Sophie Love - Love Like This

Finally, Keira arrived in Lisdoonvarna and was pleasantly surprised by what she saw. At least it looked like a place where people lived! There were streets where more than one house stood side by side, which gave it the feel of a town… almost. All the buildings, houses, and shops were so small and quaint, many barely a couple of feet away from the road, and they were painted in bright rainbow colors. Keira was glad to finally be somewhere that seemed like a community rather than just single dwellings connected by roads.

She slowed her car, following the street signs until she found the address she was looking for, the St. Paddy’s Inn. The B&B was right on the corner of two roads, a three-story, dark red brick building. From the outside, it looked very Irish to Keira.

She parked in the small lot and leapt out, grabbing her bags from the trunk. She was exhausted and ready to get inside and rest.

But as she approached, she realized rest was not something she was about to get. Because even from here she could hear the sounds of merry conversation and rowdy debate. She could also hear the sound of live music, of violins, pianos, and accordions.

A bell over the door tinkled as she walked inside to find a small, dark pub with old crimson wallpaper and several round wooden tables. The place was filled to the brim with people, beers in hand. They looked over at her as if they could tell right away she didn’t belong here, that she wasn’t just a tourist, but an American.

Keira felt a little overwhelmed by the culture shock.

“What can I get yee?” a male voice said in a thick accent that Keira could hardly understand.

She turned to the bar to see an old man standing behind it. He had a wizened face and a tuft of gray hair sprouting from the center of an otherwise bald head.

“I’m Keira Swanson,” Keira said, approaching him. “From Viatorum magazine.”

“I can’t hear yee! Speak up!”

Keira raised her voice over the live folk music and repeated her name. “I have a room booked here,” she added when the man just looked at her with a blank frown. “I’m a writer from America.”

At last the man seemed to understand who she was and why she was there.

“Of course!” he exclaimed, a smile spreading across his face. “From the paper with the fancy Latin name.”

He had a warm aura about him, very grandfatherly, and Keira felt herself relax again.

“That’s the one,” she confirmed.

“I’m Orin,” he said. “I own the St. Paddy. Live here too. And this is for you.” Suddenly, a pint of Guinness was plonked onto the bar in front of Keira. “A traditional St. Paddy welcome.”

Keira was taken aback. “I’m not much of a drinker,” she laughed.

Orin gave her a look. “You are while you’re in County Clare, my lass! You’re here to let your hair down just like the rest of the locals. And anyway, we have to toast your safe journey! Thanks be to the Virgin Mary.” He crossed his chest.

Keira felt a bit shy as she accepted the Guinness and took a sip of the strong, creamy liquid. She’d never tasted Guinness before and the flavor wasn’t particularly agreeable to her. After just one sip she was certain she wouldn’t be able to finish the entire pint.

“Everyone,” Orin called out to the patrons in the pub, “this is the American reporter!”

Keira cringed as the whole pub turned around and began clapping and cheering like she was some kind of celebrity.

“We’re so excited you’re here!” a woman with frizzy hair said, leaning in a little too close and smiling a little too widely for Keira’s comfort. Then in a lower voice she added, “You might want to wipe off your Guinness stash.”

Feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment, Keira quickly wiped the suds from her top lip. A second later, another of the pub’s patrons had wedged her way forward, barging elbows with others on her way – not that anyone seemed to mind. Her drink spilled a little as she stumbled. “I can’t wait to read your piece!”

“Oh, thanks,” Keira said, shrugging. It hadn’t occurred to her that the people here would want to read what she’d written about them. It might make the whole cynical angle a little harder for her to pull off.

“So what made you want to be a reporter?” the man next to her said.

“I’m just a writer,” Keira said with a blush, “not a reporter.”

“Just a writer?” the man exclaimed, speaking loudly and looking for the attention of the others around him. “You hear that? She says she’s just a writer. Well, I can barely hold a pen so you’re a genius as far as I’m concerned.”

Everyone laughed. Keira nervously drank small sips of her Guinness. The Irish hospitality was very welcome but it was also a culture shock, and she found herself cringing, thinking of the myriad ways she could bash this place in her piece.

“I’ll show you to your room,” Orin said finally, once she’d managed to drink almost half the pint of Guinness.

She followed him up a creaking, narrow stairway and along a corridor with a threadbare carpet that smelled strongly of dust. Keira walked silently, taking it all in, constructing cutting sentences in her head as she observed the dated decor. The walls were decorated with framed, faded photographs of local soccer teams from the past and Keira smirked when she saw that the majority of the players shared the same surname, O’Sullivan. She took a discreet picture of the black-and-white soccer team and pinged it off to Zach with the caption: Mr. O’Sullivan must have been a prolific breeder.

“Here you go,” Orin said, opening a door and showing her inside.

The room was awful. Though large, with a double bed and a huge window, it was decorated horribly. The wallpaper was a sort of peach color, stained in places as if from years of grubby handprints. The bed had a thin duvet on it, which was quilted but not in an endearing country-house way, more in a thrift store castaway way.

“This is the room with the desk,” Orin said, grinning with pride, gesturing to a small wooden desk under the window. “For your writing.”

Keira blushed. She was inwardly horrified at the thought of staying in the grimy room for an entire month, but she managed to squeeze out a grateful, “Thank you.” So much for thinking she’d be able to slum it for a month!

“Do you want a bit of time to settle in before meeting Shane?” Orin asked.

Keira frowned, confused. “Who’s Shane?”

“Shane Lawder. Your tour guide. For the festival,” Orin explained.

“Of course,” Keira said, remembering in Heather’s notes she’d said there would be a tour guide. “Yes, please, I’d like to meet Shane.” She had no desire to spend another minute in the room, so she dumped her bag on the bed and headed back down the creaking staircase.

“Shane!” Orin cried as he took his position back behind the bar.

To Keira’s surprise, it was the fiddle player who responded. He put his instrument down – though the group of musicians he was playing with carried on as if nothing had happened at all – and came over.

Beneath his scraggly beard, Keira could tell he had a chiseled jawline. In fact, if it weren’t for his hair, which desperately needed cutting, and scruffy clothing, Shane would be quite handsome. Keira felt guilty for thinking such a thing, especially since things with Zach were on such rocky ground at the moment, but she thought of Bryn’s motto: Ain’t nothing wrong with looking.

“You don’t look much like a Joshua,” Shane said as he shook her hand.

“Oh, didn’t anyone tell you?” Keira said. “Something came up so I was sent instead. Sorry about that.”

Shane gave her a cheeky look. “What are you apologizing about? I’d much prefer to spend thirty days with a fine-looking lady like you. No offense to this Joshua fellow, I’m sure he’s attractive enough, but he doesn’t sound like my type. You know, being male and all.”