Between Sisters - Kristin Hannah [76]
Experience had taught her that on a night like this, when her inadequacies felt as sharp as bits of glass embedded in her skin, she would lie in her lonely bed and stare up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. In the morning, she would awaken to a face that was wrinkled and stare into eyes that were tired and sad.
Meghann hit the gas. The car roared to life. She sped down two blocks, found a parking space, and pulled in. When she shut down the engine and got out of the car, she noticed how quiet the night was. The Big Dipper pointed toward the river.
Most of the stores were closed. Only a few kept their signs illuminated. Every twenty feet or so a green wrought-iron streetlamp tossed light downward, creating a lacy, scalloped pattern along the darkened boardwalk.
Meghann settled her shoulder strap in place, clamped her elbow tightly against her purse, and started for the tavern. She didn't falter when she reached the open door, just turned and walked in.
It was like a hundred other taverns she'd been in. Smoke collected along the acoustical tile ceiling, trailing like ghostly sleeves below the inset lighting. The bar ran the length of the room on the right side, a huge mahogany piece that had to be a hundred years old. The mirror behind it was at least six feet long, veined in strands of gold and aged to a tarnished silver. In it, the patrons looked taller and thinner, a fun-house mirror for people too drunk to notice.
She saw the people clustered along the bar, seated on wooden stools. The pitchers outnumbered the people, and there was a lit cigarette in every hand.
Those were the hardcore drinkers, the folks who found their bar stools at 10:00 A.M. and climbed aboard.
Scatted throughout the left side of the room were round tables; most of them were full. In the smoky background, she saw the faded outline of a pool table, heard the clackety-thump of a game in progress. An old Springsteen song played on the jukebox. “Glory Days.”
Perfect. It had probably been chosen by the guy sitting at the bar who wore a red-and-white letterman's jacket. He'd long ago lost all his hair.
She moved into the haze. Her heart beat faster: Smoke and anticipation made her eyes water. She walked to the closest empty space on the bar, where a tired-looking man was busily wiping up a spill. At her arrival, he sighed and looked up. If he was surprised by her—after all, women like her didn't show up alone in seedy taverns every day—he hid it well.
“Whaddaya want?” He threw down the rag and grabbed his cigarette from an ashtray.
She smiled. “Dirty martini.”
“This is a tavern, lady. We don't have an H license.”
“It was a joke. I'll take a glass of white wine. Vouvray, if you have it.”
“We have Inglenook and Gallo.”
“Inglenook.”
He turned and headed down the other way. In a moment, he returned with a glass of wine.
She slapped her Platinum credit card on the bar. “Open a tab.”
The jukebox clicked, then buzzed. An old Aerosmith song came on. She had a sudden flashback to her youth—standing front and center in the Kingdome, screaming out her love for Steven Tyler.
She took her card back from the bartender, slipped it in her bag, and headed toward the nearest table, where three men sat, talking loudly.
Normally, she'd find an empty table, sit down, and wait to see who came on to her, but she felt jittery tonight, nervous. She was tired of being alone.
“Hey, boys,” she said, gliding into an empty space between two of the men.
Their conversation stopped. The sudden silence made her teeth ache. That was when she noticed that they each wore a wedding ring.
She kept her smile in place. It wasn't easy.
“Hi,” one of the men said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” The others followed suit. None of them made eye contact.
“I have to run, guys,” the first one said, pushing back from the table.
“Me, too.”
“Me, too.”
And just like that, they were gone.
Meghann waved at their backs, said brightly, “See you again, soon. Drive safely.” Just in case anyone had