Unfinished Business Read Online Free PDF Page B

even considered. Please God, don’t let them blink at the same time, because then I’ll have to scrabble over the table and bolt for the door .
    Oh, relief. Nick is talking.
    I stare at him for a minute because his teeth really are so nice and straight. “Huh?”
    He waves his hand between Riana and him. “Tell us the limerick.”
    Nice hands, too. Why haven’t I ever noticed that before? “Limerick?”
    “To win the Irish dinners,” Riana says as if I’m some dolt who can’t remember bits of conversation from one piece to the next. “The contest, Hayley.”
    Oh yeah. I ask them, “Do we even want that cabbish?”
    Nick opens his mouth but the voice that comes out is cheerfully musical. I didn’t know Nick could do an Irish accent.
    Oh. He can’t do an accent, it’s some round, little man wearing a green cap. He has suspenders and lime green striped pants. It’s a leprechaun? Can’t be. Yet there he is, right there in the front of the bar, standing on a tiny stage.
    The leprechaun keeps talking and it sounds great. The right thing to put a person in the mood for a real old-world St. Paddy’s Day. The crowd is so noisy, I can’t really make out what the little guy is saying but it doesn’t matter. Rolling, rolling jolly words. He laughs and his world laughs with him. More jolly words, something else … “Limericks.”
    Nick shoots to his feet and does a weird saluting thing. There’s a warm round of applause. What nice people to clap for my friend. Maybe they like his smile too. And his arms. I bet they like his arms as much as I do. I peek at him from the corners of my eyes. His back is nice too.
    While I’m giving him the once-over, Nick grabs my arm and rudely jerks me to my feet. After I totter a bit, I turn to glare at him but notice that everyone in the room is staring at me. Expectantly. Actually, I have to admit, I feel their expectation more than see it, because mostly their faces are obscured by that damn guilt cloud.
    The next thing I know, the nice leprechaun is taking my hand and leading me through the tables crammed with muddy brown and bright green people. He squares me in front of a microphone and nods.
    Silence greets me.
    I blink, puppet-like, and frighten myself as my head pivots stiffly above my neck.
    A shout comes from my table.
    “Say the limerick, Hayley.”
    What would I do without Nick? I understand now. I’m trying to win some cornbeffan cabbish.
    Here’s a chance to do something different. Step out of my comfort zone and learn about myself. Public speaking is not in my comfort zone, that’s for damn sure. I hate it, as a matter of fact. So being at the microphone is a good thing. Right?
    Appreciating this opportunity for growth, I smile at the crowd and scroll back through my brain for Frankie’s words.
    “There once was a pretty young model.
    Who was often drawn to the bottle.
    She’d drink and she’d drink,
    Till…”
    The crowd leans forward, willing me to go on. Sadly, all I can remember is something about four dollar cappuccinos. That doesn’t fit. It doesn’t even rhyme.
    Here’s my perfect chance to express myself, to grow as a person, to be a cool city girl, and all I can think about is overpriced coffee. A nasty, hot, liquid sensation creeps up my throat and floods my face.
    “Go on, girlie,” someone shouts from the crowd.
    “Pull ’er off, Rooney. Give me a go.”
    The crowd has become hostile. To me!
    I’m sorry I went looking for myself, because I found myself and I suck.
    I didn’t want to come up here. They made me. Only seconds ago they wanted me, but now?
    When the leprechaun nudges me I reluctantly accept that the little man is not a leprechaun, he’s Rooney McNamara, as in The Rooney McNamara special and Rooney McNamara owner of the pub. He cups the microphone with his pudgy hand. “Can you remember the rest, dear?”
    I can’t. I shake my head.
    Standing dumbstruck before a horde of drunken Midwesterners on St. Patrick’s Day is fairly