Chapter 2

Lucy

The intercom's static crackle pierces the classroom's hum, and I straighten, ready for what's to come.

"Attention!" Principal Bishop's voice echoes through the tinny speaker. "We've had a bear sighting on school grounds. Please follow lockdown procedures immediately."

My grade-five students all run to the window and spot the three-hundred-pound black bear that's munching someone's lunch that got left outside this morning. Oops . The bears eat well around an elementary school. Despite the concrete jungle surrounding us, nature has a way of reminding us of its presence, usually in the form of a bear following discarded lunch items or the scent of fresh salmon from the stream by the greenbelt that edges our campus.

"Okay, everyone," I say, clapping my hands for attention, "we'll go to the gym for recess." The children line up, though fidgets and shuffles betray their pent-up energy. No outdoor recess means we'll have a surplus of wiggles to contend with indoors.

The kids have lunch at their desks, and I navigate a small food fight and a juice box being stepped on, which sprays the wall with pink juice.

Once we clean up, we march toward the gym, joining the throngs of other classes funneling into the echo chamber of squeaky sneakers and high-pitched voices. Controlled chaos is a lofty goal we fall short of achieving; the reality is screams of young children that make my temples throb. I scan the sea of heads for familiar faces, spotting my friend Tiffany Reynolds corralling her own grade fives with a forced smile.

"Hey, Tiff," I shout over the din, sidling up beside her as she directs her students to sit cross-legged on the floor.

"Lucy! A black bear again?" She rolls her eyes, annoyance and amusement in her gaze.

"Yep, I just want to go home, pour myself a glass of chardonnay, and soak in the tub until I prune," I confess.

"Ha, sounds like a plan. If only…" She sighs, glancing at our charges, who are now engaged in an impromptu game of silent telephone, giggles bouncing around the circle.

"Keep dreaming, right?" I chuckle, but my mind is already drifting to the quiet comfort of my apartment, the liquid gold of wine swirling in a goblet, steam rising from hot water—a sanctuary far removed from this raucous gym.

But for now, duty calls. I turn back to my kids, mustering enthusiasm. "All right, fly. Be free. But let's not be too loud, okay?"

Eventually, we return to our classroom, and fortunately, the bear has ambled away by dismissal time. We collect backpacks and jackets, and the students' laughter echoes out the door at the end of the day, their energy undiminished. I sigh, absentmindedly stacking papers into a neat pile on my desk. The enticing image of bubbles caressing my skin fades as my phone buzzes from the drawer. Dad's picture flashes on the screen as I pull it out, a smile tugging at his lips, eyes crinkling with mirth. No chardonnay for me tonight.

"Hey, Dad," I answer, slipping into my coat, a resigned acceptance settling in.

"Lucy, love, Beatrice has called in sick. Can you cover her shift tonight?" His voice is hopeful yet apologetic, an Irish lilt dancing through the line.

This is not shocking news on a Monday. Beatrice often has an illness related to the start of the work week. "Of course. I'll be there," I assure my dad. The words tumble out before I can consider the mountain of worksheets and projects waiting to be graded.

"Ah, you're a lifesaver, my girl. I owe you one," he promises.

"Sure, Dad. See you soon." I hang up, my previous hopes dissipating like steam on a mirror. I grab my purse, keys jingling a familiar tune as I lock up my classroom.

The drive over to Barney's is automatic, muscle memory guiding me through the streets. With each passing block, anticipation builds, replacing the weariness. At least I'll see Janelle tonight. She and Tiffany are my best friends, but with her in nursing school full time and working full time for my dad, it doesn't leave a lot of room for us to hang out.

Pulling into the familiar parking spot in the alley behind the bar, I cut the engine and take a deep breath. The pub's warm glow beckons. A night at Barney's might not be the quiet evening I'd envisioned, but with friends and family, it won't be so bad.

I push through the creaking back door, the familiar scent of hops and wood polish greeting me like an old friend. The pub is bustling with the pre-dinner crowd, locals unwinding after a long day's work. The hospital gang isn't here yet, though. Mercy's Hospital's day shift ends a bit later. I immediately find Janelle, her arms crossed as she leans against the bar, her expression stormy.

"Can you believe it?" she huffs as I approach. "Your dad calls you in again because Beatrice can't show up? She's about as reliable as a chocolate teapot. He should just let her go at this point."

A shrug lifts my shoulders, the weight of resignation pulling them down just as quickly. "Well, when would we ever see each other without this?" I tease.

Janelle's lips curve into a reluctant smile. "True. Between your teaching and my nursing school, it's a miracle we can still recognize each other."

We share a chuckle before the conversation turns, as inevitably as the tide, to her weekend date. "So, come on then, spill," I demand, leaning on the counter next to her, eager for the diversion.

She hesitates, fiddling with a coaster, her face scrunching in thought. "He's a radiologist from the hospital. Nice guy, really. But…" She trails off and sighs, the thought hanging unfinished in the air between us.

