Lilac Avenue (41 page)

Scott went over and asked Delia, who said Sean had called to say Claire was with him, and they’d be along later. He relayed that information to Sam.

“What’s that about?” Sam asked.

Scott shrugged.

“I’m worried about her,” Sam said.

“If Sean’s with her, she’ll be all right,” Scott said.

“I don’t mean right now,” Sam said. “I mean in general.”

“She just needs to settle in,” Scott said.

“She called her most recent ex the other night,” Sam said. “Did Maggie say anything about that?”

“No,” Scott said. “Claire’s a grown up; I’m sure she can take care of herself.”

Scott looked over at Hannah, who had hoisted herself onto the bar, where she then performed her own unique version of a River Dance.

“She’s going to fall,” Scott said.

“
Claire and Ed seemed pretty cozy,” Sam said.

“I know, I was there,” Scott said. “You need to get her down, Sam. She’s going to get hurt.”

“It would be better for Claire to be with him than that Scottish dude,” Sam said.

“You might want to get your wife
off the bar.”

Sam finally looked at Hannah, who was now dancing down the length of the bar, knocking over beer glasses as she went. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, but then went over and coaxed her down. Maggie came over, hugged Scott, and hid her face in his neck.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I’m too happy,” she said. “Something awful’s bound to happen.”

“Something awful’s always happening somewhere,” Scott said. “You may as well enjoy yourself.”

“You’re a wise man,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

By the time Claire and Sean returned to town, Rose Hill was dark and quiet, except for the Rose and Thorn. The moon that had so brightly shone down on the state park was now behind an immense dark cloud. The state park workers, who had given Sean and Claire a chilly, bumpy ride in the bed of a pickup truck, dropped them off at the curb in front of the bar.

Claire looked at her phone; it was 1:35 a.m. and the bar closed at 2:00. Inside, a few red-eyed, slurring locals were still seated at the far end of the bar, and a man Claire didn’t know was seated at the near end of the bar, where her father always used to sit. He sat sideways, with his back to the wall, situated so he could see the entrance as well as the rest of the room. Her father used to sit like that, too. He nodded to both Sean and Claire. Sean followed her down the aisle to the back of the room.

“Where’ve you two been? You look like hell,” Patrick said. “The party ended an hour ago. Bunch of old geezers; they get married, start having kids, and suddenly the parties have to end at midnight.”

“I want a hundred shots of Jameson’s,” Sean said. “To go.”

Patrick took a bottle from the top shelf behind the bar and handed it to Sean.

“I’m going home to sleep for a month,” Sean said to Claire. “If you ever again need an attorney, I suggest you call someone more qualified; p
referably someone with a bulletproof vest.”

“Thank you,” Claire said
, and kissed his cheek. “I’m not planning on needing one ever again.”

Sean left.

“Bad night?” Patrick asked her.

Claire looked down at her dirt-streaked shirt, the ripped knees of her jeans, and her mud-covered ballet flats.

“You could say that.”

“You want something to drink?”

“No,” Claire said.

“You going home?”

“No,” she said. “I think I’ll just sit here for a while, if you don’t mind.”

“Tell you what,” Patrick said. “You tend bar until closing, and I won’t make you clean up. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Fine with me,” Claire said. “But don’t expect me to be charming to anyone.”

“At this hour anything you say
will sound charming,” he said. “It’d be better to give ‘em hell or you’ll never get ‘em out of here.”

“Is there still a baseball bat here somewhere?”

“If anyone gives you any trouble, just tell him,” Patrick said, and then nodded at the stranger at the end of the bar.

“Who’s he?” Claire asked.

“He’s a pal of mine,” Patrick said. “And a good guy; you could do worse.”

“No thanks,” Claire said. “I’m not interested.”

“Look, I know it’s none of my business,” Patrick said. “And I like Ed, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t think he’s the guy for you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Too boring, too political, too morally righteous,” Patrick said. “Listen, life’s too short to spend it stirring up shit, judging the hell out of everyone, and then complaining when they don’t like it. He’s a friggin’ know-it-all, and sometimes that’s irritating as hell.”

Claire figured Patrick’s opinion was tainted by Melissa’s previous relationship with Ed, so she should take whatever he said with a grain of salt.

“I’d hate to hear what you think of somebody you don’t like,” Claire said.

“I’m not saying he’s a bad guy,” Patrick said. “I just don’t think he’s right for you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Claire said. “You go on.”

“C’mon,” he said to Banjo.

The sleepy dog slowly dragged himself from his bed behind the bar. Patrick handed the keys to Claire, stopped to have a word with the man at the end of the bar, and then left, with the wagging beagle on his heels.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Claire commandeered the sound system and stopped what sounded to her weary brain
very much like manic Celtic caterwauling. She turned on the satellite radio and adjusted it to a channel she liked. The locals made complaining noises so she shot them a mean look; they returned to their conversation.

Amon
g her body’s many complaints were a headache, painfully raw skin between her breasts from the tape she had so stupidly ripped off, skinned hands and knees, an aching back, and throbbing feet. She kicked off her shoes, washed her sore hands, and rooted around under the counter until she found a bottle of ibuprofen. She started to pop the cap and then stopped.

How many times had she carelessly taken what seemed like a harmless medication, without thinking about what it might do when combined with other things she might have ingested? She’d also tried herbal teas before without researching what the ingredients might do to her. Well, she wouldn’t do either of those things again. She put the bottle of ibuprofen back and poured some club soda in a glass instead. She dropped in a lime wedge and watched it sink, leaving a stream of bubbles in its wake.

