The Pub Across the Pond by Mary Carter Page B

our pub?” Ronan said. Surely, when they heard it said, out loud, like, they would come to their senses.
    â€œIt’s better than watching it turn into a shake and bake,” Sarah said.
    â€œYou can thank me for that,” Anchor said. “I came up with the fallback.” He smiled and flashed the horns.
    â€œDid it ever occur to you that Uncle Joe would’ve taken fifty thousand, you eejit?” Ronan said. Anchor stopped smiling and shrugged.
    â€œYes,” Siobhan said. “Some Yank will win the pub.”
    â€œWhat if they don’t even run it?” Ronan said. “What if they turn around and sell it?”
    â€œWe can’t control that,” Siobhan said. “But George said that probably wouldn’t happen.” George was their trusty solicitor. Ronan couldn’t believe they’d been consulting George about raffling the pub behind his back. “Most Americans are naïve,” Siobhan continued. “To them winning a pub in Ireland is a dream come true.”
    â€œWait until winter hits,” Ciaran said.
    â€œYou can’t do this behind my back,” Ronan said. “You can’t raffle the pub without my signature.”
    â€œTrue,” Siobhan said. She removed a set of documents and a pen from her purse. She thrust them at Ronan.
    â€œNo,” he said. “I still have three weeks.”
    â€œTwo weeks,” Anchor said.
    â€œAnd what’s your bright idea?” Siobhan said. Siobhan waved the money in his face. “Going to win big again, are ye?”
    Ronan stepped forward, lowered his voice. “I have a tip,” he said. “From Racehorse Robbie.” Siobhan stared at him. He curled his hands up near his head as if trying to grasp something. “Shock waves,” he said. “They’re going to be talking about this horse for the next two hundred and fifty years.” He was trying to whisper but could already hear the lads behind him madly speculating about which horse he was on about. He stepped even closer to his sisters.
    â€œI know what you’re thinking,” he said. “I fucked up and I’m sorry. Truly sorry. I’m a right eejit, and you have every right to hate me. But this time—it’s the real deal. And not for me. For you. I’ve scraped up every quid I could, and the odds are in my favor. If he wins—when he wins—it’s going to pay off big. We’ll get to keep the pub. No Uncle Joe, no tanning beds, and no fucking Yanks. It’s my last bet. I swear to you, it’s my last bet. Once more chance. Just give me one more chance, will ye?”
    Siobhan looked at the cash, then looked at the rest of the estrogen gang, then looked at her brother.
    â€œRonan Anthony McBride,” she said. “If we give you this money, and you put it on your ‘shock wave,’ and you lose—do you promise, do you swear on all of our graves, that you’ll sign these documents and let us hold the raffle?”
    Ronan looked at his sisters. He looked at the money. He looked at the documents.
    â€œI still have three weeks,” he said.
    â€œTwo weeks,” Anchor said.
    â€œIt’s a yes or no,” Siobhan said.
    â€œDeal or no deal,” Anne said.
    â€œThat’s my money,” Ronan said.
    â€œAnd this is our pub too,” Liz said. “Or did you forget that when you were throwing it out the window like it meant nothing to us, like . . . like we meant nothing?” Her words were a rusty, dull knife to the heart, twisting, twisting. She was right. He’d taken more from them than they had from him. And he could still win. He could win and this ridiculous raffle would never go through.
    â€œAll right, all right,” he said. “I promise. If Howards End doesn’t win, then I’ll sign the papers and you can hold your raffle.” One by one the girls nodded their consent. Siobhan tossed the money. It hit Ronan