A Bend in the Road (10 page)

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 closer. 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—”

“I know,” she said,
waving a hand at him.

He looked up in
surprise. “You’ve played before?”

“I think everyone’s
played at least once.”

Miles handed her
the pool cue. “Then I guess we’re ready. Do you want to break?

Or should I?”

“No—go ahead.”

Sarah watched as
Miles went around to the head of the table, chalking his pool cue as he did so.
Then, leaning over, he set his hand, drew back the cue stick, and hit the ball
cleanly. A loud crack sounded, the balls scattered around the table, and the
four ball rolled toward the corner pocket, dropping neatly from view. He looked
up.

“That makes me
solid.”

“I never doubted
it for a minute,” she said.

Miles surveyed
the table, deciding on his next shot, and once again, Sarah was struck by how
different he was from Michael. Michael didn’t play pool, and he certainly would
never have brought Sarah to a place like this. He wouldn’t have been
comfortable here, and he wouldn’t have fit in—any more than Miles would have
fit neatly into the world that Sarah used to occupy.  Yet as he stood before her without his jacket, his shirtsleeves
rolled up, Sarah couldn’t help but acknowledge her attraction. In contrast with
a lot of people who drank too much beer with their evening pizza, Miles looked
almost lean. He didn’t have classic movie-star good looks, but his waist was
narrow, his stomach flat, and his shoulders reassuringly broad. But it was more
than that. There was something in his eyes, in the expressions he wore, that
spoke of the challenges he’d faced over the last two years, something she
recognized when looking in the mirror.

The jukebox
fell silent for a moment, then picked up again with “Born in the USA” by Bruce
Springsteen. The air was thick with cigarette smoke despite the ceiling fans
that whirred above them. Sarah heard the dull roar of others laughing and
joking all around them, yet as she watched Miles, it seemed almost as if they
were alone. Miles sank another shot.

With a
practiced eye, he looked over the table as the balls settled. He moved around
to the other side and took another shot, but this time he missed the mark.
Seeing that it was her turn, Sarah set her beer off to the side and picked up
her cue. Miles reached for the chalk, offering it to Sarah.  “You’ve got a good shot at the line,” he
said, nodding toward the corner of the table. “It’s right there on the edge of
the pocket.”

“I see that,”
she said, chalking the tip and then setting it aside. Looking over the table,
she didn’t set up for her shot right away. As if sensing her hesitation, Miles
leaned his cue against one of the stools. 
“Do you need me to show you how to position your hand on the table?” he
offered gamely.

“Sure.”

“Okay, then,”
he said. “Make a circle with your forefinger, like this, with your other three
fingers on the table.” He demonstrated with his hand on the table.  “Like this?” she said, mimicking him.

“Almost . . .”
He moved closer, and as soon as he reached toward her hand, gently leaning against
her as he did so, she felt something jump inside, a light shock that started in
her belly and radiated outward. His hands were warm as he adjusted her fingers.
Despite the smoke and the stale air, she could smell his aftershave, a clean,
masculine odor.

“No—hold your
finger a little tighter. You don’t want too much room or you lose control of
your shot,” he said.

“How’s that?”
she said, thinking how much she liked the feel of him close to her.

“Better,” he
said seriously, oblivious to what she was going through. He gave her a little
room. “Now when you draw back, go slowly and try to keep the cue straight and
steady as you hit the ball. And remember, you don’t have to hit it that hard.
The ball is right on the edge and you don’t want to scratch.” Sarah did as she
was told. The shot was straight, and as Miles predicted, the nine fell in. The
cue ball rolled to a stop toward the center of the table.  “That’s great,” he said, motioning toward
it. “You’ve got a good shot with the fourteen now.”

“Really?” she
said.

“Yeah, right
there. Just line it up and do the same thing again. . . .” She did, taking her
time. After the fourteen fell into the pocket, the cue ball seemed to set
itself up perfectly for the next shot as well. Miles’s eyes widened in
surprise. Sarah looked up at him, knowing she wanted him close again.  “That one didn’t feel as smooth as the first
one,” she said. “Would you mind showing me one more time?”

“No, not at
all,” he said quickly. Again he leaned against her and adjusted her hand on the
table; again she smelled the aftershave. Again the moment seemed charged, but
this time Miles seemed to sense it as well, lingering unnecessarily as he stood
against her. There was something heady and daring about the way they were
touching, something . . .wonderful. Miles drew a deep breath.  “Okay, now try it,” he said, pulling back
from her as if needing a bit of space.

With a steady
stroke, the eleven went in.

“I think you’ve
got it now,” Miles said, reaching for his beer. Sarah moved around the table
for the next shot.

As she did, he
watched her. He took it all in—the graceful way she walked, the gentle curves
of her body as she set up again, skin so smooth it seemed almost unreal. When
Sarah ran a hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear, he took a drink,
wondering why on earth her ex-husband had let her get away. He was probably
blind or an idiot, maybe both. A moment later, the twelve dropped into the
pocket. Nice rhythm there, he thought, trying to focus on the game again.  For the next couple of minutes, Sarah made
it look easy. She sank the ten, the ball hugging the side all the way to the
pocket.