Shane laughed as he pushed open the front door and together they entered the main room of the pub. She was all of her ages when she walked through that front door—from childhood to preteen to adolescence and beyond. Memories pulsed like electricity.

Dark wood was blushed golden by low-slung lanterns casting their glow across the floors and tables. The back wall glistened with the starlight of glass barware and bottles lined on wooden shelves. Posters announcing bands and singers, some events past and some coming soon, shared space on the walls with signed photos of small-town celebrities. Strung across the back of the bar, pennant flags announced the countries from which they’d received visitors through the years. The flags flapped with the breeze when the bartenders were busy behind the lacquered bar.

Colleen looked at her brother. “The bar stools. They’re new.”

Leather bar stools were lined like the bottles on the shelves, ready for the customers that would come later in the day. Behind the bar, the shiny brass taps with their rounded heads were ready to dispense the requested brand of beer.

“Yep. It was one of the many things Dad did before I took over the finances. He found the stools on eBay and bought a load of them. Brand new. Leather with brass nail-heads. He misunderstood the terms of sale—thought the price for one of them was the price for the lot of them.”

“Oh, God. Sounds like something I would do.”

“Yes, but something you would do and remember doing.”

Colleen walked to a stool and ran her hands over the smooth leather. “They sure fancy up the place.”

“No one here likes fancy; they want things to stay the same. They want to feel that when they’re here time doesn’t pass.”

Colleen nodded. “I get that.” She glanced around the room. The pub was empty of patrons—it wasn’t open yet, and only memories lingered in the corners, having their private life. “I need a beer,” she said and walked behind the bar, grabbed a tall mug and expertly poured herself a Guinness, tipping the glass so that the white froth would rise to the top, evenly skimmed. It was a task that took both patience and skill—a true Guinness, her dad had taught her as a child, took exactly 119 seconds to pour from a tap.

“You still got it,” her brother said.

“Whoa, miss, can I help you?” A tall guy in a baseball cap, muscles bulging like a fake costume under a too-tight T-shirt, entered from the back room and approached Colleen.

“Oh, Hank, this is Lena, my sister,” Shane said with a laugh. “Don’t tackle her.” Shane looked at Colleen. “This is Hank, our bouncer, bartender, manager and all-around do-anything-I-need guy.”

Hank gave a bow and salute. “Mighty fine to meet you. You’re a legend around here.” He pointed to the slow draw of the beer against her glass.