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“IS THERE SOMETHING YOU NEED TO SAY?” CONNER ASKED ONCE WE WERE IN the car. He’d detected the downturn in my mood, but I wasn’t ready to admit the source of my irritation. “No, just hungry.” I kept my eyes cast out the side window. A short time later, we pulled up to a restaurant by the name of Neary’s. It looked small on the outside but opened up deep into the back of the building on the inside. If I’d had to guess, I’d have said the place had been open as long as the building had been in existence—possibly the thirties or forties— but in a good way. The Irish-style pub had loads of charm. Red vinyl booths www.ajpdf.com lined the walls, along with Irish memorabilia and ancient-looking sconces that cast a warm glow throughout the cozy space. “It’s family-owned,” Conner said, leading me to
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