The locals were muttering to each other about black helicopters from the government coming to take away their guns. When one of them tried to draw her into their discussion, Claire shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“I guess you don’t believe that could happen,” he said to Claire. “And you probably don’t mind subsidizing all those freeloaders up Possum Holler, with their satellite dishes and brand new pickup trucks. We should throw them out on their lazy asses. Let
‘em work for a living.”

“Not everyone is a freeloader,” Claire said. “Some people have bad luck and hard times; you know that as well as I do.”

“I know those welfare queens eat better than I do,” he said. “My tax money shouldn’t be used to pay for all the brats they keep popping out. We should sterilize the lot of them.”

The man at the end of the bar, the one Patrick said she should let know if she had any trouble, slammed down his glass, and it startled everyone.

“So you’d take away their food, shelter, medical care, and the right to bear or not bear children,” he said, “but they could still have as many guns as they want? I don’t think you’ve thought this through to its logical conclusion.”

The man who had been haranguing Claire instantly changed his demeanor.

“Oh, hey there, Laurie,” he said. “I didn’t see ya down there. How’s it going?”

The locals exchanged meaningful looks and all rose to leave.

“Don’t let me run you off,” Laurie said.

“No, not at all,” the man said. “Past time for us to be home in bed, that’s all.”

Laurie smiled wryly and wished them all a good night as they left.

As soon as they were gone, he turned to Claire.

“Sorry,” he said. “I seem to have curtailed what was left of your business.”

“Good riddance, I say,” Claire said, as she walked to his end of the bar. “I’m Claire, by they way.”

“Lawrence,” he said. “But folks call me Laurie.”

She stuck out her hand, he took it, but he didn’t shake it. Instead, he turned it over and looked at her palm.

“Are you reading it?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he said. “Give me a minute.”

His hand was warm where he held hers. It didn’t feel creepy; it felt more clinical, for want of a better term.

Claire studied him. There was lots of gray in his
brown hair, and he had a deeply furrowed forehead, like a man with heavy cares and worries. His bright blue eyes, creased with wrinkles at the corners, had shadows and bags beneath them. His chin was strong, but his nose was a little long, and his lips were thin. He was by no means a classically handsome man, but he had an aura of calm, quiet strength, albeit with a deep air of melancholy.

‘Character actor,’ Claire thought. ‘He could play a brilliant surgeon on a medical drama or a world-weary detective on a NYC crime drama, but he’s not romantic lead material.’

And then she thought, ‘but neither am I.’

“What do the lines say?
” she asked him.

“I haven’t got a clue,” he said. “But I can tell you
fell recently, possibly off your skateboard?”

Claire smiled.

“Roller skates?” he said.

Claire shook her head.

“Mysterious accident,” he said. “I’ll make a note to follow up later.”

“You
’re not very good at this,” she said.

“
Let’s see if I can do better,” he said. “You work with your hands in water or wash your hands frequently. Your nails are well-manicured so I don’t think it’s an OCD thing, and you couldn’t be a nurse or a doctor because you wouldn’t be allowed to wear that nail polish. I don’t think you usually work here because you don’t seem to know where anything is kept. That aspirin must not have been a brand you like, or you might have an ulcer, because you changed your mind about taking it. Also, you work on your feet all day; I can tell by the way you’re standing that your back hurts and you took your shoes off.”

“Very good,” Claire said. “What else?”

“You’ve had a very stressful day,” he said. “I know about the wedding, and since you look just like Patrick, I can assume you’re a Fitzpatrick, so you would have attended. There’s no ring, so you’re not married, and not recently divorced, because there’s no indentation on your ring finger. You probably endured lots of comments about not being married, which the commenters thought were well-meaning but made you want to poke their eyes out. You have kind eyes; you probably also act as the peacemaker among the various hot-headed Fitzpatricks. I also know you’re sensible and compassionate; you didn’t agree with the conspiracy club.”

“What do you do for a living?” Claire asked him. “Are you a criminal psychologist or a forensic medical investigator?”

“Nothing so glamorous, I’m afraid,” he said. “Actually, I’m currently unemployed, although I do have a job lined up in Pendleton that starts in a month.”

“What will you do in Pendleton?’

“Work for the city,” he said. “The pay’s not great but I can’t afford to be choosy in this economy. What do you do, by the way? I’m stumped.”

“Up until this week I was a hairdresser, subbing for Denise down at the Bee Hive,” she said. “Before that I was the personal assistant to a horrible famous person who paid me an outrageous sum of money to make her look good.”

“Glad you gave that up,” he said. “That kind of thing can be hard on the soul.”

“Yes,” Claire said. “It was.”

She realized he was still holding her hand, so she pulled it away. It had been nice, the way he held her hand, sort of consoling.

“You’d be a good priest,” she said. “I think I’d confess everything to you.”

“Now that would be a terrible job,” he said. “There’s the prohibition on sex, for one thing - that’s an obvious minus; and all the poor saps pleading for forgiveness just for being human, there’s another; plus having to preach a doctrine no one can live up to; and then begging for money to help the people they’d all rather round up and sterilize. Besides, I don’t look good in a dress. My legs are my best feature; I like to show them off.”

“You seem to have given this a lot of thought,” she said. “Did you once consider the priesthood?’

“I’m not Catholic,” he said. “Or anything else, for that matter.”

“Really?” Claire said. “Not even when you were growing up?”

“No,” he said. “My mother didn’t believe in anything she couldn’t see, touch, feel, or hear, but my father was more of a philosopher. He said only the weak and ignorant need the threat of fire and brimstone to inspire them to be good citizens.”