Home > Lucky Break (Luvluck Novellas Book 1)(7)

Lucky Break (Luvluck Novellas Book 1)(7)
Author: K.L. Shandwick

“Taken… as in girlfriend, fiancée, or married? I don’t see a ring.”

“Now what difference would that make, Lianne McGonigle?” Daisy snapped.

“All the difference in the world because there’s still time for him to change his mind. Has anyone ever told you, you look like—”

“Jamie Fontaine? Yep, all the time. Daisy thinks I’m better looking than him though, what do you think?”

“You could be his twin. Can you sing?”

“A bit.”

“Oh, maybe you can do an impersonation later?”

“I’d need to know the words of the song,” I replied still going along with the ruse.

“No problem. I have a great karaoke app. Daisy, you’re a huge DistRoyed fan, maybe you can choose one for him to sing?”

Daisy’s eyes lit up like candle flames being fanned by a sudden draught.

“Sure, now that sounds like fun,” she replied, enthused by her friend’s suggestion. “However, Barney is here to help with the ceilidgh, so if you’ll excuse us we need to get the bar open in the function room.

No sooner had Daisy said the words, the door burst open and half of Dublin poured into the pub. The bodies became five deep from the counter and the noise and laughter injected all the atmosphere of a great party.

It soon became clear that everyone at the dance knew each other or knew someone who knew someone else, and I realized what I thought I had on the road with my crew was nothing like the closeness the community present in the bar shared with each other.

As I wandered around collecting the empty glasses, I heard grown men asking each other about their wives illnesses, kids attainments at school and various other domestic values that were missing from my life.

The way they valued each other made me think about the conversations I normally had with the guys I worked with every day. They were usually confined to instruments, sound equipment, travel arrangements, or the bird they’d tapped the night before. They were shallow, impersonal relationships and not built on care and respect for one another like I had been witnessing between these locals.

I made my way around the bar with two handfuls of glasses to wash when suddenly the crowd shifted and within a couple of minutes the room was almost empty and sedate.

“What did I miss? I asked, Daisy’s barman as I filled the sink with hot soapy water and placed a few glasses inside.

“It’s 7:30 pm,” Terry replied like the time explained it to me.

“Where did they go?”

“Ceilidgh's starting any minute,” he informed me.

I hadn’t seen a band arrive, and I hadn’t heard any tuning up. Are they dancing to the pub jukebox?

After washing and drying around fifty glasses, I was placing them back on the shelves when I heard loud Irish music bellow out from the room at the far end of the bar. I hadn’t ventured down that end of the pub because the three old guys with their half pints of stout hadn’t needed their glasses cleared.

Slowly, I made my way to the door and stood staring at a scene that was initially difficult to take in. The band for the night comprised five ancient men, the youngest being at least seventy who played the harmonica with the greatest skill I’d ever heard.

Next was an old dude on a fiddle who could definitely have given David Garrett a run for his money. Beside him was an even older guy on what looked like an old kitchen chair, who looked like he’d been wheeled in from a nursing home. However, as soon as I heard him play the accordion, he had my respect; it was like he was born to do it.

Two other guys, one on a Bodhran drum and another on a tambourine, made up the band and together they made the most infectious and inspiring music I’d heard in a long while.

Glancing to the dance floor, I saw people of all ages—from late teens to seniors—dressed for a night on the town. They were dancing traditional country dances that looked both old-fashioned and out of keeping with the modern attire they wore. Not that they cared because they looked like they were having the time of their lives.

The pace and skill of the tunes kept the energy in the room high and I realized my musical instincts had kicked in and I tapped my toe to the beat as the music took over.

Scanning the room, I had to admit everyone was having fun, and it confirmed everything I’d always known—no one had to be a rock star to move people with music. It was obvious these guys had been the unsung heroes in their community for decades, bringing their own special brand of connection to their audience.

 

 

Chapter Four

 

 

“So, what do you think?” Daisy's voice cut into my thoughts.

I turned and glanced over my shoulder to see her smiling up at me. I loved her smile. Her eyes glittered in the low light of the function room.

“You’re beautiful,” I replied. She was and for a moment I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.

“I meant the music?” she clarified, but I didn’t miss the obvious delight she showed in a fleeting expression when I paid her my compliment.

“What music? There’s music? I can only hear your sweet lyrical accent,” I teased.

“You’re such a flirt, J—”

“Baaarney,” I corrected her, stretching my name out and winking. “Seriously though, these guys are the bomb,” I said. I pulled Daisy in front of me, placed my hands on her shoulders and looked back at the band. A small tremor shot through her body in response to my touch.

“They are,” she nodded, staring up at the stage. The drummer, fiddler and tambourine players are brothers; the one on the harmonica is my Uncle Eugene… he’s as old as the hills, as they say. Do you want to dance?”

“I’m a rock star from New York.”

“And that disqualifies you from dancing?”

“No… I’d feel dorky doing that stuff.”

“Dorky? Are you insulting my culture?” Daisy asked playfully as she turned to face me with her hands on her hips and a mock scowl creasing her brow.

“Hey, no,” I shot back with my holding my hands up at my chest, palms facing her. “What I mean is I’m not a great dancer anyway and trying to do all that stuff with the bouncy legs an’ all… I’d probably fall over.”

“Nonsense,” she said through a chuckle, quickly grabbed my hand and led me onto the dance floor. I was about to protest with another excuse when the old dude with the tambourine who had identified himself as the lead vocalist of the group shouted:

“Take your partners for the eight-some reel.”

Now I’d seen some of the mid-west folks attempt something similar, but I felt awkward and clumsy as Daisy began clapping, linking arms with me, and spinning me around.

Next thing I was being dragged down the center of two lines made by the others and running back to tap the next couple. After that it was mainly clapping and tapping my feet until we changed places every so often.

I got this.

If I’m truthful, it was a lot of fun and the pleasure I got from seeing everyone else lose their place or make mistakes helped me forget what a dork I felt.

When the dance finished, Daisy hugged me and whispered, “Damn there’s that smell again,” and pushed me away. “Alright, that’s quite enough; you’re not paid to dance. Get cracking and collect all the glasses up. Anyone would think I’m running a charity here.”

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