Page 44 of The Matchmaker
“I’m going to kill them,” Nush snaps, wriggling violently.
“Don’t be such a drama queen,” Gemma mutters. “There’s nothing we can do. Right now, anyway.” Her eyes meet mine over Nush’s head, her mouth a thin line. “We’re going to need a really big raffle,” she says, and I can only nod as they feed another branch into the machine, the noise growing louder until it’s all I can hear.
CHAPTER TEN
“Come on, Danny. You know you want to.”
“I know no such thing,” he says. “In fact, I know the opposite. I’ve retired.”
“You have not retired,” I say firmly. “No one retires from music.”
“Well, I have,” he says gruffly. He’s sitting at the table next to me in Kelly’s, hunched over a lunchtime pint and is beingthoroughlyuncooperative. It’s been days since we started work on the barn and things feel like they’re moving at a snail’s pace. I want to host the thing in July and it’s already the middle of April. But turns out when you don’t have money, you can’t just get things immediately. You have to borrow. You have to beg. You have to flatter sixty-year-old men with a lifetime of grudges.
“I don’t want anyone else to play at the festival,” I tell Danny. “You’re the best fiddler around.”
“Tell that to Maurice Friel.”
“Maurice Friel? Is that what this is about?” Seriously? Why are men such children? “You don’t want to play anymore because of that…thatthief?”
His eyes flick up at that, the stubborn look on his face relenting. “A thief, is it?”
“He stole the Jeanie O’Dwyer cup from you, didn’t he? I was at the competition, Danny, I saw it. Better yet, I heard it. You deserved to win.”
He starts to smile before he catches himself. “Played the best reel of my life.”
“You did.”
“There’s no appreciation for the softer moments these days,” he continues, and I nod vigorously. “All about being flashy.”
“The worst,” I agree. “So why not show that to him? We’ve already got a group together. But it will mean nothing without you.”
“A group? Who do you have?”
“Tadhg Murphy. Jillian O’Mahony. Andy—”
“Jillian?” He perks up at her name, and I try not to smile at the undisguised interest in his voice. Look at me, already matchmaking.
“She owes Granny a favor,” I say. “Something about not returning her good spatula.”
“I haven’t played with Jillian in years,” he muses, and I picture the pretty silver-haired accordionist who had reluctantly agreed to travel down for the festival once Granny had strong words with her on the phone.
“She cut her hair short,” I tell him.
“Did she?” He considers this for a long, serious moment. “I’d say that would suit her.”
“It does. She looks beautiful. Radiant in fact.” Okay, too much. “So, what do you say?”
“I guess I could play a few tunes,” he says gruffly. “For Adam’s sake.”
“Thank you,” I say, relieved. “That would be amazing.”
He’s embarrassed now, shifting in his seat from the praise. “How are you getting on with it all anyway?”
“Brilliantly.” It’s my answer to everyone who asks, mostly because I’m kind of hoping that if I say it enough times, it will turn out to be true.
“Any interest from the press yet?”
“We’re reaching out to people,” I say, as Noah appears out of Adam’s office with Gemma’s laptop tucked under his arm.
