Rose arrived not long after, and Maura explained quickly about the guests arriving soon and set her to polishing tabletops and cleaning the large front windows. She still wasn’t sure what these people wanted with her, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to get in bed with them. She’d known from the start that she didn’t want a cute Ould Irishe Pub, and based on her limited experience as an owner, going that route was not going to benefit Sullivan’s. Her customers liked things the way they were, and so did she. It was a workingman’s pub, not a tourist attraction. But she should hear the people out—maybe it would give her some ideas for the future.

“Do yeh want me to sit in on this meeting?” Mick volunteered.

“No, thanks. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d worry that whoever shows up will look at you and decide you’re in charge and pretend I’m not even there.”

Maura was a little disappointed that he didn’t contradict her. Instead he said, “You want me to leave altogether? Or hide in the back?”

“Well, no, not exactly. I’m not sure what they’ll want to talk about, and it would help if you could listen in without butting in and translate for me after they’re gone.”

“Got it. I’ll pretend to be ‘just a bartender’ and keep me gob shut. Will that suit? What do yeh want to do about Old Billy?”

“Well, I’m sure not going to throw him out just to pretty up the place. It wouldn’t be fair to him. He’s part of the ambience, right?”

“So he is. And here he is now.”

Maura turned to see Billy making his slow way along the sidewalk toward the front door. She went over to open it for him. “Good morning, Billy. You’re early today.”

“Ah, Maura, the spring is easier on me joints, and I couldn’t stay inside with the sun shinin’. Yeh want me to go and come back again?”

She smiled at him. “Of course not. You know you’re welcome here any time. But I should warn you—we have some guests coming. Although I’m not sure ‘guests’ is the right term.”

“Give me a pint, and you can explain it to me.”

Maura glanced at Mick, still behind the bar, and he nodded. “Get yourself settled, and I’ll tell you all about it. You want a fire today?”

“Mebbe a small one—takes a bit of time for the old stone walls here to heat up when the spring comes.”

“Then I’ll start on that.” A nice little fire would probably add to the ambiance. Maura wondered if there was a checklist or test for measuring it. Were there points given for cleanliness? Fast delivery of drinks? She knelt by the fireplace and began stacking kindling. “Billy, you know what Crann Mor is?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Sure and I do. It’s older than I am, though it wasn’t always a hotel. Real nice, I’m told, though I’ve never seen the inside of the place. I’ve heard that the last owner sold it a year or more ago and the new one has big plans. Why are yeh askin’? Not planning to dip your toe in the high life, are yeh?”

Maura put a match to the kindling and watched until she was sure the fire had caught. Then she sat back on the floor and said, “Hardly, Billy. I don’t even want to guess what it would cost to spend the night at a place like that, and I’m pretty sure I don’t have that kind of money. But I got a call from somebody there who says they want to come over and check out Sullivan’s to see if we’re worthy of sending their precious patrons to if they’re looking for a real Irish experience.”

“And yer not happy with the idea?” Billy asked.

Billy was a shrewd observer, Maura noted, not for the first time. “I guess not. I don’t consider myself entertainment for rich people, and I don’t do quaint. Heck, I’m not even Irish—or I don’t sound like it, at least. I can’t imagine they’d be interested in this place. Aren’t there bigger and better pubs in Skib?”

“Mebbe. Don’t fret yerself, Maura. The new folk are just lookin’ to see what’s around. It may come to nothing. Just be who you are, and don’t worry about this visit of theirs. Do yeh want me to do anything?”

“Like what, sing? You have a tin whistle in your pocket?” Then a sudden thought struck her. “You might be able to fill them in about the history of this building, though—I don’t know all the details.”

“I’d be happy to tell them.”