"But?" I prompt, nudging her with my elbow.

"No spark. No fireworks." Janelle shrugs. "It was like going out with a really friendly Labrador—pleasant but no excitement."

My heart sinks. Janelle's romantic pursuits are always roller coasters, thrilling rides that often end in spectacular fashion. I'd been hoping this time might be different, more…stable. "I'm sorry, Janelle. I was rooting for this one," I admit.

"Me too," she murmurs, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "But hey, life goes on, right? And who knows? Maybe Mr. Right is just around the corner."

"Or standing at the end of the bar," I quip, nodding toward a group of newcomers filtering in.

"Maybe," Janelle concedes. "But for now, let's focus on getting through tonight without dropping a tray or murdering Beatrice in absentia."

"Agreed," I reply, rolling up my sleeves. "Let's get to work."

A little while later, as I slide a pint across the bar to an eager patron, I lean in closer to Janelle, my voice barely cutting through the din. "The other night, this guy came in, right off a biker mag cover."

"Trouble?" Janelle asks, her eyebrows arching as she fills a pint and turns to deliver it.

"Big time." I pause to pour another drink, watching the foam crest just below the rim. "He was hot, though, in a bad-boy way. Blond, six-three, built like he tosses kegs for fun. Black leathers, head to toe." I make a show of pulling at my black apron. "Way more Sons of Anarchy than Friday-night happy hour."

"Sounds charming," she says drily, returning for another round.

"Charming and dangerous. I got this vibe… He's Irish mob. I'm sure of it." My hand grips the tap a little tighter. "They've been sniffing around Dad again."

"Lucy…" Concern softens Janelle's features for a moment before she masks it with her work face, the one that's all smiles and efficiency.

"Keep an eye out, okay?" I ask before we're swept up in the current of customers, orders, and clinking glasses. "I'm sure he's some kind of enforcer."

"How can we figure it out?"

I think for a minute. "What if we serve him bad food with lousy service? That'll show him we aren't afraid, and if he comes back, we'll know he's here for other reasons, right?"

After a moment, she nods. "As long as you're sure he's not a restaurant inspector."

"Definitely not."

"Let's do it."

Hours blur. The pub is alive with the hum of Mercy Hospital post-shift chatter and laughter spilling as freely as the beer. Despite the ache in my feet and the stickiness clinging to my skin, there's a comforting rhythm in the frenzy.

"Lucy, table six needs their check!" Dad calls from the other end of the bar .

"Got it!" I yell back, whisking up the bill and weaving my way through the crowd, dodging a group of nurses with tales wilder than any Friday night.

"Sorry for the wait." I smile, setting the check on the table. They wave me off with grins, clearly in no hurry to end their revelry.

"Another Guinness, Lucy!" hollers Christian Bradford, a doctor from the hospital and a regular.

"Coming right up!" I shoot back, already anticipating the next three orders in line.

The ebb and flow of patrons is relentless; the lull I'd hoped for never arrives. Instead, it's a constant stream of faces. It's well past eleven when I glance at the clock for the umpteenth time, the hands inching toward midnight. The Irish mob enforcer hasn't shown tonight, but my nerves haven't untangled. Every leather-clad figure makes my heart skip, wondering if he's here for more than just a pint. But Dad's laughter rings out as he shares a joke with some firefighters, and for a moment, I let myself believe everything will be okay.

"Last call!" Dad announces, and the collective groan is almost drowned out by my sigh of relief. I start collecting empty glasses.

"Hey, Luce, you did great tonight." Dad's hand finds my shoulder. "I'll handle the rest. You go on home."

"Thanks, Dad." I flash him a tired smile, stripping off my apron and heading for the door, the promise of rest now a tangible thing. Tonight was just another Monday at Barney's. My feet ache in protest with every step I take to my car, but the thought of my bed propels me forward.

"Lucy, wait up." Dad's voice carries from the doorway.

I pause and turn back, finding his silhouette framed by the warm glow of the pub. He crosses the distance between us, his coat flapping slightly in the night breeze.

"You sure you don't want me to drive you home?"

I shake my head. "I'll be fine. I drove from school. I'm tired, but I'm good."

"You work too hard." His brows knit together in that way that tells me he's both proud and concerned.

"Learned from the best," I quip, attempting to ease the wrinkle from his forehead. It works, partly; a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"All right, go on then. But text me when you get home, yeah?" He pulls me into a hug, brief but fierce, and I'm reminded of all the times his strength has been my shelter.

"Will do," I promise, smiling up at him. "Talk to you tomorrow. Love you."

"Love you, too. And thank you for helping out and always being there, love." There's a glint of something more in his eye—gratitude, maybe a touch of guilt for asking so much of me.

"Always, Dad." And I mean it.

He watches me a moment longer, then nods and retreats into the pub as I pull away.

My thoughts drift to the day ahead tomorrow, the eager faces of my grade fives waiting for me, their energy boundless. I smile, my physical fatigue momentarily forgotten.