“My father might remember.”

“I don’t know the name of the band. He’s Eian Kelly.”

“If a man played in Clare, he likely played in Doolin. If he played in Doolin, he likely played in Sweeney’s. I’ll put your orders in for you.”

Marco hefted his beer, tapped it against Breen’s glass. “To another best day ever.”

“Who wouldn’t drink to that?” She took a sip of beer to prove it. “Do you want to hear what I’ve mapped out for tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “Still into today. You can surprise me. I never thought about coming here, you know? Like when I made my if-I-could-go-anywhere lists, it was usually Paris or Rome or Maui. But this really hits it, Breen. Who knew?”

She had—for herself—as long as she could remember. “I never thought I’d go anywhere. Just work through the day, the week, the year. And maybe one day find somebody, get married, have kids. Then we’d go places, pile everybody in the minivan and drive to Disney World or the beach, wherever, so they didn’t feel so stuck in one place.”

She looked around, families at tables, friends at the bar, the fire simmering. “If I ever have kids, I’d bring them here. It’s heritage, and I’d want them to have that. I’m glad I’m taking mine back.”

She glanced up as a sandy-haired man with a barrel chest and bright blue eyes stopped by the table.

“I’m Tom Sweeney. My daughter tells me you’re Eian Kelly’s girl.”

“Yes. I—You know my father?”

“He and his mates played right over there.” He gestured to the corner. “Sorcery they called themselves, and that’s what they were with the music. Too many years ago to count,” he said with a wide smile. “And how he is then, your da?”

“I don’t actually know. He and my mother . . .”

“Ah, that’s a sad thing to hear. And lost touch, have you?”

“Yes. I’m hoping to find him while I’m here, or at least find out more from people who knew him.”

“Well, I can tell you a story or two if you like.”

“I really would.”

“I’ll get you a chair.” Marco popped right up.

“Thanks for that. Darling!” he called to his daughter. “Bring your old da a pint.”

“I’m Marco, this is Breen.” Marco pulled a chair over.

“More than pleased to meet you. I can see him in you,” Tom said as he sat. “Your hair, bold red, your eyes, soft gray. That’s Eian Kelly all over. Are you musical?”

“Not very.”

“Your da never met an instrument he couldn’t play, and like a magician, he was. Strong, clear voice as well. Close of age I’d say we were when I tended the bar here and he and his mates played.” He grabbed his daughter’s hand as she brought over his beer. “I have this one, her two brothers, and her sister because of Eian Kelly.”

Marco grinned at Tom, at his daughter. “This is going to be a good story.”

“Oh, he’s no lack of them.” Kate kissed her father on the top of his head, then went back to work.

“Well, I’ll tell you. I was shy in those days. Not of people, but of girls. Never could get my tongue untangled around a pretty girl. And there was one in particular I had such a pining for. Sarah Maria Nero with her raven hair and gypsy eyes. Should she walk into the pub or should I see her on the street or in the market I could barely remember my own name much less speak to her.

“And then.” He paused, drank, sighed a long sigh. “In she came one night with her friends—for she was a girl with many friends—to hear Sorcery. I pulled their pints, listened to her lovely, lively laughter, and suffered knowing she was forever out of my reach.”

“It’s hard being shy,” Breen said. “And believing you’re not quite good enough.”

“It is that.” His bright eyes held hers as he nodded. “It was during a break Eian Kelly came up to the bar, and he said to me, ‘Tom,’ he said, ‘tell the girl you like her sweater.’ I make a business of not knowing who he means, but he leans in. ‘She fancies you,’ he tells me. ‘She wonders why she can’t get you to say more than two words to her.’

“And I’m bumbling on how he couldn’t know such a thing, and she doesn’t so much as know my name. He tells me to trust him on this, and I won’t be sorry for it.”

“What color was her sweater?” Marco wondered, and made Tom laugh.

“Blue, all the blues from the palest to the deepest, one bleeding sweet into the next. And up she comes to the bar. I could all but hear Eian’s voice in my head. ‘Don’t be a git,’ his voice said. ‘Talk to the girl.’ So out the words popped, and she smiled at me.

