A Bend in the Road

"Unlike what you had, my parents were Ward and June Cleaver. We lived in a suburb just outside Baltimore in the most typical of houses--four bedrooms, two bathrooms, complete with a porch, flower garden, and a white picket fence. I rode the bus to school with my neighbors, played in the front yard all weekend long, and had the biggest collection of Barbies on the whole block. Dad worked from nine to five and wore a suit every day: Mom stayed home, and I don't think I ever saw her without an apron. And our house always smelled like a bakery. Mom made cookies for me and my brother every day, and we'd eat them in the kitchen and recite what we learned that day."

"Sounds nice."

"It was. My mom was great when we were little kids. She was the kind of mom that the other kids ran to if they hurt themselves or got in a jam of some sort. It wasn't until my brother and I got older that she started to get neurotic on me."

Miles raised both eyebrows. "Now, was it that she changed, or was she always neurotic and you were too young to notice?"

"That sounds like something Sylvia would say."

"Sylvia?"

"A friend of mine," she said evasively, "a good friend." If Miles sensed her hesitation, he gave no notice.

Their drinks arrived and the waiter took their order. As soon as he was gone, Miles leaned forward, bringing his face closer to hers.

"What's your brother like?"

"Brian? He's a nice kid. I swear, he's more grown-up than most people I work with. But he's shy and not real good at meeting people. He tends to be a little introspective, but when we're together, we just click and always have. That's one of the main reasons I came back here. I wanted to spend some time with him before he headed off to college. He just started at UNC."

Miles nodded. "So, he's a lot younger than you," he said, and Sarah looked up at him.

"Not a lot younger."

"Well... enough. You're what, forty? Forty-five?" he said, repeating what she'd said to him the first time they'd met.

She laughed. "A girl's got to stay on her toes around you."

"I'll bet you say that to all the guys you date."

"Actually, I'm out of practice," she said. "I haven't dated much since my divorce."

Miles lowered his drink. "You're kidding, right?"

"No."

"A girl like you? I'm sure you've been asked out a lot."

"That doesn't mean I say yes."

"Playing hard to get?" Miles teased.

"No," she said. "I just didn't want to hurt anyone."

"So you're a heartbreaker, huh?"

She didn't answer right away, her eyes staring down at the table.

"No, not a heartbreaker," she said quietly. "Brokenhearted."

Her words surprised him. Miles searched for a lighthearted response, but after seeing her expression, he decided to say nothing at all. For a few moments, Sarah seemed to be lost in a world all her own. Finally she turned toward Miles with an almost embarrassed smile.

"Sorry about that. Kind of ruined the mood, huh?"

"Not at all," Miles answered quickly. He reached over and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Besides, you should realize that my moods don't get ruined all that easily," he continued. "Now, if you'd thrown your drink in my face and called me a scoundrel..."

Despite her obvious tension, Sarah laughed.

"You'd have a problem with that?" she asked, feeling herself relax.

"Probably," he said with a wink. "But even then--considering it's a first date and all--I might let that pass, too."

It was half-past ten when they finished dinner, and as they stepped outside, Sarah was certain that she didn't want the date to end just yet. Dinner had been wonderful, their conversation liberally greased by a bottle of excellent red wine. She wanted to spend more time with Miles, but she wasn't quite ready to invite him up to her apartment. Behind them, just a few feet away, a car engine was clicking as it cooled, the sounds muffled and sporadic.

"Would you like to head over to the Tavern?" Miles suggested. "It's not that far."

Sarah agreed with a nod, pulling her jacket tighter as they started down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, walking close together. The sidewalks were deserted, and as they passed art galleries and antique stores, a realty office, a pastry shop, a bookstore, nothing appeared to be open at all.

"Just where is this place, exactly?"

"This way," he said, motioning with his arm. "It's just up and around the corner."

"I've never heard of it."

"I'm not surprised," he said. "This is a local hangout, and the owner's attitude is that if you don't know about the place, then you probably don't belong there anyway."

"So how do they stay in business?"

"They manage," he said cryptically.

A minute later, they rounded the corner. Though a number of cars were parked along the street, there were no signs of life. It was almost eerie. Halfway down the block, Miles stopped at the mouth of a small alley carved between two buildings, one of which looked all but abandoned. Toward the rear, about forty feet back, a single light bulb dangled crookedly.

