Eddie shook his head rapidly, grabbing his glass and walking carefully back to the table so as not to spill a drop. As soon as he sat down on his wooden stool, he became the focus of the others’ attentions, strutting like he was a minor celebrity.
Rachel walked over to where Murphy was still sitting, taking his empty bottle. “They’re all talking about you.”
“Did they talk about you like this when you first arrived?” He nodded at the bottle. She took a moment to pull another from the cooler, trying to overcome her discomfort at his question.
“Sometimes, but I think Buddy protected me from the worst of the inquisitions. It helps if the bar owner tells people to back off.”
“Have you known him long?” He leaned his chin on his right hand, his stare as intense as she remembered.
Passing him the unopened bottle, she watched as he opened it with his key ring again. She bit down the questions rising up in her throat, choosing to answer his with a short tone. “Long enough.”
She couldn’t quite place the emotion that danced across his face. It looked a little like frustration, the sort of expression you saw on a kid who couldn’t get the numbers to add up in math class. His brow was furrowed, a deep line imprinted on his forehead. Then he raised an eyebrow and lifted his hands like he was surrendering something. “Hey, I’m only making conversation.”
A
wave of discomfort rolled up her body, making her shiver. She let out a deep breath, reminding herself she wasn’t in Boston anymore, that his questions didn’t mean he knew why she’d left. Maybe her carefully built walls were becoming a little too abrasive. She told herself to let up a little. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to talking about myself.” She offered him a placatory smile.
He returned it, the corners of his lips pulling up. “No worries. We can talk about something else.” Murphy raised his eyes up to the ceiling as if he was searching for a topic. “How about football? Who do you think’s going to win the Super Bowl this year?”
A roll of laughter erupted from her throat. “You’ve picked the wrong subject there. I know nothing about football.”
His brows arched upward, his eyes widening to expose more white. “You don’t have a favorite team?”
“Not really. My dad was more of a hockey man. I was brought up on the rink.”
Murphy nodded. “Bruins?”
“Always the Black and Gold.” She smiled wistfully. She hadn’t thought of her father in a long time before tonight, but the memories of their shared love of hockey were warm ones. A pang of nostalgia ate at her stomach, reminding her of the good times before he died.
His smile grew a little bigger. He leaned forward. “I saw a few games in 2011. They were on fire that year.”
“I didn’t get to see them much then.” She swallowed hard. Back in 2011, she didn’t really get to see a whole lot of anything. She tried to bite down the thought before it was fully formed, not wanting Murphy to see her strange response. Turning her back on him, she began to wipe down the already clean bar, thinking she’d already answered enough of his questions for one evening.
* * *
When Rachel woke on Sunday morning, the storm that had been threatening all week was starting to creep in. It had already issued a warning, dusting the town with a layer of white—a little taste of what was to come. She stood at her small bedroom window looking down at the parking lot below. The first inches of snow lay softly like a cotton-wool blanket, leveling out the asphalt and the grass until it was hard to see where one ended and another began. A glance at the clouds—grey and pregnant with snow—was enough to tell her the storm hadn’t even begun to unleash itself yet.
After shrugging on her clothes, she walked into the tiny kitchen, flicking on the coffee machine. She took a banana from the wooden bowl on the counter, switching the radio on and turning the dial until she found a local station.
Mornings were her best and worst part of the day. She liked the solitary nature of her time up here; the fact she was alone meant she didn’t have to keep her guard up or keep a check of herself in front of other people. It also meant she had time to think, and she didn’t like that much at all. Even less so at the moment, when all her feelings had been stirred up by the arrival of a stranger asking too many questions. Her skin itched at the thought of him, at the memory of his soft voice and hard body. The way he looked at her brought her skin out in bumps—she both liked and hated it. He was hard to read, yet somehow it made her want to know more—she couldn’t tell where his interest in her came from.
Finishing up her coffee, she walked down to the bar, flipping off the alarm and switching on some lights. The stools were still upturned on the tables where she’d cleaned up the night before. The floor was swept and the wood mopped.
Even safely inside the bar, she could sense the oppressive atmosphere of the calm before the storm. When it finally got here, it was going to be a doozy.
There were a few hours to go before opening. She decided to clear the parking lot while there was still a chance. A scraping with the shovel followed by a layer of salt would hopefully be enough to keep it operational. The last storm they’d had lasted two days, and the parking lot had iced over so much it reminded her of TD Garden. She was determined to keep it useable this time.
An hour later, she was regretting her determination. Her hunched back was aching from the repetitive movement of lifting snow with a wooden shovel. Her cheeks stung from the cold, the air so damp and frozen it felt like her breath turned to ice on her tongue. Yet, despite the frigidity of the atmosphere around her, the intense exercise was making her sweat inside her thick jacket, her skin slippery beneath her thermal vest. What was worse, she’d cleared less than half of the lot. Just looking at the rest was enough to make her want to go back inside and curl up on the sofa in her living room, despite the fact there was less than an hour until opening time.
The low thrum of an engine cut through the cold air, catching her attention as it increased in volume. She stopped shoveling and looked out of the lot and down the road, noticing a dark SUV heading her way.
Leaning on the shovel, she followed the car’s progress, watching it slowly navigate the frosty roads. The four-wheel drive gave it enough traction to turn corners without too much of a problem. Driving into the lot, the car pulled into a spot near Rachel, darkened windows obscuring the driver within.
Somehow she wasn’t surprised when the door pulled open and Murphy climbed out. A tiny thrill shot through her body, like somebody had hit a raw nerve. It reminded her of doctors’ offices and reflex tests, of small hammers tapping tiny knees.
“Hey.” His smile was easy as he walked toward her. He’d come in to the bar every night that week. She was getting used to his face. Liking it, even.
“I’ve been trying to make a phone call.” He waggled the cell he was holding in his right hand. “I’ve driven for ten miles trying to get some reception.” From the expression on his face, the lack of signal had been the cause of some frustration.