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He clutched the book in his hand and shifted uncomfortably, gave her a little half-smile without knowing what it was for.
    “We should go,” Molly said at last.
    “I’ll get the towels,” Jack replied. “You’ve got the radio?”
    “In my room. I’ll grab it.”
    They met up again moments later at the door that led down into the restaurant. It was not quite nine o’clock in the morning, two hours before they would open for the lunch crowd. The kitchen staff would begin arriving any minute, and the waiters in less than an hour, but for the moment, Courtney Dwyer was the only other person in the place.
    When Jack and Molly went down the stairs, Courtney was sitting at one of the round tables in the restaurant section of the pub. The place was all dark wood and brass rails and Chieftains on the sound system overhead, a quintessential Irish pub, but a little bigger, a little brighter, a little cleaner. Boston magazine had singled them out twice in the past three years, which was good for business.
    “Everything under control?” Jack asked as they walked over to the table.
    Courtney glanced up at them, a strand of her chestnut hair falling across the freckled bridge of her nose. She blew at it, but then had to brush it back with her hands. She wore a dark green shirt with the pub’s logo across the breast, khaki pants, and white tennis shoes. It was a more casual look than she usually wore on the job, but Jack thought it suited her. When his sister dressed more stylishly, it seemed to drain some of the humor out of her.
    “I think we’re good,” she replied. “They cleaned up pretty well last night. Kitchen’s stocked, I’ve already done the ordering. I’m just trying to get next week’s schedule out of the way.”
    Jack laughed. “So what you’re saying is, we’re not needed at all.”
    A sly grin spread across Courtney’s face. “I won’t even notice you’re gone.”
    “I’m deeply wounded,” Jack replied, holding a hand over his heart.
    Courtney began to rise from the table. She was twenty-nine years old, but with the light spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the mischief that sparkled in her blue eyes, she looked younger. At least until she stood and had to put some of her weight on the lion’s-head cane she had inherited from their grandfather. She was young and smart and vivacious, but the accident that had killed their mother had left Courtney reliant upon that cane for the rest of her life, and Jack often wondered if people could see past that.
    “Get going already,” she told them. “When you come back you can remind me what a beach looks like.”
    “We’ll be back by five or so if you end up needing help on the dinner shift,” Jack said.
    With a wild grin, Courtney lifted her cane and held it like a baseball bat. “Do I have to chase you two out of here?”

    Molly clapped a hand on Jack’s back and propelled him toward the door. “Nope,” she said. “We’re going. The world might crack in two if Jack has a little fun, but we’ll risk the apocalypse.”
    As Jack held the door for Molly, ready with keys in hand to lock it behind them, Courtney called to them from inside.
    “Thanks for the warning. You two have fun on your date!”
    Jack gaped at her. He saw Molly stiffen a little beside him. For a moment, he fumbled for the words, then yelled back to his sister.
    “It’s not a date, Courtney. We’re just going to the beach.”
    Courtney stood in the middle of the restaurant, leaning on her cane, her smile insinuating that she knew better. “Whatever you say.”
    Jack considered protesting again, but didn’t want to make too much of it. He locked the doors and then he and Molly walked over to the lot where his old Jeep was parked, Courtney’s words hanging awkwardly between them.
    The Mustang’s engine purred as Dallas guided it up and down the streets of Newton, Massachusetts. On the CD player was a bootleg live recording of the Clash he had taped himself