“Oh!” Tom slapped a hand on his chest. “My heart near to burst. She said something, and I answered, but to this day I can’t tell you what the words were with my heart beating so loud in my ears. Later, she stayed for more music when her mates went on. And Eian whispered in my ear to walk her home. I asked her if I could, and so I did. Eight months, two weeks, and four days later, she was my bride. I’ve had twenty-eight years with the love of my life because Eian Kelly told me to talk to the girl.”

“That’s a wonderful story.”

It had tears stinging the back of Breen’s eyes as it made her father real again.

“He had a way, Eian did, not just with music, but people. When he said trust me, as he did to me, you did just that. It wasn’t long after that night, I heard he went back to Galway, and it may be other parts, for it was a year or so before he returned. I wanted to invite him to the wedding, and to book Sorcery into the pub again, but we couldn’t reach him. Then back he came, and we had Sorcery to play. That was the night he met your mother.”

“Here?” Her dreamy, weepy mood snapped into shock. “They met here?”

“Here, on a stormy summer night.”

“Are you going to talk their ears off?” Kate set Marco’s mussels on the table along with a basket of bread.

“Her mother’s daughter she is. I’ll let you eat in peace.”

“No, please.” Breen reached out to lay a hand on Tom’s arm. “I’d really like to hear more, if you have time.”

“I have that and more for Eian Kelly’s daughter. You eat then, and I’ll tell you.”

So he settled back once more with his pint.

“She walked in, your mother, with a group of others. Four, maybe five of them. College girls from the look, on a holiday tour. Well into the evening we were, as I recall, and not a table left to be had. They all crowded up to the bar. Your father was singing . . . ‘Black Velvet Band,’ it was. Yes, I’m sure of it. And the wind blowing, thunder rolling, rain lashing. And I happened to see—I could never tell you why—the minute their eyes met.

“‘No sooner met but they looked.’”

“‘No sooner looked but they loved,’” Breen added.

“Might’ve been written for them. The lightning flash of it. With me and mine, it was a slow yearning, cautious steps. But this, a rocket launched. When he returned in three days’ time to play again, she was with him. And the same two weeks later. I heard they went back to his homeplace to be married, and it was my thought they settled there or went to her home in the States, for I never saw him again.”

“We lived in Philadelphia.”

“And did he play still?”

“Yes, he did, and it meant traveling. I guess it was a strain, the traveling. They divorced when I was about ten. Then he left to come back to Ireland about a year later. He told me he’d be back, but . . .”

Tom put a hand over hers. “I’m sorry to hear it, and just as surprised. He’s a good man, and I’d swear to it. And it was love he felt for your mother. A man as in love as myself sees it and knows it in another. Not just the heat but the love. We talked, Eian and myself, here and there during the time. He said he was taking—I’ve lost your mother’s name along the way.”

“Jennifer.”

“Ah, yes. Jenny, he called her. He was taking Jenny back home, and there to be wed. We talked about me soon to be a father, and how much he looked forward to having children, a family. He talked of his farm back home, and raising a family there with Jenny, and how he wanted to settle, a family man, on his own land.”

Now he gave Breen’s hand a pat. “I hope I haven’t made you sad with all this talk.”

“No. Mr. Sweeney.”

“Tom.”

“Tom. You’ve given me pictures of my father I never had. He is a good man. I remember him as loving and patient, and fun.”

“I hope you find him, and if you do, tell him Tom Sweeney wants to stand him a round. Now here’s our Kate with your mains. You eat, and well, and it’s on the house.”

“Oh, but—”

“Eian Kelly’s daughter doesn’t pay for food nor drink under my roof. And I’ll have my bride light a candle for your safe journey, as she’s got a strong connection with such matters.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Pleasure.” He rose. “The music will start soon. They’re not Sorcery, but they’re good craic. Marco, is it?”

“Yes sir.”

“Look out for my old friend’s daughter now.”

“I will.”

Marco waited until they sat alone at the table with Breen staring down at her food.

“You okay?”

“Yes. Better than okay. It’s just . . .” She looked up, and though she had tears in her eyes, he knew they weren’t grieving ones. “It’s so much. We came into this town, into this pub, and we find someone who knew these wonderful things about my father. Things I’ve never heard. And I can picture him. It feels as if maybe I can actually find him. But for right now, listening to someone who knew him back then, before I was born, who thought of him as a friend, it’s just so much.”