“Maybe I give him indigestion?”

Orla leans forward on the bar, as if imparting a great secret. “Irish men are a complicated sort. That one more than most. Don’t judge by what you see on the surface, or they’ll knock you on your arse when you’re not looking.”

I stow that insight away for later examination. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Why doesn’t he fire you? You’re never on time.” When she bursts out laughing, I can’t contain my own smile. “I know from experience he doesn’t take anyone’s shit, so why—”

“Does he continue to employ me?” Orla sighs. “My husband lost the use of his legs in a factory accident last year. It’s been a difficult adjustment. When I’m late to work, it’s normally because I’m hauling him to physical therapy and back.” She shrugs. “Or we’ve simply had a bad morning.”

I’m staggered by this. Not only Shane’s generosity toward Orla, which he’s never uttered a word about, but it proves he cares about this pub and the people who work in it. He’s not as indifferent about the Claymore Inn as he presents to the world.

Orla is watching me process this, I realize. A customer walks into the bar, drawing Orla away, but before she goes to serve him, she taps a finger to her temple. “Irish men.”

Her words ringing in my head, I turn to leave, intending to take a hot shower and attempt sleep. Before I reach the door, Shane walks out with two men in suits. His blue eyes lock on me immediately, the somberness in them tugging at my heart. He opens his mouth to say something, to me, I think, when the kitchen door bursts open and Faith walks out. She’s holding a giant, silver ladle in her hand, her hair pulled back in a messy bun.

“Have you sold it, then?”

Behind me, the pub goes silent. It even sounds like the volume of the music has been turned down. Several chairs scrape back and without turning around, I know the regulars at the bar are watching with avid interest. Shane nods to a young, blond man holding a suitcase. “Faith, this is Joseph DeMatteo and his—”

“An Italian,” Orla shouts from the bar. “Running an Irish pub? Has the entire world gone mad?”

Shane pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’ve a week to decide if we want to accept the offer, Faith. We’ll discuss it later.”

“What’s to discuss? We all know what your decision is going to be.” She throws the ladle down on the ground with a clatter, remnants of soup splattering her shoes. “You hate it here. You always have. We might as well start packing, Ma and I.”

“Faith, this isn’t the place.”

“What is the place, if not here?” She swipes a hand over her eyes. “This is the only place I know.”

Both suited men shift in their loafers, clearly uncomfortable with the family drama playing out around them, although I sense a hint of satisfaction over Faith’s words. They obviously hadn’t been sure up until this point of Shane’s decision, something I find odd. I’d been so sure that the second an offer was made on the inn, he would be laughing his way out the front door.

Shane makes eye contact with me, and I know what he’s asking. He doesn’t even have to say it out loud. I give him a subtle nod, then walk over to Faith, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Why don’t we go upstairs? I’ll show you the pictures I took today.”

“Oh, that’s grand. You two are working together now.” She yanks herself away from me. “I’m not Kitty. I don’t need a babysitter. Piss off.”

Okay, after talking to her like a petulant child, I guess I deserve that. It was a move worthy of an inept boyfriend, the equivalent of telling a woman to, “Calm down.” Since I have only a passing knowledge of how to comfort someone, though, I cut myself a tiny bit of slack. I change tactics, hoping to appeal to the pride she takes in good service, the running of the pub. All the while, I’m battling the painful squeeze in my stomach over the tears brimming in her eyes. “You making a scene isn’t going to change anything, Faith,” I whisper. “It’s only going to give people something to talk about.”

She seems to snap back to herself, then, attention landing on what I suspect are rapt customers, observing the scene with interest. With a frustrated sob, she pushes off me and runs through the hallway door. Shane starts to follow her, but I put a hand on his arm.

“I’ll go.”

His eyes are on Faith’s retreating back. “Thank you.”

I’ve never been inside Faith’s room, nor do I know which one it is, but I see a door slam just beyond the base of the stairs. I pause outside for a moment, take a deep breath, then push inside. Faith is lying facedown on the bed, face buried in a pillow. Surprisingly, she’s not crying. Her body is completely still. From a tightening in her shoulders, though, I know she’s aware that I’ve entered. It takes her a moment to sit up and face me.

“I hate him.”

My first inclination is to say, “No, you don’t,” but I stay silent. Faith doesn’t have the capacity to hate anyone, especially her brother. I know that, but telling a female how she feels, right on the heels of asking her to calm down, might get me stabbed with the letter opener I see on her bedside table.

“This place, it represents our da to him. That’s why he can’t stand it here. Can’t stand to remember what it was like.” She swipes a hand under her nose. “They couldn’t even be in the same room, the two of them. Then what happened six months ago—”

Quickly, I cut her off. “What was it like? With the two of them here?” It’s not that I don’t want to know what happened six months ago. I do. It’s that I sense it’s the piece of the puzzle I’ve been missing and I want Shane to be the one to tell me. What sense does that make?

Faith yanks the rubber band from her hair, letting her dark mane fall around her shoulders, a kink in the middle where the rubber band held it together all afternoon in the kitchen. I notice the slump of her shoulders, the dark circles around her eyes and I’m slammed with guilt. All day I’ve been feeling sorry for myself when Faith is about to lose everything she has ever known. I’m a horrible friend. I don’t even know how to be a friend.

“We couldn’t do anything right. None of us.” She blows out a breath. “But Shane got it worst of all, being the son. If I ever did something right, it came as a shock to my father. Shane’s mistakes were unacceptable. When he was younger, he tried harder. Wanted to do better. He worked himself to the bone. It was never good enough. Nothing was ever good enough.” A sob works its way free of her mouth. “I take it back. I don’t hate my brother.”