returned, setting the drink on the table in front of her. He took a long swig from his beer bottle.

“How’ve you been?” he asked.

She nodded quickly. “Good? How’s work?” she asked.

He was a physical therapist, and he loved his job. And she loved hearing about it. See? she thought. They were a perfect match.

He went into detail about his work at a rehab center on the other side of town. He leaned into her and made a joke, and Ruth felt her pulse quicken. As unobtrusively as possible, she studied him: the animated expression, the blue eyes, the immaculate sandy-blond hair.

“How’s your leg?” he asked. “Will the warmer weather and increased humidity affect it?”

The first time he had asked her about her limp, months ago now, she’d been embarrassed to have attention called to it, but he had been kind, even asking her permission to question her about it.

She shook her head. “No, not anymore. It’s mainly stress that aggravates it.”

He nodded, seemingly unfazed by it. He might just be a keeper, she thought.

There was a lull in their conversation. Ruth drew in a deep breath and decided that this was as good a time as any. Her mouth had gone dry again. She took a gulp of her drink.

“Steve, there’s something I want to ask you,” she started.

He looked at her expectantly and smiled. “Actually, there’s something I want to ask you, as well.”

“Really?” she asked. She became dizzy and jittery. Calm down.

A sudden shift in the atmosphere of the pub caused Steve to look over his shoulder. It was a shift Ruth was quite familiar with.

Nicole.

Looking up, she saw her younger sister standing in the doorway, confirming her suspicion. Voices quieted down and heads turned when Nicole entered a room. It had been that way for as long as Ruth could remember.

Nicole had been blessed with the kind of beauty you saw on billboards and glossy magazine covers. Everyone, not just men but women and people of all ages, stopped and stared. She was also the life of the party, which added an exponential component to the overall package. Nicole caught sight of them and headed their way. Along the way, she greeted people, not with a wave but with a hug and a kiss.

Steve turned back and whispered, “Ruth, I was wondering . . .”

Ruth looked up at him in anticipation.

“I was wondering if you could put in a good word for me with your sister,” he said.

Ruth’s mind went blank. She blinked. “Excuse me?” she asked, her face reddening. Everything shrunk inside her, and she felt as if her heart constricted.

Steve looked over toward Nicole and nodded. “Your sister. I think she’s beautiful. Do you think she’d be interested in someone like me?”

Ruth remained glued to the spot as humiliation welled up within her. She realized that Steve was waiting for her reply. On his face was mirrored the same set of hopes and dreams that had filled her.

As Nicole arrived at their table, Ruth said in a low but shaky voice, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Nicole kissed and hugged them both. When she pulled away from Steve, Ruth did not miss the look of adoration on his face. It was most likely the same look she’d had on her own. How could she have been so stupid?

“Can I get you a drink?” Steve asked Nicole.

“That’d be great. Draft beer is fine.”

And off Steve went to do Nicole’s bidding, Ruth observed, just like every other man who had come into her sister’s orbit.

“I thought you weren’t coming out tonight?” Ruth asked, hoping her sister didn’t notice the edge in her voice.

Nicole shrugged, looking around the place to see who was there. Without looking at Ruth, she answered, “I changed my mind.”

Ruth gathered her purse and looped it over her shoulder. Steve was working his way back toward them carrying two pint glasses of beer.

“You’re not going, are you?” Nicole asked, almost indignant. “I just got here.”

Biting her tongue, Ruth refrained from telling her that she was the reason she was leaving. Her leg began to throb. She needed go home. “My leg is aching.”

Nicole nodded in understanding.

Ruth cast a forlorn glance back at Steve and turned back toward her sister. “Nicole, I think Steve has a crush on you.”

Nicole smiled. “Really? He’s kind of cute. Is he nice?”

Ruth nodded.

“Why doesn’t he ask me out?” she asked.

“I think he’s shy,” Ruth said. Suddenly, she felt weary.

Nicole beamed. “Then I’ll help him along.”

Ruth said a quick good night and slipped out the door.

