“Of course, you do.” He shook his head as he raised his glass and drained it.

” I married your son. I’m part of this family.” Anger flared in her eyes.

“Declan’s dead, so what’s the point?” There was no mistaking the sadness in his voice.

“I get it. You lost your son in a pointless war. But you know what? I lost him too. And my girls lost their father.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “You still have a family that cares about you and the future of this pub.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled.

She tried again.  “Tell me more about the pub.” She again placed a hand lightly on his arm. This time he didn’t pull away. She knew most of the history but talking about the past usually took him out of his funk.

“No one cares about those things.” He traced a water stain on the bar with his finger.

Behind the bar, Tim pulled a wooden handle for a pint of black Guinness. “Go on, tell her. I’d like to hear more myself.”

“Na, I’ve no time for stories.” He picked up the glass, took a drink, then tipped it at Tim, who smiled, picked up the empty whiskey glass, and put it in the sink. 

“Please, Liam,” Anne said.

He looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar; he took a deep breath and contemplated if it was worth the effort. “Fine. One story. Then you leave me alone?” 

Anne nodded.

“As you know, Molly was my great-great-grandfather Sean’s firstborn. Named after his mother. He convinced Paddy, they should name the pub after the two of them.” He pointed to an old black and white photo of a dark-haired woman in an antique frame on the wall. “That’s Sean’s daughter in 1890. She was thirty-five.” 

Anne glanced at the photo and nodded. “She was pretty.” 

Liam continued, “The original Molly’s was on Irish Hill, but it closed in 1886 when the Ironworks bought up the Hill bit by bit. They reopened here on Mission. The pub might have survived the big ‘06 earthquake, but not the fire that followed. They rebuilt a year later.” 

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