Mickey had dusted off his bagpipes and stationed himself near the door, puffing away on a tune that sounded suspiciously likeDanny Boy. But who could say?
Last year, Mickey’s friend Tiernan had played the bagpipes—he knew how to—for the last time. He passed away a few weeks later, peacefully in his sleep, after piping at The Banshee’s Rest every St. Patrick’s Day for nearly fifty years.
“Rest in peace, Tiernan Daley, and have a Guinness on us up there.” I held up my pint and toasted.
Everyone joined in.
“To Tiernan Daley, may thatbastún salachbe playing the bagpipes for Saint Peter himself,” Seamus cried out.
“What’sbastún…whatever?” Jax asked Liam.
“Means dirty bastard,” Liam Ryan told him.
“And Tiernan Daley was that,” Liam Murphy added. “May his dirty soul rest in peace.”
Jax raised his pint and cheered Tiernan on.
Liam, Liam, and Seamus were parked at their usual stools, already working on their second pints of Guinness. And on the other side of the bar, Mrs. Nolan was giving a stern lecture to young Darragh about how he was not to try the whiskey—even though the lad had insisted he was "basically eighteen" now,even though he wasn’t a day older than fifteen. But, hell, I had my first whiskey…I couldn’t remember, but for sure, I’d been drinking it when St. Paddy’s Day came along when I was fifteen.
“Let him drink, Eileen,” Ruadh Flaherty called out to Mrs. Nolan. “You keep doin’ that, and the lad won’t know how to hold his liquor.”
“You mind your own business, Ruadh Flaherty, and leave me nephew to me,” Eileen snapped.
Darragh sighed. “I’m gonna hang out at the ice cream place with my friends.”
“Get the whiskey-flavored one,” Ruadh shouted at Darragh as he left the pub.
It was chaos. It was loud. It wasperfect.
I poured another pint and slid it across the bar to Talula Gilgan, who nodded her thanks before returning to her table. She was sitting with Cadhla, who had closed the bakery early to bring over trays of shamrock-shaped biscuits, half of which had already been eaten.
“Come on, Yank, have a try at the bagpipes,” Mickey insisted, dragging Jax away to the stage we’d set up for the occasion. It wasn’t really a stage at all, just a table pushed against the wall and a few chairs scattered around, sitting awkwardly at the head of the bar.
Jax climbed up cockily, shooting me a look that said, “Watch me, baby.”
I grinned and waved him on.
Mickey handed him the bagpipes, and the entire pub seemed to lean forward, eager for the spectacle.
Jax took the pipes in his hands, as if they might bite him. He studied them for a moment, then looked up and asked in his typical drawl, “So, where’s theonbutton?”
That earned him a roar of laughter from the crowd.
He gave it a shot—literally. His first attempt produced a high-pitched screech that sounded like a cat being strangled, and the pub erupted into hilarity and cheers.
“Keep going, Yank!” Mickey called out, slapping his knee.
Jax’s face turned determined, like this was now some kind of personal challenge. He adjusted his grip, puffed out his cheeks, and tried again. This time, the sound was less of a screech and more of a long, mournful groan that sent everyone into hysterics.
I was doubled over, hooting so hard my stomach hurt.
Jax was enjoying himself, not minding that we were laughing at him rather than withhim. He was a good sport.
“This is the sound of your ancestors,” Jax admonished mockingly. “Show some respect.”
By the time he handed the bagpipes back, the pub was boisterous with approval, and Jax hopped down from the “stage,” enjoying himself with everyone else.
“Not bad for a Yank.” Mickey clapped him on the back.