***

The decision to park a couple of blocks away didn’t seem so wise now. It felt as if all Ruth’s emotions had leaked out of her heart and pooled into her right leg. She limped toward her car, biting her lip to try and quell the tears that threatened to break the dam of disappointment.

Lights flashed from Java Joe’s, the local coffee spot. On impulse, she pulled open the door and breathed in deeply the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. A few old men lined the counter. In unison, they looked toward her and then went back to their coffee cups. At the counter, she ordered a large tea and a biscotti, then wound her way to the back of the restaurant and chose a table by the window. She draped her sweater over the back of her chair and sat down, and it wasn’t long before the waitress set her order down in front of her. Ruth stared listlessly out the window.

The irony of her situation was not lost on her. Here she was, a romance writer of all things, and she couldn’t even manage to land a date, much less a man. She wrote about falling in love and happily ever after, but in her personal life, those things were elusive. How on earth was she supposed to write about romance when she had none of her own? It made her feel like a fraud.

She wasn’t beastly; she was fairly attractive, she knew, but she supposed there might be some men who were put off by her limp. She had had boyfriends in the past, but it had never amounted to anything serious.

Her father had told her, more than once, “There is someone out there for you, Ruth. There are over seven billion people on the planet. For every Jack there’s a Jill.” But she was seriously beginning to doubt that.

Sometimes, Ruth despaired of ever meeting anyone.

She picked up her tea and sipped it, breathing in the welcoming fragrance. As she did, she spied Nicole and Steve making their way down the sidewalk, arm in arm. Nicole threw her head back and laughed at something Steve said. Ruth panicked; she didn’t want either of them to see her sitting there alone. How pathetic was that? She grabbed a discarded newspaper from the seat next to her and opened it up, hiding behind the pages as they walked past. After a few moments, when she was sure they were gone, she began to lower the paper, but something caught her eye, and she frowned.

At the bottom of page eight, in the right-hand corner, was a plain black-and-white box ad that read:

The Clonmel Marriage Bureau Making Introductions since 1978

Discretion Assured “Falling in Love the Old-Fashioned Way”

Mrs. Margaret Murphy Cashel Road Clonmel County Tipperary

Ireland Ruth sat up straighter. She closed the paper, reading the title. It was a newspaper for Irish ex-pats living in the US. She pulled her phone from her purse and quickly googled the Clonmel Marriage Bureau.

They did not have a website, but Mrs. Murphy had done a few print interviews. Ruth clicked on the first article and scanned it, devouring the information. It was a matchmaking service with a traditional matchmaker. Mrs. Murphy had been running the bureau for nearly four decades and had over one thousand marriages to her credit.

Ruth sat back in her chair and read on, her tea, biscotti, and the pain in her leg forgotten. Mrs. Murphy advised any interested parties to write a letter to her in care of the Bureau and enclose a picture. She believed in love, and that’s all she needed. Using her phone, Ruth snapped a picture of the ad, then tucked it safely in her purse before pulling her sweater off the back of the chair and heading home.

The night hadn’t been a total loss. She’d just found an idea for her next book.

Sean Hughes stood behind the bar of the pub he’d inherited from his parents. His pub, called Off the Beaten Track, was located right in the middle of Ireland, in an area referred to as the Golden Vale.

Toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth, he thumbed through a catalogue, looking at apple and pear trees for his orchard. At the same time, he kept a watchful eye on the old man at the end of the bar. Mackie had been married to Sean’s aunt, and since her death five years ago, the old fella had been a little lost. Sean felt compelled to look after him.

“How ye doin’ down at your end of the bar, Mackie?” Sean called out to him.

Charles “Mackie” McDonald nodded and lifted his pint glass. “One more for the road, lad,” he replied.

Sean filled Mackie’s glass and set it in front of him. Although only related by marriage, he was fond of his uncle. Mackie had been married to Carmel, the sister of Sean’s mother. The pity was, they had had no children of their own, but they had doted on Sean and his older brothers, Connor and Tommy. Sean had spent many a happy day at Mackie and Carmel’s farm.

