Flying Home by R. D. Kardon

Author:R. D. Kardon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: R. D. Kardon
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty

WALKING INTO O’SLATTERY’S Irish pub was the last place Tris wanted to be. She was about to leave the country on a trip. There was simply too much on her mind—serious things, life-changing things—and too many joyous revelers around. Usually, the live Irish music cheered her, but tonight it sounded like a bunch of crashing pots and pans.

Diana insisted that they meet after Tris gave her a snapshot of what had happened. Tris agreed: she needed to look someone in the eye and speak honestly about what frightened her.

Woody was slated to return to the office on Monday. He’d likely be there to meet the aircraft when she landed in Exeter late on Tuesday night after the quick Edinburgh trip. He balked against spending even one day away from the office.

“I have no idea why they’re keeping me here. This is ridiculous,” he’d told her from his hospital bed. His wife Giselle was in the background talking over him, “You fell down. You couldn’t breathe. What’s so ridiculous?” Giselle was from New Jersey, and despite twenty years in Exeter, nineteen of those married to Woody, her edgy accent was strong as ever. “You have got to be kidding me,” Woody yelled back at his wife, but right into the phone. “It was nothing. A little indigestion.”

Woody might be able to help her, give her advice about what to do next. More likely, he’d be so happy that Legacy pulled her class date he’d jump around like a kid with a new bike.

Tris followed Diana, single file, though the weekend throng. O’Slattery’s never used to be this crowded. Diana stopped to talk to someone she recognized. “Tris, can you get us a pitcher and find us a table?” Diana turned to finish her conversation.

Tris had a plan. First, they’d come up with a strategy to reverse the Legacy decision. Then she’d tell her friend about Danny.

People crowded the bar. Tris worked her way to the edge, and there was not an empty stool to be found. Tris didn’t recognize either of the bartenders. Probably some new “young lads” the owner brought over from Ireland to work for a few months, get some experience, and head back to literally greener pastures. She caught the eye of a skinny young man with fair, almost white skin, wearing all black except for the bar rag he held in his hand. She gestured to him for a pitcher of Guinness. He nodded and put a frosty jug under the tap.

“Di, there’s a table outside,” she called to her friend over the din.

The live Irish band was in full throat, the lilting, heavily accented voice of the lead singer swirling the crowd into a hand waving, foot-stomping frenzy. She hefted the pitcher in one hand, and two chilled glasses in the other. Snaking through the crowd, it took some time for Tris to finally get close to the narrow ramp that would take her out to the pub’s patio.

“You’re here.” The soft voice snuck itself in between loud yelps coming from the stage.

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