Free The Cornerstone by Anne C. Petty Page B

bar not too far away.”
    Addie squeezed Claire’s arm. “I’m definitely in.”
    Morris looked skeptical. “You’re not serious.”
    Tom cracked a smile. “Nah. It’s just a neighborhood pub with really good stout.” Claire wanted to giggle—it was clear two could play at this dead-pan humor thing. Funny how fascinated she’d become over the dynamic between Tom and Morris, on and now off stage.
    “Okay, I’ll tag along.” Once again, her mother would need to wait while she spent some time just for herself. She felt guilty as all hell, but had no willpower to turn her new friends down and go home.
     
    *   *   *   *
     
    The pub, Doyle’s Tavern, was exactly as Tom had described it—hidden away on a side street with roomy padded booths, dark-paneled walls, dim shaded lamps, and a heavy-duty wooden bar with beer on tap and a brass foot-rail that ran its entire length. The tables between the booth seats appeared to be made of lacquered, and much scarred, solid pine planks.
    On the tableside menu, the food list offered fare such as seafood chowder, haddock smokies, lamb stew, and a cheese board with Irish and French cheeses served with bread sticks or cracked-wheat crackers. The special of the day was smoked ham, Stilton cheese, tomato, and onion piled on toasted pumpernickel bread. The beer side of the menu was arranged into stouts, ales, and lagers with names like Guinness, Murphy’s, Beamish, Harp, and Smithwicke’s. Claire felt as if she’d stepped through a time-tunnel leading straight into downtown Dublin.
    Though a Saturday night, the pub was nearly empty, with just two older guys on stools at the bar and a couple of college students studying in a booth near the door. Tom steered his group to a big round booth at the back of the room.
    “Wow, I had no idea this place was here.” Addie was checking out the bartender topping up the mugs of the stool geezers. “How’d you find it?”
    “Instinct, I think. I have a taste for imported stouts and porters.” Tom lowered himself carefully into the booth and Claire followed. Addie slid in from the other side, followed by Morris.
    The middle-aged pony-tailed bartender showed up and nodded at Tom as if to an old acquaintance. He then offered to explain the wide range of imported beverages to the rest of them. After much discussion, Addie chose something called Killian’s Irish Red, which the bartender assured her was light and refreshing. Morris went for a Guinness pub draught from the bar, and Claire ended up choosing a bottle of Samuel Adams because it was the only name on the menu she recognized. Tom was asked if he wanted his usual, which turned out to be O'Hara's Irish Stout, a wicked pitch-black brew with a roasty, winelike aroma.
    “Do you come here much?” Claire asked.
    “Only enough for George to remember what I like.” Tom leaned back against the padded backrest. Claire could almost see his trapezius muscles slowly unclinching.
    “How’s your motorcycle?”
    Tom made a face. “Bent handle bar, kickstand broken off, bent back fender, blownout back tire. Fix all that and it’s back on the road.”
    “You were really lucky,” Addie said, licking her tongue around the lip of her beer bottle.
    “So are we. Recasting that part twice would be royal pain in the ass.” Morris didn’t sound like he was trying to be amusing, but with him you never knew.
    Addie jumped in. “That part was made for Tom. You wouldn’t be able to recast it.” She gave him a radiant smile, as if that ended the discussion.
    Claire sipped at her beer and then remembered. “Morris, what’s the difference between Lechery and Lust?”
    His eyebrow went up. “Well, that’s splitting hairs, isn’t it? And why, Claire, would you want to know? Big plans coming up?” Addie laughed out loud.
    Claire flushed. “No. I mean, in the play. Why does Marlowe use the name Lechery instead of Lust?”
    Morris sighed. “You’re just no fun, are you? If you must know,