Seated along the bar were the usual customers: Moss, the village postman; the undertaker, Calvin; and two farmers, Seamus and John Joe. In a corner sat a gaggle of girls who flirted with Sean when they ordered their drinks. He paid no mind to them. People did all sorts of stupid things when they had the drink in them. As for himself, he didn’t touch the stuff. He’d seen enough of what it did to people. His mother used to say there was demon in the drink for some. And he agreed.

His staff of one, Marie, a widow in her fifties, stood on the other side of the bar, showing the patrons a grainy black-and-white sonogram image of her soon-to-be first grandchild. Marie was beaming from ear to ear.

Moss turned the photo around and squinted. “It’s hard to make it out, Marie. We might wait and have a look when the baby gets here.” Shrugging, he passed it to Calvin. The undertaker studied it over his pint glass.

“Look at his little hands,” Marie enthused, not to be dissuaded by Moss’s lack of interest.

Sean watched from the corner of his eye as Calvin glanced shyly at Marie and then rotated the photo, looking for the appendages in question. Calvin, a widower, had a bit of a crush on Marie. But Sean thought either Marie was oblivious, or it was too soon after her husband’s death. “Where?” Calvin asked.

Marie looked at the picture and immediately frowned. “Why, you blooming eejit! You’ve got it upside down.” Impatient, she righted it.

Calvin responded with an “oh” and cast a sidelong glance at Marie. He studied it again and said with a chuckle, “I thought that was his bum; it looked a little big. But it’s his head.”

“Does this picture make my bum look big?” Seamus asked, and all the men lined up at the bar laughed. And despite the look on Marie’s face, another chuckle escaped from Calvin.

Grabbing the picture from his hand, she studied it again herself and smiled proudly before carefully folding it up and placing it in her apron pocket.

She turned sharply toward them. “You’re nothing but a bunch of blaggards. Now, hurry up and finish so I can tidy up and go home!” She snapped a dishtowel on the bar, and they all sat up a little straighter.

Sean grinned. Marie was barely five feet, but she managed to keep everyone in line. As she disappeared into the kitchen, Calvin whispered in admiration, “She’s mighty fierce for someone so small.”

Sean shook his head and began to clear the tables.

The girls in the corner laughed a little too loudly, and Sean glanced at the clock. Only twenty minutes until closing time.

His dog, an Irish border collie named Shep who had been sound asleep at the foot of Mackie’s bar stool, lifted his head at the sound of the girls’ laughter. He observed them for a moment, decided they didn’t bear watching, and laid his head back down with a groan and closed his eyes.

“Tommy and Dorothy might be coming down for the weekend with the baby,” Sean said, referring to his older brother, his wife, and their baby daughter.

As if reading his mind, Mackie said, “Maybe Dorothy will bring down some of that Victoria sponge she makes.”

Sean leaned on the bar. “We can only hope.”

“My Carmel used to make a beautiful sponge,” Mackie said quietly. “I miss her.”

“Ah, we all miss Carmel,” Sean answered truthfully. “She was someone worth missing.”

“You need to find someone for yourself,” Mackie said, tilting the pint glass up to his lips.

Sean smiled at him. “All the good ones are taken.”

This was a regular conversation between them: his octogenarian uncle trying to encourage him to get a girlfriend, or worse, get married. Been there, done that, Sean thought.

“But you might have a better chance if you get rid of the beard and mustache,” Mackie said. This was also an ongoing topic. Mackie was old-school, which also meant clean-shaven. Sean fingered his beard and appeared to be deep in thought.

“I’ll take it under consideration.”

Mackie waved his hand away. “Ah go on, lad, you tell me that every time I bring it up.”

Sean laughed.

“Beard or no beard, mark my words, your time will come. You’ll be hit by a thunderbolt. And you’ll just know. Just like it was for me when I first laid my eyes on Carmel.” Mackie paused for a moment and stared at his brew as if it held all the answers. “Did I ever tell you about the night I first met Carmel? At the dance at the crossroads?”

