Chat - Archer Mayor [32]
“Just dump those on the bar,” she told him, doing the same. “Would you like a Coke? I’m about to have one. Long day. Take your coat off.”
He pulled over a stool and settled down as she circled the bar to get to a small fridge tucked under the counter near the cash register. “Lucky you have a thing for Coke. I had a deal with the Pepsi distributor until we got into a fight, so I dropped them for the out-of-town Coca-Cola dealer. Not that I’ve gotten the equipment and supplies yet, so we’ll see. Anyhow, I keep a few basics on hand, just in case. Be crazy not to have anything except water, even if the place isn’t officially open.”
She quickly crouched and extracted two cans of soda from the fridge in one clean movement, reminding him of how habituated she was to this environment. Looking around again at the boxes and the gentle disarray, he thought this might be like visiting a magician backstage, before the curtain rose and the lights blocked out all but the main attraction. He recalled sitting at the end of the bar in Massachusetts, admiring how she simultaneously worked the clientele while balancing the multiple tasks of her profession—taking orders, pouring drinks, making change, washing glasses, refilling nut dishes, keeping the bar top clean and free of clutter—all without missing a beat. And by Vermont law, all bars had to serve enough food to supply at least 20 percent of overall sales, so he knew she had the basics of a kitchenette somewhere, as well.
She popped the tabs on both cans simultaneously and poured the contents into two ice-filled glasses she’d conjured up, seemingly out of thin air.
“Lime?” she asked.
He laughed at the automatic request dovetailing so perfectly with his line of thought. “No, I’m fine. Thanks. How long till you open?”
She took a long pull on her own drink and looked around, as if at a museum exhibition under construction. “Couple of weeks, tops. It’s been an amazing haul—just filling out paperwork for over a month, for one thing. Inspections, license applications, tax forms, contracts—none of which had anything to do with the actual work of painting, sanding, buying furniture and fixtures, rigging the sound system, you name it. And there’s still a ton of piddly stuff left. But most of the heavy lifting is done. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.”
“It must be like reaching a life goal,” he suggested. “Being able to work for yourself.”
By now she was leaning with the small of her back against the counter behind her. “I wouldn’t go that far. It is just a bar. But it’s nice to be out of Gloucester. I was way too long in that place.”
He smiled and suggested, “Things look good after a few years, but maybe for all the wrong reasons?”
She nodded. “Yeah, exactly. A bunch of habits you start thinking are a life.” She gave him a thoughtful look. “I have you to thank for waking me up, at least partly.”
He was genuinely surprised. “Me?”
“That night we met at the end of the pier, after my shift. You were looking for the guy that killed poor old Norm, so you bought me a lobster roll and a milkshake to butter me up—you probably don’t even remember that.”
“Sure I do,” he said, his own memory being much sharper than she could know.
“Well, call it the right gesture at the right time. I don’t know,” she mused. “But that hit me right where it counted. Made me think how I was about to make a really big mistake and probably take a huge step backward.”
He looked at her inquiringly.
She frowned and stared at the floor for a moment. “I’m not making much sense. You remember seeing a kind of slimy guy at the bar earlier that night—long