Mick arrived with Billy’s first pint of the day, and Maura seized the moment to retreat and take a hard look at her pub. Small—no changing that. Kind of a clunky layout, but that too was dictated by the age of the building. Dark, but that was sort of deliberate to hide the less-than-perfect cleaning. The assortment of vintage posters and publicity items plastered over the walls (and occasionally the ceiling) was interesting and kind of unusual, but it looked chaotic, not that she would think of changing it—it was a minihistory of music in this part of Ireland and maybe even beyond. It reflected the long music history of Sullivan’s, but Maura had serious doubts that the selection of performers she was attracting now would appeal to classy patrons. Most of the bands were small, funky contemporary groups. Would the Crann Mor clientele prefer traditional Irish? Even Maura thought that was kind of over. Besides, she could name at least two pubs in Skibbereen that held seisúns for tourists, and the snooty folk would probably be more comfortable there if they wanted a dose of local flavor.

Just get through this silly meeting and they’ll go away, she told herself.

Shortly after eleven, Maura watched as a gleaming dark van pulled up in front of Sullivan’s. She glanced at Mick, who gave her a nod but said nothing. Then she walked to the front door and, opening it, plastered on a smile and stood like a sentinel by the entrance, inventorying the people who emerged from the van.

A driver hurried out first and raced around the van to open doors for the four people who climbed out: two men and two women. Then the driver discreetly retreated to the van. Maura made a quick judgment of the group. The older guy, the one with the dash of gray in his hair, was clearly the boss, and the younger man looked like his lapdog. Both were wearing nice tailored clothes but not suits, and they’d left their neckties at home. The two women were a similar pair. The older looked to be in her late forties but obviously took care of herself, and the younger one was her assistant, although she was nowhere near as fawning as her male counterpart. The women wore nicely tailored pantsuits in muted colors, and the older women had added a colorful scarf.

Finally, everyone was lined up on the sidewalk, and Maura approached them. “Welcome to Sullivan’s. I’m Maura Donovan, the owner. Please, come in.”

The older man spoke first—the head bull, as Maura had guessed. “Good morning, Miss Donovan. May I call you Maura? I’m John Byrne, one of Crann Mor’s new owners. I’m the head of the JB Management, usually called JBCo, the investment consortium that purchased the property. Our home office is in Chicago.” He extended his hand, and Maura took it to shake. His handshake was carefully calculated, not too weak and not too strong. She couldn’t quite place his accent. It sounded like newscaster American but not quite natural. “I’m sorry to descend on you on such short notice, but we’ve been impressed by what we’ve been hearing about this place, and we felt we needed to see it ourselves to determine if perhaps we could work together. I take it you’re a newcomer to this area?”

Maura nodded. “I’ve been here almost a year now, but I had family from here. I’m glad to hear that our publicity has been working, but I guess I’m surprised to see your whole team here. If I’d known you wanted to see the place in action, I’d have invited you for one of the nights we have music.”

“Again, I apologize for our lack of planning, but we’ve only just arrived in this area. Let me introduce the rest of the team. Andrew Whitaker is my indispensable assistant, Helen Jenkins here handles the infrastructure side of things, and Tiffany Martin is her assistant.” Everybody nodded cordially, but no one else stepped forward to shake hands with Maura. Helen seemed to be studying her, although she didn’t say anything. What, she’d never seen a female pub owner before?

“I’m sorry,” Maura said, “but I don’t know the hotel. I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never been there. You said you’re one of the new owners?”

“Yes,” John replied, “in a sense. As I said, I’m the CEO of JBCo, which is a consortium that specializes in acquiring and managing hotels and resorts in the US and a few other countries. This particular property in Skibbereen came on the market at a propitious time for us, and we moved quickly to secure it. You must come see the place—the gardens are spectacular. In any event, we took possession about six months ago, and this is our team’s first site visit. We’ve been planning some necessary remodeling and renovation and getting acquainted with the area and what it has to offer.”

Maura couldn’t see where she fit, but she might as well be polite. “Well, I’m delighted to show you Sullivan’s. Come on in.” She held the door, standing aside to let everyone pass. She watched them once they got inside, looking like a flock of curious chickens, strutting around and poking into corners. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee?”

The younger woman had noticed the gleaming coffeemaker behind the bar, and she nudged the other woman. The latter said quickly, “Coffee would be great. Thank you.”

Maura turned to the bar. “Mick, can you take care of that, please?”

“Sure. Won’t be but a minute.” His tone was properly deferential, and Maura had to squash a smile.

