The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

Gallagher, who with his wife beside him had built the public house by Ardmore Bay and opened its thick doors to offer hospitality, shelter, and a good glass of whiskey.
    He’d been born the son of a publican and understood that the job was to provide comfort of all sorts to those who passed through. Over the years, Gallagher’s had come to mean comfort, and it became known for its music—the seisiun , an informal pub gathering of traditional music—as well as the more structured sets provided by hired musicians from all over the country.
    Shawn’s love of music had come down to him through the pub, and so through the blood. It was as much a part of him as the blue of his eyes, or the shape of his smile.
    There was little he liked better than working away in his kitchen and hearing a tune break out through the doors. It was true enough that he was often compelled to leave what he was doing and swing out to join in. But everyone got what they’d come for sooner or later, so where was the harm?
    It was rare—not unheard of, but rare—for him to burn a pot or let a dish go cold, for he took a great measure of pride in his kitchen and what came out of it.
    Now the steam began to rise and scent the air, and the broth thickened. He added bits of fresh basil and rosemary from plants he was babying. It was a new idea of his, these self-grown herbs, one he’d taken from Mollie O’Toole. He considered her the best cook in the parish.
    He added marjoram as well, but that was from a jar. He intended to start his own plant of that, too, and get himself what Jude had told him was called a grow light. When the herbs were added to his satisfaction, he checked his other makings, then began to grate cabbage for the slaw he made by the gallons.
    He heard the first footsteps overhead, then the music. British music today, Shawn thought, recognizing the clever and sophisticated tangle of notes. Pleased with Darcy’s choice, he sang along with Annie Lennox until Aidan swung through the door.
    Aidan wore a thick fisherman’s sweater against the cold. He was broader of shoulder than his brother, tougher of build. His hair was the same dark, aged chestnut as their bar and showed hints of red in the sunlight. Though Shawn’s face was leaner, his eyes a quieter blue, the Gallagher genes ran strong and true. No one taking a good look would doubt that they were brothers.
    Aidan cocked a brow. “And what are you grinning at?”
    “You,” Shawn said easily. “You’ve the look of a contented and satisfied man.”
    “And why wouldn’t I?”
    “Why, indeed.” Shawn poured a mug from the pot of tea he’d already made. “And how is our Jude this morning?”
    “Still a bit queasy for the first little while, but she doesn’t seem to mind it.” Aidan sipped and sighed. “I’m not ashamed to say it makes my own stomach roll seeing how she pales the minute she gets out of bed. After an hour or so, she’s back to herself. But it’s a long hour for me.”
    Shawn settled back against the counter with his own mug. “You couldn’t pay me to be a woman. Do you want me to take her a bowl of stew later on? Or I’ve some chicken broth if she’d do better with something more bland.”
    “I think she’d handle the stew. She’d appreciate that, and so do I.”
    “It’s not a problem. It’s mulligan stew if you want to fix the daily, and I’ve a mind to make bread-and-butter pudding, so you can add that as well.”
    The phone began to ring out in the pub, and Aidan rolled his eyes. “That had best not be the distributor saying there’s a problem again. We’re lower on porter than I like to be.”
    And that, Shawn thought, as Aidan went out to answer, was just one of the many reasons he was glad to have the business end of things in his brother’s keeping.
    All that figuring and planning, Shawn mused, as he calculated how many pounds of fish he needed to get through the day. Then the dealing with people, the arguing and demanding and insisting. It wasn’t all standing behind the bar pulling pints and listening to old Mr. Riley tell a story.
    Then there were things like ledgers and overhead and maintenance and taxes. It was enough to give you a headache just thinking of it.
    He checked his stew, gave the enormous pot of it a quick stir, then went to the bottom of the steps to shout up for Darcy to move her lazy ass. It was said out of habit rather than heat, and the curse she shouted back down at him was an answer in