Hallie averted her eyes, let her chin drop to her chest. “I know. I know. You hate me and I deserve it.” And with that, she was gone, slipping to the back room.

Colleen stood alone for a minute, or maybe it was ten, she wasn’t sure, slowly breathing in and out. The faces in the pub blurred; the sounds of glasses clinking and somewhere a cell phone ringing seemed faint and far away. Finally, the man she’d spoken to at the bar, the one she’d forgotten was sitting only a few bar stools down, spoke. “Family feud?”

“What?” Colleen remembered him then. “No. Not a family feud. Just a sister feud. Big difference.”

“In the photos I’ve seen, you look thick as thieves.”

“‘Thief’ being the key word.”

“Huh?” The man crinkled his eyes in confusion; he shifted on the bar stool so his legs lengthened and she could see how tall he would be when he stood.

“Is eavesdropping part of your historical job?”

“Sorry. Promise I wasn’t listening in—it was kind of hard not to hear. Guess I’m not that good at jokes.” He grinned. “I never was.”

Colleen turned away as the fiddle player tested the microphone and set up, beginning a tune. Colleen’s chest thrummed with the memory of the song, of singing it with her parents. It was a comedic ballad that always had the crowd singing along with hand movements and rowdy cheers.

Colleen closed her eyes to absorb the tune. She knew the words—the song about the unicorns with the roaring chorus and the hand motions. It was a song the Donohues had jumped around to or sung at the top of their lungs with their hearts in their voices in between doing homework on the back tables of the pub before it opened.

“Don’t you forget my unicorn,” sang the eavesdropping man next to her in an off-key voice.

Colleen’s surprise made her laugh out loud. “You know this song?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Most of the world.” Colleen realized she didn’t know his name, this man who knew the unicorn song and the history of the pub and her name. “And it’s not fair that you know my name and I don’t know yours.”

“Oh, I’m so rude.” He bowed his head and tipped an imaginary hat. “I’m Beckett Cooney. Would you like to see some of the old photos of this place?”

“What?”

“Old pictures of the Lark. Old ones of the past owners and your family and . . .”

“Is that a pickup line?” she asked. “Because it’s terrible.”

“Isn’t it working?” He grinned at her. “But no, I just wondered if you wanted to see some of the past. Sometimes we know about it, but it’s different altogether to see it.”