Sean smiled, leaned across the bar, and said to his uncle, “You may have mentioned it once or twice. Tell me again.”

Mackie launched into the story from years ago, when things were a lot simpler, and he had laid eyes on a dark-haired girl at a dance.

When his uncle was finished reminiscing, Sean glanced up at the clock above the cash register and called out in a deep voice. “Pub’s closed.”

His patrons finished their drinks and began to head out. The girls in the corner stood up but seemed to be lingering. Sean stepped over to the brass bell bolted to the post and rang it, indicating it was time to go. When the girls still showed no sign of leaving, he whistled for the dog. Shep stood up and looked at him expectantly. “Move them out,” he ordered the dog, nodding his head toward the girls in the corner.

The dog trotted over to the trio of girls and began to circle around their feet. Behind them, he began to press at their heels, and automatically, they moved forward.

“What is he doing?” one of them asked in a shrill voice as the dog kept them moving toward the door.

“Herding,” Sean said with a grin and a shrug. “He can’t help it. It’s in his genes.”

The girls got the message and stumbled out of the pub with Shep on their heels.

“Careful now,” Sean called out after them.

Once the pub was empty, Sean wiped down the bar with a damp rag and waited for his uncle to get his coat and cap on.

“C’mon, Mackie, I’ll give you a lift home,” he said.

“I can walk,” Mackie said.

“I know you can, but I’m in the mood for a drive,” Sean said. He’d been giving his uncle a lift home for the past three years. This had become their routine.

His uncle drained the rest of his glass and slid it across the bar. Sean caught it and set it in the sink.

He called for the dog to wait outside until he returned. If it should rain, there was a doghouse out back he could take shelter in. As they walked out, Sean flipped the lights off and locked the door behind him. He slid into the driver’s seat of his Toyota, and his uncle climbed in the passenger side.

Mackie began to sing some long-forgotten song from his childhood. Sean grinned as he shifted the car into gear and pulled out of the paved parking lot.

It was a starry night, and the sky above twinkled. That was one of the things Sean loved about living in the rural area: the clear, bright night skies and the peace and solitude. He drove the car expertly around the bends and up and down the dips, but there was no worry; the country roads were quiet this time of night.

Mackie paused his singing. “Pull over lad, so I can hit this high note.”

Sean obliged his uncle and pulled the car over to the edge of the road. He had to be careful as there was a three-foot drainage ditch next to the asphalt.

Once the verses were sung and the high notes reached, Sean threw the car back into gear and pulled out onto the narrow country lane.

After five minutes, he turned left down a long, narrow passageway known as a boreen. There were neighboring cottages along the way, but Mackie lived in a farmhouse at the end. As they pulled in, the beams from Sean’s headlights swept across the stone cottage, and his uncle’s Jack Russell terrier came tearing around the corner, barking his head off.

Sean stepped out of the car, pulled a dog biscuit from the inside well of the car door, and threw it to him. “Easy, Sparky, it’s just the boss who’s come home.” Sean made his way around the car to where his uncle had stepped out and followed him into the cottage, making sure he got in all right.

Mackie turned on the hall light, and Sean followed him into the kitchen. He grabbed the kettle off the range and filled it up. His uncle liked a strong cup of tea before going to bed.

“Will ye have a cup of tea before you go?” Mackie asked, pulling down a small teapot.

“Ah, sure, one for the road,” Sean answered. He pulled a jug of milk from the fridge as his uncle spooned loose tea into a tea ball and placed it in the teapot.

Once the kettle boiled, Sean lifted it from the range and poured water into the teapot.

He sat down with his uncle at the kitchen table with the oilcloth tablecloth, fixed their tea to their liking, and sat back and had a sip. They spoke of the coalition government and Tipperary’s chances next year in the all-Ireland. Sometimes, Sean thought, there were no more pleasurable ways to pass the time than with a strong cup of tea, good conversation, and good company.