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Chatter and conversation sounds were audible along with the clink of
china and rattle of silverware.   She
paused and listened for Quinn’s voice.   She followed the sound of it and found him behind the bar, his uncle at
his side.
    “I tell you I don’t know yet, but she’s back and I’m
glad of it,” Quinn said as he added fresh bottles to the shelves.
    “And I’m glad for yer sake, lad, I am, but don’t ye
find it strange? Ye thought her dead and buried.   I watched ye grieve and mourned with ye .   Ye’ve been like
one of those terrible creatures, the walkin’ dead.”
    “Zombies.”
    “Aye, those,” Des said with a nod. “Ye drink too
much, and ye’re giving out to any and everyone for no reason.   Ye’ve been mean as a hurt pig and in
desperate shape.”
    “Don’t be an auld arsewipe, Uncle Des.   I’ve never been that bad.”
    “Nay, ye’ve been worse.” The older man glowered at
Quinn. “And my heart’s fit to bust with joy seeing you like ye are now, but I’m
afeard she’ll skedaddle again and hurt ye more.”
    Deirdre stepped behind the bar. “I won’t leave Quinn
again, not as long as I live.”
    Both men turned to gape, then Quinn moved forward.   He pulled her into
his arms and kissed her, sweet but with a touch of heat. “I’ll hold ye to that,” he said, voice light, but she could tell he
wasn’t joking.  
    Desmond glared at her. “Aye, so will I .   It’s not that I’m
not glad ye’re back—I am, Deirdre. I’m just worried for Quinn here.   He’s had a bad time of it, these few years
past.”
    An old man wearing a tweed flat cap, face lined with
decades of wear and weather, pounded the bar with one gnarled fist. “Is it a
soap opera I’m watchin’ or are we in a pub? I’d like a pint of Guinness if
you’d be so kind.”
    Quinn laughed. “Guinness it shall be, Mr.
O’Garrity.”
    He pulled the pint, the froth on top perfect, and
slid it over to the customer.   O’Garrity
nodded and took his first sip.   Des
rolled his eyes. “I’m back to the kitchen, then.”
    “Where are my bartenders?”
    “April didn’t show up this fine morning,” Des said.
“Riley’s watching over the kitchen whilst I rail at ye .   I’ll send him to the bar.”
    “Do,” Quinn said. “I’ll help him here until April
comes or someone does.”
    His arm remained around Deirdre’s waist and she
liked it. “What about me?”
    A twinkle brightened his blue eyes until they
sparkled. “I’ll pull ye a pint too if you like.”
    She loathed the black stuff and he knew it.   He’d often teased her about it, before. “I’m
not thirsty,” she said with a genuine smile. “But I’m hungry.”
    “Go on to the kitchen and Des will fix whatever ye
want.   As soon as I can, I’ll come join ye upstairs.”
    “I’d rather wait for you, Quinn.”
    His eyes met hers and he grinned. “So be it if it’s
what ye want.   Go back and talk to Des,
then.   He’s never as fierce as he sounds,
and he’ll enjoy the company.   Ask him to
call April, and if he can’t get her see if David will come in early.”
    “All right,” she said.
    Deirdre wandered into the large kitchen and Des
handed her a knife. “Peel me some praties, would ye ?”
he said and she nodded.   He pointed to a
heaping basket of potatoes and she began.   The simple task calmed her and after a few moments, Desmond, always
garrulous, began talking to her in a steady stream.   She listened, nodded, and responded when she
could get a word inserted into the conversation.  
    “So I don’t suppose ye’d be tellin’ me just where in
the hell ye’ve been so long,” he said without preamble. “Or why you let poor
Quinn think ye were dead.”
    “I need to tell him first.” Deirdre replied as her
deft hands used the knife with skill. “After I talk to Quinn, I’ll answer any
question you have for me, I promise.”
    “’Tis right ye should square it with him first, I
suppose.” He emitted a long