Stay the Night (5 page)

Geraldine sighed. “You really want this place that bad?”

“Yes,” Niamh said unequivocally.

“You’re a fool,” the woman proclaimed. “You should be playing your violin instead of slaving away here.”

Geraldine, too? Cormac was sneaky, but she doubted he’d have subverted her boss. “Yes, but I want the Red Witch.”

“Fine. If I get an offer, I’ll give you time to counter, even if I think you’re being stupid.”

Niamh grinned. “Thanks for thinking so highly of me, Geraldine. I love you, too.”

The woman harrumphed as she strode out of the pub. Niamh waited until the door swung shut before doing a celebratory dance behind the bar. Then she noticed the time and began to build three pints of Guinness.

Like clockwork, the front door opened and Bennett, Clancy, and Sean walked in.

Niamh hummed as she finished their pints with shamrocks in the foam. The three old men came in every day at a quarter past six. After playing music for high tea at a nearby hotel, they had one pint and then went home to their respective families. Sometimes, they played their fiddles for her. Niamh loved it. The only thing she loved more was playing along with them. Those were the best days.

“I worked up a wicked thirst today,” Sean said, hoisting himself onto a stool and setting his instrument in front of him. He patted her hand when she pushed a pint toward him.

Clancy sat next to him and winked at her as he took his glass. “You work up a wicked thirst sitting on your arse.”

Sean shrugged. “It takes a lot of Guinness to maintain this handsome physique.”

Niamh bit her lip to keep from smiling. Sean was all wrinkly skin and bones. His eyes shone bright though, the way they must have when he was a younger man.

Bennett joined them, carefully setting his violin case on the counter. “You look happy, lass.”

“Geraldine’s selling the bar, and I plan on buying it.”

The men looked at each other doubtfully.

“What?” she asked with a frown.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Bennett asked.

Clancy nodded. “You have music in your veins.”

Not them, too. She pressed her lips together, searching for patience. Then she spun it in more positive terms for them. “Owning the pub would give me a place to play whenever I wanted rather than when Geraldine wasn’t around. And I want to have live music several times a week.”

The men all perked up. “A musical pub,” Bennett exclaimed. He clapped her back. “In that case, this is an excellent idea.”

She held her hands up. “Don’t get too excited yet. I have to find the money.”

“I have money,” Sean said. “A nest egg. I’ll give it to you.”

She smiled fondly at the old man. Sean had been a musician all his life. His nest egg was probably miniscule. “That’s a very kind offer, Sean, but I couldn’t. I’ll find another way.”

Bennett leaned in conspiratorially. “You should take his money. His wife will just spend it on yarn.”

“She crochets lovely blankets though,” Clancy added. “I love the one she made for me. Keeps my feet nice and toasty.”

They launched into a discussion of the pitfalls of having a wife who crocheted and how it meant a life dominated by doilies.

She shook her head and served a few more customers.

Bennett pointed at her when she rejoined them. “You keep Sean’s nest egg in mind.”

“I will,” she promised, knowing she could never take the man’s money. What she planned on doing was going to talk to the bank. She needed a loan—they provided them. A match made in heaven.

“Good.” Bennett slapped his hand on the counter. “Now where’s your fiddle?”

“In the back.” She filled another order and then ran to the storeroom to get it. “I have this idea for a song,” she said when she rejoined them.

Bennett drained the rest of his beer and then nodded as he got his fiddle out. “You start playing and we’ll jump in.”

Without skipping a beat, she started, her eyes on the old boys, gauging their expressions. They glanced at each other after she played for a few measures, raised their instruments, and joined in.

The bar went still; the patrons listening eagerly.

She closed her eyes, liking the mix of their voices with hers.
This
was music—the spontaneous expression of joy, the connection between instrument and player and audience. She loved classical music, but not when it had to be performed a certain way. Not when it was stiff and without feeling.

When she played her violin, it was like growing wings and taking off.

They played her song into one of Bennett’s, and then a classic Irish folksong that she augmented with a lilting rendition of a Justin Timberlake song. They stopped on a happy tune, because Bennett believed that a set should end on joy, to send fans into the world with a smile on their faces.