"This is it," he said. Sarah hesitated and Miles took her hand, leading her down the alley, finally stopping under the light. Above the buckled doorway, the name of the establishment was written in Magic Marker. She could hear music coming from within.

"Impressive," she said.

"Nothing but the best for you."

"Do I detect a note of sarcasm?"

Miles laughed as he pushed open the door, leading Sarah inside.

Built into what appeared to have been the abandoned building, the Tavern was dingy and faintly redolent of mildewed wood, but surprisingly large. Four pool tables stood in the rear beneath glowing lamps that advertised different beers; a long bar ran along the far wall. An old-fashioned jukebox flanked the doorway, and a dozen tables were spread haphazardly throughout. The floor was concrete and the wooden chairs were mismatched, but that didn't seem to matter.

It was packed.

People thronged the bar and tables; crowds formed and dispersed around the pool tables. Two women, wearing a little too much makeup, leaned against the jukebox, their tightly clad bodies swaying in rhythm as they read through the titles, figuring out what they wanted to play next.

Miles looked at her, amused. "Surprising, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't have believed it unless I'd seen it. It's so crowded."

"It is every weekend." He scanned the room quickly, looking for someplace to sit.

"There're some seats in the back...," she offered.

"Those are for the people who're playing pool."

"Well, do you want to play a game?"

"Pool?"

"Why not? There's a table open. Besides, it's probably not as loud back there."

"You're on. Let me go set it up with the bartender. Do you want a drink?"

"Coors Light, if they've got it."

"I'm sure they do. I'll meet you at the table, okay?"

With that, Miles headed toward the bar, threading his way through the crush of people. Wedging himself between a couple of stools, he raised his hand to get the bartender's attention. Based on the number of people waiting, it looked like it might take a while.

It was warm, and Sarah took off her jacket. As she folded it under her arm, she heard the door open behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she moved aside to make room for two men. The first, with tattoos and long hair, looked downright dangerous; the second, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, couldn't have been more different, and she wondered what they could possibly have in common.

Until she looked a little close

r. It was then that she decided the second one scared her more. Something in his expression, in the way he held himself, seemed infinitely more menacing.

She was thankful when the first one walked by without seeming to notice her. The other, though, paused as soon as he drew close, and she could feel his eyes on her.

"I haven't seen you around here before. What's your name?" he said suddenly. She could feel the cool appraisal in his gaze.

"Sylvia," she lied.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"No, thank you," she answered with a shake of her head.

"You want to come and sit with me and my brother, then?"

"I'm with someone," she said.

"I don't see anyone."

"He's at the bar."

"C'mon, Otis!" the tattooed man shouted. Otis ignored him, his eyes locked on Sarah. "You sure you don't want that drink, Sylvia?"

"Positive," she said.

"Why not?" he asked. For some reason, even though the words came out calmly, even politely, she could feel their undercurrent of anger.

"I told you--I'm with someone," she said stepping back.

"C'mon, Otis! I need a drink!"

Otis Timson glanced toward the sound, then faced Sarah again and smiled, as if they were at a cocktail party instead of a dive. "I'll be around if you change your mind, Sylvia," he said smoothly.

As soon as he was gone, Sarah exhaled sharply and plunged into the crowd, making her way toward the pool tables, getting as far away from him as possible. When she got there, she set her coat on one of the unoccupied stools and Miles arrived with the beers a moment later. One look was enough to let him know that something had happened.

"What's wrong?" he asked, handing her the bottle of Coors.

"Just some jerk trying to pick me up. He kind of gave me the creeps. I'd forgotten what it's like in places like this."

Miles's expression darkened slightly. "Did he do anything?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

He seemed to study her answer. "You sure?"

Sarah hesitated. "Yeah, I'm sure," she finally said. Then, touched by his concern, she tapped her bottle against his with a wink, putting the incident out of her mind. "Now, do you want to rack or should I?"

After taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, Miles retrieved two pool cues from a mount on the wall.

"Now the rules are fairly simple," Miles began. "Balls one through seven are solid, balls nine through fifteen are stripes--"