We all sat and Mrs. Moore made a thing out making sure I was served. “It’s just stew—”
“It’s not just stew,” Mr. Moore said annoyed. “It’s the best Irish stew in New York. The Roarke can’t even beat it.”
Mrs. Moore looked horrified. “Now honey, you know the Roarke has very good food.”
“I love Irish stew,” I said. “The Roarke doesn’t serve it anymore.” It was a change my mother influenced years ago when she decided stew was too low class for the clientele that the Roarke served. In fact, much of what the Roarke served could be best called Irish-ish, because it wasn’t truly authentic anymore.
“See, Alyse, the boy likes stew.”
I took the bread Serena offered me. “Can I dunk?” I whispered to her. My mother would be horrified that I’d dunk my bread into my stew, and I wasn’t sure if that was a snooty rule or not.
“Yes, absolutely,” Mr. Moore said.
I grinned, poking my bread into my bowl and then taking a bite. Delicious flavor of lamb and herbs coated my mouth. I groaned as it teased my taste buds.
“This is fantastic,” I said.
“I use mutton. Most people use lamb now,” Mrs. Moore said, smiling with pride.
“And Guinness,” Serena added.
“It’s wonderful. Really. I usually only have good Irish stew when I get to Ireland. Now I’ll just come here.”
“Come anytime you like, honey,” Mrs. Moore patted my hand.
“Suck up,” Serena whispered next to me.
I gave her a smug smile. Parents usually liked me. I suspected it was the money and family connections, but I could be charming too.
“So, you met through your parents’ anniversary party?” Mr. Moore asked. While Mrs. Moore seemed to like me, I’d yet to earn the respect of her father.
“Yes—” Serena started.
“Actually, I met Serena about five years ago.”
She flinched, giving me the impression, I wasn’t supposed to say anything about our past hook-up.
“Oh?” Her mother said intrigued. “How was that?”
“The St. Patrick's pub crawl.”
Serena closed her eyes, as if she was embarrassed.
“I was smitten and asked her to run away with me.” I grinned at her, enjoying making her squirm a bit.
“Devin is embellishing.” Serena glared at me.
“No, I’m not.” I looked at her parents. “I’m the one you had to talk her out of moving to Europe with.”
Her mother’s eyes widened.
Her father frowned. “When was—”
“Mom, you know if Devin loves this recipe so much, perhaps we can give it to him. He and his sister are looking at opening a club.” She turned to me, her eyes imploring me to shut the fuck up. “Will you be serving food there?”
I was slow on the uptake, but finally said, “We’re still working on the details. I’m all for a traditional pub, but my sister feels they’re a dime a dozen here in New York.”
I studied Serena wondering what I said that was such a big deal. She’d told me they’d been the ones to talk her into staying. Surely, they’d known.
“It seems to me that a Roarke pub would compete well though,” she said.
“What’s a pub?” Andrew said, putting his milk down, after sipping it and getting a milk mustache.
“It’s a type of restaurant and bar. Wipe your mouth, baby,” Serena said.
Mrs. Moore reached over to help Andrew, who turned away. “I can do it.”
“So, what made you return to New York?” Mr. Moore asked me.
“My father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s—”
“We knew that, Graham. It was all over the papers.” Mrs. Moore glared at him. Then she turned to me. “Such a devastating disease. How is he doing?”
“He’s a fighter.”
“So, you’re running things now?” Mr. Moore dunked his bread into the remaining stew juice in his bowl.
“Yes, sir. Mostly. It’s difficult for my father to relinquish control especially since he doesn’t always like my choices.”
Mr. Moore’s eyes narrowed. “Why would that be?”
“Dad, Devin is our guest,” Serena tried to intervene.
“If he’s spending time with my daughter and grandson, I have a right—”
“No. You don’t.”
“Serena,” her mother admonished. “He’s just trying to look out for you, and Graham, butt out.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I have ideas that my father sees as too new. I want to bring the Roarke and our other establishments into the twenty-first century. He doesn’t agree.”
“Mommy, is my daddy Irish?”
Everyone at the table went silent. Serena stiffened, looking at her parents and then me, before turning her attention to Andrew.
“Let’s talk about that later, okay baby? Have four more bites of stew and then you can have dessert.”
“Devin is Irish like you and Grandpa and Grandma. I want to be Irish too.”
“You are honey, you are.”
I was surprised at Serena’s apparent distress.
“In the end, we’re all Americans,” I said hoping to diffuse the situation.
Andrew seemed to think on it. “Are you an American, Mommy?”
“Yes. We all are.”
He gave a short nod and then scooped up a piece of meat from his stew.
The rest of the dinner went about the same. Mr. Moore grilling me, Mrs. Moore chastising him for it, Serena rolling her eyes, and Andrew asking random questions. It was odd and at the same wonderful. They seemed to have annoyances with each other like I had with my family, and yet there was a warmth between them, that of course didn’t extend to me, but clearly they were a close family.
I wanted to spend the rest of the evening with them, but concerned I was overstaying my welcome, I got up to take my leave once dessert was finished.
“When can we go on the airplane?” Andrew asked, as I pushed my chair into the table.
“Let me talk to your mom about that, okay?”
“Don’t forget.” Andrew waved his spoon.
“I won’t. Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Moore. It was wonderful. Nice to meet you, Mr. Moore.” I reached over and shook his hand.
“It was our pleasure,” Mrs. Moore said. Yep, her expression suggested she’d already accepted me as a son-in-law.
“I’ll walk you out,” Serena said, pushing her chair in too. The door wasn’t that far from where we were eating, but I guess it was