The bar broke into enthusiastic applause.

See? This was her place. Grinning, excited by the sudden twist in life, she set her bow down. She acknowledged a couple people needing refills before facing the old boys.

“Tomorrow then,” Bennett said, packing away his violin.

“Yes.” She blew kisses to the men and returned to the bar. “See you tomorrow.”

Clancy moaned as he stood. “If we live that long.”

“The devil’s too intimidated to take you.” Taking down a pint glass, Niamh winked at him. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

“Why would we ever want to do that?” Clancy winked back and followed the men out.

Around seven that evening, Beatrice Summerhill strode into the bar, like she did every Tuesday she was in town. Tonight the woman looked like an angel of mercy sent to help her find way.

The Summerhill sisters had been coming to the Red Witch every Tuesday night faithfully for months. Niamh had met Rosalind first, and that had paved the way for the rest of them.

Individually they were pretty; together they were absolutely stunning. All blonde with fine features and vivid blues eyes. They were the sort of women who intimidated just by walking into a room.

But they were lovely. Loyal and caring. She’d watched them, and she knew without a doubt that they’d do anything for those they loved.

Not that she was in that camp, but they liked her. They’d at least offer her a little guidance in this, because she wasn’t sure what the best course of action was.

She didn’t know what Beatrice Summerhill did precisely. All she knew was that the oldest Summerhill sister could make anything happen with a tap of her phone. Bea’s every step resonated with power, as though she ruled the world.

Instead of going to the table where they usually congregated, Bea eased onto a stool at the bar, smiling as she set her large bag on the counter, her phone set in front of her. “I’m apparently the first tonight.”

Niamh made her a gin & tonic. “It works out well for me. I wonder if you have a moment.”

“For you, I have two.” The woman smiled at her and took a sip of her drink.

“The Red Witch is going up for sale.”

“And you want to buy it,” Bea finished for her. “That’s a brilliant idea. You’d make a fabulous pub owner.”

At last—someone who thought so. “The problem is the money.”

“Money is always the problem.” Bea reached for her phone. “How much do you have? Do you have any collateral?”

“I have a little money saved up, but no collateral. I’m planning on speaking with the bank, but I wondered if you had any advice.”

Bea nodded, swiping the screen on her phone. “Definitely make an appointment with the bank, because you never know. But I think you’ll have more success with a business partner to bankroll you. Preferably a silent partner, to float the money for the investment while you run the show.”

Niamh leaned on the counter. “Do you know where I might find one?”

“I know someone.” Head bowed, she tapped rapidly. “Ellis has a number of bars and restaurants around the city. He tends to open more upscale lounges but, like I said, you never know. If Ellis isn’t your man, he’ll know who to put you in touch with.”

She watched Bea’s thumbs move with impressive speed on her mobile. “This is amazingly generous of you.”

“It’s self-serving. Think of what a horror it’d be if we had to find another location for Tuesday night drinks.” Bea shot her a smile. Her phone pinged, and then she focused on it, messaging back and forth. Finally she nodded and set the mobile back down. “Done. Ellis will stop by sometime to take a look at the pub. Can I give you some advice?”

“Advice from you would be a godsend.” She leaned forward, eager to hear what the woman would say.

“Have a plan ready. Both the bank and an investor are going to want to see that a potential partner knows what he or she is doing. The more prepared you are with projections, numbers, and other plans, the better your chances to line up funding. You want to appear knowledgeable about every facet of the business, and you have to prove that you can bring in a profit for your investor. Making money is the end game. It’s nice to have a great place, but if it’s not making any money investors are going to see it as a waste of their time.”

“Got it.” Niamh blinked. “Thank you, Bea. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it all.”

Bea smiled. “You have yourself to thank. I’ve watched you do business, and I liked what I saw. I’d invest, but the bar-restaurant business isn’t my thing. You haven’t run a place before, have you?”

“I’ve only worked here.”

The woman nodded. “You need someone who can give you guidance on the running of the business. I’d be a detriment, because I’ve never made a bar profitable. I’d be guessing.”

