Pleased with herself, anticipating a quiet and enjoyable evening, she parked at the curb just down from Gallagher’s. Smoothing her hair as she went, she walked to the door, breathed in, pulled it open.
And was nearly knocked back again by the blast of music.
Pipes, fiddle, voices, then the wild roar of the crowd on the chorus of “Whiskey in the Jar.” The rhythm was so fast, so reckless it was a blur of sound and that sound grabbed her, yanked her inside, then surrounded her.
This wasn’t the dark, quiet pub she’d stepped into before. This one was crowded with people, spilling over at the low tables, jammed into the bar, milling about with glasses full and glasses empty.
The musicians—how could only three people make such a sound?—were shoehorned into the front booth, taking the space ov
