Finally, Smitty said, “I gotta make a Costco run. You think you can handle the garage for the next two hours?”
“Not if Reb is any indication. ”
“He isn’t. ” Smitty tossed him the keys. “Close up anytime you want. ” Then he left.
Joe finished out the workday, but he couldn’t forget the incident with Reb. The old man’s words seemed to hang in the garage, poisoning the air.
This town doesn’t need a man like you.
By the time he closed up shop, he felt empty again. Gutted by the truth of Reb’s observations.
Then he remembered Gina. He had family here now; he didn’t have to be alone.
He went into the office and called her. The answering machine picked up. He hung up without leaving a message.
Instead, he locked up for the night. He was just about to turn toward his cabin when he happened to glance down the street.
The neon Redhook sign in Mo’s window caught his attention.
And suddenly he was thirsty. He wanted to sneak into that smoky darkness and drink until the ache in his chest went away.
He pulled the baseball cap low on his forehead and crossed the street. Outside the tavern he paused just long enough to pray that no one he knew was inside, then he pushed through the scarred wooden door.
He glanced around, saw no familiar faces, and finally breathed easily. He made his way to a table in the back, the one tucked farthest from the overhead lights. A few minutes later, a tired-looking waitress appeared. She took his order for a pitcher, then left. In no time, she was back with his beer.
He poured himself a schooner. Unfortunately, the three empty chairs around the table reminded him of other times, of another life, in fact. Back then, he never drank alone.
Meghann hadn’t been to a bridal shower in more than a decade. Her friends and colleagues lived with their boyfriends for years and then—sometimes—quietly got married. She had no idea how to blend in to this small-town crowd, how to adapt to their coloration. The last thing she wanted to do was stand out.
Yesterday, after her four-hour meeting with Roy, Meghann had spent another hour in Too Many Cooks. Although she wasn’t much of a cook, she was familiar with all the gadgets and gizmos. Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, she’d watch cooking shows on TV. So she knew what every kitchen needed. She bought Claire (and Bobby, although she didn’t think of them as a couple, really) a Cuisinart food processor.
She’d been tired by the time she made it back to Claire’s house, and dinner hadn’t helped. As the meal progressed, she’d felt increasingly separate, a woman distinct in her solitude even among her so-called family.
She’d tried to make mealtime conversation, but it had been difficult. Claire and Bobby rarely took their eyes off each other, and Alison talked continually—mostly to her mother and Bobby. On the few rare instances in which Meghann had been able to wedge a word in between the child’s soliloquies, she’d discovered what a yawning silence was.
What? Bobby had asked twice, blinking slowly as he peeled his gaze away from Claire.
Meghann couldn’t remember now what she’d said. All she recalled for sure was that it had been wrong. She knew for a fact that she shouldn’t have mentioned her work. One innocent little remark about a deadbeat dad, and Alison asked loudly, “Will you and Bobby ever get divorced, Mommy?”
Claire had not been amused. “No, honey. Don’t listen to Aunt Meg. She’s the Antichrist when it comes to marriage. ”
“The what?”
Bobby had laughed so hard he spilled his milk. That had made Alison laugh, then Claire. It was remarkable how alienating other people’s laughter could be.
Meghann had been the only one not laughing as they sopped up the milk. She’d excused herself quickly f
rom the table—pleaded a headache—and ran upstairs.
But now, nearly an hour later, she felt better. A quick glance at the bedside clock told her it was 6:40.
Come on, Meg. It’s time—again—to celebrate your sister’s decision to marry a three-time loser. Wait! Give them gifts! She went down the hall and ducked into the bathroom, where she twisted her abundant black hair into a knot and applied enough makeup to hide the lack-of-sleep lines around her eyes. Then she went back into the bedroom and opened her closet. It took her a while to figure out what to wear. Fortunately, she’d packed a lot of choices.
In the end, she decided on a plain black dress. Armani was never wrong. She added sheer black hose and a pair of pumps, then went downstairs.
The house was quiet.
“Claire?”