Waiting tables at the pub was a cinch. Folks either wanted dinner or they didn’t. The menu was a single line on a chalkboard—always traditional Irish fare served from 4pm until the food ran out. That day Mrs. Lash created a delicious beef and barley soup, which the girls served with a wedge of white soda bread, the perfect meal for a chilly spring day.
The mill workers coming off mid-shift loved the giant portions; the white collars loved the atmosphere, and the college students—they loved the three-dollar pitchers of beer.
About an hour into dinner, when every seat in the pub was filled and a throng of patrons stood at the bar, Holly tapped Hailey’s shoulder as she rushed past, heading straight for the backroom, where the girls kept their Irish dance shoes. Hailey tore off her apron and followed, skip-dancing excitedly the whole way.
“We’re starting with that new reel today,” Holly called over her shoulder. “You up for it?”
“Of course!” said Hailey as she slid to a stop next to Holly. “As long as you’re on that stage next to me, I’ll dance anything.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Holly said as they grabbed their Irish hard shoes, plopped on the floor, and cinched their laces.
Holly hopped up and shook first one foot then the other to loosen her ankles. She turned to her little sister. “Ready?”
“Let’s go!” Hailey followed Holly to the small wooden stage in the corner of the pub.
Holly stomped her foot in a rhythm and started clapping. “Welcome to Hullachan’s, everyone!”
The crowd roared back, clapping in time with the girls. Hailey was stomping and clapping and smiling brightly back at them—until she saw a flash of purple.
She froze, and Holly, still clapping, shot her a curious glance.
Hailey was awake, she knew she was. She was dancing, so she couldn’t have dozed. Swallowing hard, Hailey quickly scanned the pub. Then she blinked hard, forced a smile, and picked up the rhythm again.
Holly raised an eyebrow then counted down from four, three, two, one—both girls stomped their right foot and tapped out an a cappella hard shoe dance that sent their audience into cheers, hoots, hollers, and peals of applause.
The girls bowed and, still smiling brightly, threw their sneakers on and returned to running pints and plates and pitchers until happy hour waned and the dinner crowd thinned. During the evening lull Uncle Pix disappeared into the cellar to “count the whiskeys,” and Mrs. Lash left to run an errand.
Holly bagged up the garbage. She threw a very large, very lime green St. Patrick’s Day hat on top of the trash before tying the bag closed. Heaving it over her shoulder, she headed outside.
“Let’s dance our slow hornpipe tonight,” she called to Hailey from the doorway.
“I’ll set it up,” Hailey called back.
It was a super-fun rhythm, which involved a few dramatic pauses, lots of personality and, at least for Hailey, a full spectrum of facial expressions and giggles. The regulars loved it.
Hailey wiped her hands and went to the office, where she found the CD. Shoes in hand, she sat on the floor and set to tying and buckling the leather, which was old, ugly, and held together by duct tape—perfectly broken-in. She dressed them up with a pair of bedazzled trinity knots, very sparkly. It was like putting a chandelier in a haunted house, but at least it drew the eye away from the duct tape.
She was adjusting her shoe buckle when she heard a muffled commotion outside followed by the roar of an engine and a shrill screech of tires.
“What was that?” she shouted out the office door as she fussed with her left shoe. No one answered.
She clippety-clopped down the hall, over to the sound system and placed her CD in the drawer. Leaning against the wall, she shook out her ankles.
“Come on, Holly!” she yelled.
Just then, Mrs. Lash bustled inside holding up a pink object.
“Hello dears,” she announced with a huff. “Holly’s dropped her cell phone outside, and now the screen’s cracked.”
Hailey’s blood ran cold. Holly dropped her phone…andleftit? No way. She loved that annoying thing—
Rushing to Mrs. Lash, she grabbed the phone and lit the screen. It was definitely Holly’s.
“Holly,” she breathed and bolted out the door. “Holly!” she shouted.
Blood rushed in her ears as she clutched the pink phone and snapped her head right and left.
“Holly!”
