From a 1931 photo album
Elizabeth Stewart tugged open the door to O’Reilly’s Irish Pub, the most popular bar in St. John’s, Newfoundland, according to her assistant, Zack. At noon on a Friday, however, only one of the many wooden barstools was occupied – by an orange tabby, but the beery, stale-smoke air reeked with anticipation of shouts, jigs, and reels.
Glancing around, she took in the décor: early hockey memorabilia. Sweaters and jerseys from local teams as well as the original six NHL teams adorned the walls and rafters along with broken sticks, autographed sticks, and one vintage fiberglass goalie mask that looked covered in dried blood.
An orange head the same color as the cat rose from behind the big oak bar. Ellie strode across the dance-worn floor toward the man, hand extended. “Hi, I’m Ellie.”
Hair spilled away from his face as he looked up at her. “Chris.” He put down a Grey Goose vodka bottle to shake her hand. “What can I get for you?”
“I need a favor, actually.” She smoothed out a crisp Canadian one hundred dollar bill on the varnished surface. “Virgin drinks all night. No matter what the order.”
His bottom lip and startling red eyebrows curled upward. “On the wagon so young?”
Ellie had pitched this scenario to dozens of bartenders over the course of her journalism career. Most of them assumed she was an alcoholic and quickly took the generous tip before she could sober up. Some asked her why she didn’t just order soft drinks. She decided to answer Chris with a bit of humor.
“Alcohol is bad for my legs.”
He stroked the strawberry stubble on his chin in mock puzzlement. “And what does it do to your legs?”
“It makes them open.”
Chris guffawed in pleased surprise, stuffed the bill in the pocket of his plaid flannel shirt, and winked. “Alright, lassie. Your legs are safe with me.”
The door to the bar opened. A tall, broad shouldered man stood in the doorway. The glaring midday sun backlit the dark hair that flowed around his face. He looked like a fire in a coalmine and twice as dangerous.