Buried In Shamrocks – Lisa Q Mathews

After Ian. “I went over there early, yeah,” Liam said. “To meet with one of the sound guys.” He nodded toward the newest member of Peat on the other sofa. “Jaymes was having a lie-in with a sore head. Ian never made it over, either. I couldn’t tell you about Macker here.” “I was in my bed as well,” she said. “And I’m still tired.” She sniffed. “Allergies.” “Noel represented for the Lads.” Timmy shrugged. “We’re old hands at this.

Didn’t need more than one person to check on things. Just give us a stage or a tent or a room, and we’re off to the races. Marty’s boy is a stickler for every detail, though. Haven’t seen him since. Marty, where’s Noel?” “Noel?” Marty started awake, and I glimpsed the neatly wrapped white gauze bandage on his hand. Mom’s signature handiwork. All of us Buckleys had been on the receiving end.

Timmy leaned closer to Marty. “Your son,” he said, louder. “Where is the lad?” “Noel? Ah, he’s off somewhere. Who knows?” Marty said. “I’ll have a beer as well, Kate, since you’re bringin’ one to the young lady here.” This time he was the one who got the evil eye from Macker. Apparently she didn’t like the term “young lady.” Marty didn’t seem to notice. But he hadn’t been dozing this whole time.

He had full awareness of Macker’s drink order. Selective hearing, maybe. Just like the Chief. “I’ll get those beers right now,” I said, jumping off the armchair. “Be right back.” I doubted I’d get much more from this group about the morning’s events anyway. Not as a group, anyway. Divide and conquer. Another of the Chief’s specialties. “Did you find your dog, now?” Marty called, as I reached the doorway.

“Yes, Rover’s safely home, thanks.” After you let him out of the gate, I wanted to add. “He’s a sly one, that pup,” Marty said. “Sure is,” I agreed. But Marty was the real sly dog, in my book. And on my list for a private chat. After my ex. When I returned to the living room less than five minutes later, Leprechaun Lagers in hand for the guests who’d requested them, I was surprised to find only Macker left.

She was still in her place on the couch, frowning at her ragged nails. They were bitten down to the quick. “Where did everyone go?” I handed Macker one of the lagers. “Just leave Marty’s there on the coffee table.” She pointed in front of her. “He went off with the others. If he doesn’t come back, I’ll drink it. Or you can.” “Thanks, I’m good.” I set down the beer and dropped into the armchair across from her. Macker would be my first guest interrogee.

My seven-year-old daughter Bliz, occasionally known as Mary Elizabeth, squeezed her eyes shut in concentration, rocking in her green jelly sandals as she repeated her singsong chant. “Don’t think that’s going to work, Blizzie B.” Maeve shaded her eyes and frowned from the driveway into the open Buckley family garage. Well, it used to be my parents’ garage. The entire space was now even more stuffed to the rafters with boxes and bags and assorted junk.

On either side of the rusty basketball hoop above the garage door, Irish and American flags drooped in the late-June, midday heat. At least it wasn’t lashing rain like the last time we arrived here in Shamrock, Massachusetts. Not yet anyway. Gray thunderclouds were already starting to move across the robin’s-egg blue sky. “Don’t discourage her, honey,” I murmured to Maeve. “She’s praying. Sort of.” Maeve, my doppelganger with her slender build and shoulder-length auburn hair, gave me the fourteen-year-old eye roll behind Bliz’s back and reached down to give her little sister a squeeze.

“Saint Anthony is really busy right now,” she explained. “He has to help lots of other people find super important things. Like wedding rings and wills and actual missing persons. Not Barbies.” Sparks instantly replaced the tears in Bliz’s bright blue eyes. “Ciara is not a Barbie. Well, not anymore. She’s my Irish dancer doll. Gram made special dresses for her and everything.”

I brushed away a long blond curl plastered to my younger daughter’s cheek by humidity and tears. “Sweetie, we’ll find Ciara soon, I promise.” I gestured vaguely toward the garage. “When we unpack all of this. But that may take a while.” Little green lie number ten-thousand-and-one today. Who knew if we’d ever completely unpack. The dinged and dented, cheapest-available moving van was still parked here in the driveway of the Buckley House, my parents’ B&B.

The vacancy sign, I noticed, leaned perilously close to the sidewalk. Had we somehow hit it with the van? I jogged over to straighten the sign. When it didn’t budge, I pulled harder, and the whole thing came all the way out of the ground. Rotten wood from the recent rains, probably. And was that a bug? No, three bugs. Ugh. I decided against hauling the sign to the trash can next to the garage and stuck it back as best I could in the soggy lawn.

The trash was already full anyway. I’d mention the sign rot to my dad later. And I knew exactly what he’d say: “Fetch my hammer there from the garage, will you, Kathleen?

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: b750d414d6f23091
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 3,465,741 bytes (3.305 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 263
• Language: English (en)

Reading & Word Statistics

• Estimated Reading Time: 414.4 minutes
• Total Words: 82,880
• Total Characters: 458,517
• Average Words per Page: 315.13
• Average Characters per Page: 1743.41

Most Frequent Words

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