“This is Mick Nolan,” she said, turning back to the group, “my main bartender. He’s worked here a lot longer than I have, and you might want to talk to him. And by the fire there is Billy Sheahan. He was a friend of the prior owner, who’s been gone a year now. If there’s anything you want to know about this place or the village, he’s the man to ask.” The Crann Mor people dutifully turned to look at Billy, who gave them a brief salute, beaming cheerfully, but the visitors dismissed him quickly as not worth their attention. That annoyed Maura—it seemed rude. “Why don’t we sit down?”

The group distributed themselves around the two tables that Mick had crammed together in anticipation of the meeting, and Mick delivered the coffees to the women and retreated again.

When they were all settled, Maura said, “So, what do you want to know from me?”

John took the lead. “While the Crann Mor property is impressive, we know that our guests like to see something of the local area—the countryside, the institutions, the historical sites. I’ve been informed that your place here has played an important role in the regional music culture for years, and we were pleased to see that you’ve revived it now. How’s that working for you?”

So he’d been doing his homework, Maura noted. “Frankly, I’ve had little experience with that kind of management”—or any other, for that matter, but she didn’t need to add that—“and I and my staff have been feeling our way along. Word of mouth plays a big part of bringing in groups, and we’re pleased that bands have begun coming to us, rather than us chasing them down. Why is it you think your guests would be interested in small bands in a small pub like this?”

“We’d like to think we serve a fairly sophisticated clientele. As you might guess, they’re not looking for the traditional fiddle-and-penny-whistle style, although there is some charm to that.”

Yeah, for the clueless tourists who think they’re getting the real thing, Maura thought. “So you think Sullivan’s offers something more, I don’t know—authentic? Real?”

“Exactly. We wanted to see your venue to get a sense what might be possible.”

“This place doesn’t hold many people,” Maura said. “How many are you thinking about?”

“Your size could be a plus. We’re not talking about sending busloads of guests over, just a few with more discriminating tastes, who would appreciate both the music and the chance to mingle with local people. An authentic music experience, as you suggested. Of course, some changes might be desirable.”

Maura tried not to bristle. “Like what?”

“How do you handle parking, for example?”

Maura managed not to laugh. “We don’t. People have to work that out for themselves. And as you can see, there’s nowhere to add a parking lot.”

“Ah. And you might want to improve your seating and furniture.”

This isn’t a cocktail lounge, pal—this is a small Irish pub in a small village, Maura fumed silently. “My patrons like it the way it is.”

“We might be able to help you out if it’s the financial considerations that worry you.”

Maura wasn’t sure if she wanted to hand over control of her furnishings to the guy or his crew. She tried to picture the room they were in filled with matchy-matchy modern blond furniture and almost laughed. “I’d be interested in hearing your ideas,” she said carefully.

“Excellent!” John clapped his hands together. “Oh, and if you have a music session scheduled, perhaps we might sit in?”

“Of course. Mick, who is it we have booked for Saturday night? Screaming Badgers?”

“No, that’s next weekend. This week it’s Roadkill.”

Maura turned back to the group. “So we’d be happy to see you here on Saturday to hear Roadkill. Things usually warm up about ten o’clock. You can get a real feeling for the ambience.”

John stood up. “That’s great, Maura. We’ll see if we can make it. Anybody else have any questions?” The rest of the group remained silent, as they had through most of the meeting. John turned back to Maura. “Thanks so much for making the time to see us on such short notice.” He offered his hand, and Maura shook it. The others didn’t offer, so Maura escorted them to the door.

Helen hung back for a moment until the others were getting into the van. Then she said in a low voice, “Maura, I know John comes on strong, but at least think about the idea. Will you?”

“Sure, I guess. But you have to know that we like things the way they are.”

“I understand. It was great to meet you, and I hope we can make it for the music.” She offered her hand this time, and Maura shook it. She was surprised when Helen didn’t seem to be in any hurry to let go.

After Helen had left, Maura shut the door, then leaned against it. She and Mick exchanged a glance, then both burst out laughing.

“I’m sure they’ll love it,” Mick said.

“Sure,” Maura replied. “Especially after they’ve had a tour of the loos.”