They both look at me for a moment, but surprisingly neither of them gives me the pity face. There are no awkward glances at their feet. No pauses while they try to think of what to say. They both simply nod.
Nettie’s words come out in a very matter-of-fact tone. “Well, this is a most excellent place to start over. You’ll love it here.”
Peter wipes a bit of liquid off the bar top. “Yup, you’re in for a real treat tonight. We’re havin’ a kitchen party, which is a Cape Breton tradition. A bunch of locals come in every Thursday to play music and sing. Mostly Celtic tunes. I’ll be getting out my accordion.”
Nettie, who is making her way across the room again, calls over her shoulder, “And I’ve been warming up my vocal cords.”
Peter covers his mouth with one hand and lowers his voice. “And by ‘warming them up,’ she means screeching at her loving husband all day.”
Nettie shouts back. “I heard that!”
I look at him with wide eyes and stifle a laugh.
“I’ve no idea how she does that, but it’s fecking scary, isn’t it?” Peter says while he pulls another pint. “Do you play an instrument?”
“I used to play the oboe in high school band class, but I honestly don’t know if I could even read a simple song anymore.”
“Well, stay and listen, then. It’s good for the soul,” Peter says definitively.
“That it is,” Nettie adds as she swings back around to the bar. “Another round for table five,” she says to Peter. Glancing at me, she asks, “So, how’s the house? Have you had a chance to go through it?”
“Yes, but it’s hard to tell what shape it’s in with an inch of dust covering everything.” I have a sip of beer, then dab my top lip with a napkin.
“The electrical’s in need of work.” Peter nods. “And as far as I can remember, the plumbing was starting to go before Violet moved out. Isn’t that right, Nettie? The toilet or something?”
“Yes, and it’s been a long while since the roof was done. We had ours done at the same time, so that’s going on, what, eighteen years? Maybe twenty?”
My heart drops to my shoes. My little nest egg is about to get cracked wide open.
Peter wraps his knuckles on the bar. “You’ll want to call the Millhouse boys. They’ll have a look and tell you what you need done.”
Nettie’s back at the counter, looking over his shoulder. “Not the Millhouse boys. They’ll be on the water by now for lobster season. She should be asking Liam Wright.” She gives him a pointed look.
Peter’s face lights up. “Well, of course! Why didn’t I think of Liam?”
“Because you’re a little slow on the uptake.” Nettie grins at Peter, and he gives her a mock scowl.
“Liam’s just the bloke for the job. He should be by in a bit. Comes every Thursday. A hell of a fiddle player, that one.”
Great. Because that’s what I need in a contractor—a hell of a fiddle player and the guy you get when the Millhouse boys have gone fishing.
“He’s not too hard on the eyes either,” Nettie says, with a wink.
And… there it is. He’s obviously single, therefore the two of us are destined to fall in love. You know, because we’re probably the only two single people in the village, so we must be compatible. I take another swig of my beer to stop myself from going full New-York-stay-out-of-my-business bitch on this nice unsuspecting Irish couple.
* * *
Why do I not drink more often? I'm almost through my second pint and I honestly can't remember feeling so good. I don't even care how out of place I am. Instead, I happily devour a slice of homemade lemon meringue pie. Dinner service has ended, and most of the guests have filed out, replaced by several locals bearing instruments. A new feeling takes over the restaurant. It’s an easy, relaxed vibe full of inside jokes and laughter as they rearrange the tables into a large horseshoe. I rush to finish my dessert, hoping to make my exit before I attract the attention of every snoopy musician in the village.
Peter gives me a nod. “Liam’s just come in now.”
I turn and see a man standing at the entrance. He looks to be in his early forties. Medium height, with the sturdy build of a fisherman or maybe a miner in days gone by. He has shaggy sandy-brown hair and thick stubble that’s somewhere between needing a shave and needing another couple of months to grow. His eyes, though. There’s something about them that makes me stare a moment too long. They’re the shade of ice blue usually reserved for wolves.
He looks straight at Nettie and Peter, and my gaze follows his. They are standing side by side with matching hopeful grins. They look at me, then back at him, and when I glance in his direction again, I’m met with a look of dread. It doesn’t take me more than a second to figure out he thinks he’s about to be set up and he’s absolutely horrified at the thought of having any of his parts touch any of my parts.
And here I am gawking at him like a moron.
Blue sweater vest woman walks by and touches my arm. “You’ve got a bit of a mustache, love.”
