Page 21 of Quinn

“If the family name is Farraday, why is the pub called O’Faredeigh’s?”

“Ah. When the first O’Faredeigh came to the United States, the port shortened it.”

“I’d heard that happened a lot.”

“You’d be amazed. I went to college with a kid whose last name was Calabria, turns out that their ancestor didn’t speak English and he wound up with where he was born as his last name.”

“Yep,” she nodded, “they did the same with one of my grandmothers. Her Irish last name was Noughton, but it was anglicized to Norton.”

Sally May’s triumphant laugh carried from the card table, followed by good-natured groans from her fellow players. The afternoon sun slanted through the pub’s windows, catching the brass rails and making them gleam.

“Do they play cards here often?”

“Usually they play twice a week at the café, but sometimes they’ll play elsewhere as the mood moves them.”

Squinting at the table, Eloise tipped her head, studying the table. “What are they playing?”

“Poker.”

Eloise almost spit out her sip of water. “I’m sorry. Did you say poker?”

Chuckling, Quinn laughed. “Don’t let those sweet faces fool you. They’re card sharks.”

“I thought you were going to say something like canasta, or bridge, but poker?

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to judge a book by its cover?”

“Apparently not.” Shifting in her seat, she glanced over at the card table. Knowing they were playing poker put a whole new spin on things. How many more surprises did this town and this family have in store for her?

The music overhead shifted to a familiar Sinatra tune. From the card table, Aunt Eileen’s humming grew louder, her voice adding depth to the melody.

“Is that your aunt I hear?”

Quinn paused to listen, then nodded. “Sounds like it.”

“She’s good.”

“Better than good. Before she moved here to help Uncle Sean raise the family after Aunt Helen died, Aunt Eileen used to be a jazz singer.”

“Wow.” She paused to listen and wished his aunt hadn’t stopped singing and returned to humming.

Jamie arrived with their lunch the rich smell of toasted rye and sauerkraut making her mouth water. A basket of crispy house-made chips accompanied her order. “Can I get you anything else?”

“This looks perfect,” Eloise assured him, already reaching for her sandwich.

“Very well. Whistle if you need anything.”

Quinn reached for his cousin’s arm. “What do you say we turn on the microphone?”

One eyebrow shot higher than the other on Jamie’s face. “You realize what will happen?”

“I do.” Quinn tipped his head in Eloise’s direction. “Our guest wanted to hear Aunt Eileen sing.”

“Whatever the customer wants.” Jamie spun about and walked toward what Eloise realized was an empty space saved for use as a stage, and he pulled out a microphone stand and fiddle with some nearby equipment.

Whispers could be heard from the card table at the same time the handful of patrons in the pub began pointing at Jamie.

The music shifted from Old Blue Eyes to something different—if she wasn’t mistaken, an old Burt Bacharach tune, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it from the opening notes. Anxious to taste the sandwich, Eloise took her first bite. Heaven. Tender corned beef, sharp Swiss cheese, the tang of Russian dressing perfectly balanced. “Oh my gosh.”

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