The First Husband

And that night it was all I had.

I sat down on my bed to put on my red, strappy peep-toes and to figure out where I could go that I’d be dressed somewhat appropriately. My usual bar, down on Abbot Kinney, didn’t feel like a candidate. The fanciest person in there would be wearing a clean T-shirt.

So I decided I would drive down Ocean Avenue into Santa Monica, head to one of my favorite local escapes: a small, fancy hotel on the beach where I could sit at one of the tables on the patio, one of the five tables that gives you a view of the nicest sunset you’ve ever seen. A view that could send you a hundred miles away from anything resembling real life.

This was the plan: a removal from real life. For the evening, at least. Until I fell asleep before putting the plan into action. Right there, on the bottom half of the bed, in my magic dress.

I don’t remember lying down. But, when I woke up, I had one peep-toe sandal half on, my magic dress was wrinkled, and it was 12:21 A.M., which may as well have been 4:00 A.M., Los Angeles time. Most everything was shut down for the night, or well on its way to getting there. Including my beach-fancy hotel restaurant and bar. I got up anyway, grabbed my other sandal, and—before I could talk myself out of it—picked up my car keys and headed out the front door. Maybe part of it was that I wanted to be able to tell Jordan I did something constructive, or maybe it had less to do with Jordan than I understood even then, some force I couldn’t explain already at work.

All I know is that when I walked into the restaurant and saw those twelve-foot windows leading out to the beach and the ocean and the rest of everything, it didn’t matter that the lights were down, and that the place was empty, the patio furniture long put away, the music—Bruce Springsteen’s “The Fever,” I believed—on low. Or that the sole living person still inside was a guy with curly hair: standing behind the bar, wiping it down.

The problem was that the guy with the curly hair behind the bar wasn’t the normal bartender—the one who I’d become friendly with over the years, friendly enough that Nick and I had helped him read through lines one night for a sitcom audition he had the next day—and who I guessed was my best shot of getting a drink so late.

I walked over to him. “You’re not Ray,” I said.

I must have sounded seriously disappointed because this guy laughed.

“No,” he said. “I guess I’m not.”

He gave me a smile, big and round, and I felt grateful that the first words out of his mouth weren’t the obvious ones: We’re closed. Then I noticed his face. He had a nice face—a strong jaw, wide-open eyes, a blond scruff of beard matching his sillylooking curls. A significant dimple, making its way confidently through that scruff. He was also wearing a green jacket that matched his eyes a little too perfectly.

“Does that mean I’m too late for last call?” I asked.

“Officially or unofficially?” he asked, taking a final swipe at the countertop.

“Whichever answer gives me the best shot of getting a bourbon straight up,” I said. “Pinch of salt.”

This was when he smiled again. It was a knock-you-out smile—this close to being too smooth for its own good. But it redeemed itself because it also seemed another way: nervous, genuine. Accidentally smooth. Which, all of a sudden, felt even more dangerous.

He slung the dish towel over his shoulder. “That’s my drink of choice too,” he said.

I shook my head. “That’s no one’s drink of choice too,” I said.

But then he pulled out a small Riedel glass from behind the bar, a little bourbon still left in it, the salt line visible. “I had an uncle who used to drink it that way when I was growing up. I guess I just got used to it,” he said. “You can have a try, if you like.”

Instead I stood up on my tiptoes, and leaned over the bar to have a better look.

“Come on, do you have a hundred different drinks lined up back there, waiting to be pulled out? That’s a hell of a way to get tips.”

“Would you like to have a seat?” He motioned toward the empty bar stool directly in front of him, gestured for me to take it.

“Really?” I said, as if it were up for debate. As if I weren’t already taking it eagerly—my dress hiking up too high on my legs, as I positioned myself as close to the bar as possible, trying to get comfortable.

I guess I was moving a little awkwardly because he was looking at me more than slightly confused. “You all right, there?”

“I’m good,” I said. I held out my hand, still just trying to seem friendly, get that drink. “I’m Annabelle . . . though pretty much everyone calls me Annie. Adams.”

He reached out to take my hand, but before he could, I heard footsteps and we both turned to see a familiar face. It was Ray, the usual bartender, in his street clothes, walking toward us. He had a leather jacket slung over his shoulder.

“Griffin, I’m outta here, my man . . .” Ray said. Then he interrupted himself, noticing me. “Hey, I know you. It’s Samantha, right? Samantha in the pretty dress?”

I smiled. “Close,” I said.

“Ray, this is Annie Adams,” the guy behind the bar said. Griffin, apparently.

Ray looked back and forth between us. “Well, Annie Adams, in the pretty dress, I actually closed out for the night already. Sorry about that. Show starts again at four P.M. tomorrow. . . .”

I started to stand, but, before I could, Griffin put his hand on top of mine, gently, stopping me exactly where I was.