“And this Ellis has made bars profitable?”

“Ellis owns Nuit Blanche.”

Niamh whistled. Nuit Blanche was
the
hotspot in London at the moment, and it had been for a couple years. Most lounges couldn’t sustain that sort of popularity, but Nuit Blanche was reputed to change things up to keep it fresh.

“The Red Witch isn’t like Nuit Blanche,” Niamh pointed out. Not that she’d been to the posh club—it wasn’t the sort of place she normally went to.

“No, but Ellis is the sort of man who can appreciate a diversity of things. And this location is fabulous. The current owner could be making a killing.” Bea leaned in. “But don’t let her know that because it’ll drive the price up.”

“Noted.” Niamh patted the counter. “This drink’s on me.”

Bea tipped her head. “That’s not necessary.”

“Yes, it is.” She squeezed the woman’s hand, feeling hopeful. More than hopeful. The Red Witch was going to be hers.

Chapter Five

Three days.

Titania paced back and forth in the room Jacqueline had put her in. It’d been three days since she’d returned to the South Street house. That made three days that she’d been cowering in her room. Three days, and she still didn’t have any of MacNiven’s contact information.

Bea was on it. Her sister had texted her every day, assuring her it was in the works. Titania just had to be patient.

It wasn’t a trait she possessed.

Maybe she should call Hopper and talk to him again.

She shook her head. Too soon. He’d just hang up on her.

One thing was certain: Jacqueline Summerhill
did
take prisoners. Titania was the number one example.

She checked the time, wondering when Fran would bring her tray up. She felt bad, making Fran bring food up to her room like a privileged princess. She hadn’t had anyone wait on her since she’d left the household after she’d graduated from secondary school. But she didn’t feel bad enough to venture downstairs, where the monster lay in wait.

Fine, she thought, rolling her eyes.
Mother
, not monster.

Six of one, quite frankly.

She sighed, dropping on the little chair next to the door. That wasn’t entirely true. Jacqueline had been a gracious hostess in the three days Titania had been there. Attentive.

Overly attentive, as far as she was concerned, but she’d have thought that regardless. She tried to think of something she’d want to do less than spend time with her estranged mother.

One time, she’d trekked through the jungle in Peru to a locally famed medicine man she was commissioned to photograph by
National Geographic
. She’d been warned to avoid the house spiders in quantity. Being swarmed by those creepy creatures was perhaps the one thing worse than spending time with Jacqueline.

Good lord, she was hungry.

A knock sounded and she jumped on it. Normally, she’d have been careful to check who was there. If it wasn’t Fran, she was going to resort to cannibalism. She yanked the door open.

It wasn’t Fran. It was her second oldest sister Viola and her niece Chloe.

Viola smiled, holding a box in her arms. She looked a bit frayed at the edges, like she had the few times Titania had seen her. She’d been told Viola was going through a bad divorce, though it seemed to her that any divorce would be bad, particularly if there was a child involved.

“We have a delivery for you,” Viola said, pushing her way into the room.

Her daughter, Chloe, shrugged and followed her mother.

Titania stared at the boxes. Maybe there were crisps inside. “What are they?”

“Your things from your apartment.” Viola set them to the side, against a wall. “Bea arranged to have your personal things collected. The furniture is in one of her storage units. Chloe and I were in the neighborhood, so we picked up the boxes she thought you’d want.”

She looked at her niece, who rolled her eyes as though they really hadn’t been anywhere close.

“I—” She shook her head and simply said, “Thank you.”

“There isn’t too much.” Viola gave her a wan smile. “Thank goodness you aren’t a pack rat. Everything fit in my Volvo.”

“I’ll help bring it up.” She followed them out.

With the three of them, it only took two more trips to bring the boxes up, but even that was a lot of work with all the stairs.

“You’d think they’d have installed an elevator by now,” Titania mumbled as she stacked the final box.

“No money,” Viola said. “You know how Father was.”

Awful at managing money. She remembered the pretense of wealth she’d had to put on growing up.