Two from the Heart(12)

She whispered, “It’s nice to meet you. Please stay for dinner. That way we’ll have dessert.”





Chapter 13


KAREN INSISTED we go out that evening—for old times’ sake. “You’re going to like this place,” she promised as she led me to the door of the Gooseneck Tavern.

“I don’t want to drink alone,” I protested.

“Trust me, you’re not going to.”

“Can’t we just keep sitting on your porch—”

She shoved me gently toward the entrance. “Didn’t you say you were trying to expand your horizons? Here’s your chance to prove it.”

Inside the tavern, Christmas lights suspended from low rafters bathed everything in a rosy glow. A band played on a small stage at the far end of the room, and over the din of chatter, I could hear the strains of a twangy, acoustic version of “Dead Flowers.”

“I can’t believe I’m out on a school night,” Karen said giddily. “With eye shadow on and everything.”

“You’re living la vida loca,” I agreed.

“In Iowa City, Iowa,” she added. “It truly boggles the mind.”

At the bar I ordered a gin and tonic for me, and a club soda for the mother-to-be. I still couldn’t believe Karen’s news. But I was thrilled for her, I really was. In another six months, she’d have three children sitting in the back of her shining Volvo.

And me—well, I’d have a van and a spider plant.

I guess I wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that.

“Maybe we should find you a little fling tonight,” Karen suggested, leaning back against the bar and scanning the room.

“Look at me,” I said. “I’m wearing old jeans and an even older T-shirt.” I glanced down at my Frye booties. “My shoe game is on point, though.”

Karen sighed. “When are you going to stop pretending like you’re not gorgeous, Anne?”

“Says Malibu Barbie,” I muttered.

She elbowed me. “I heard that.”

“I haven’t been on a date since I left Patrick,” I admitted. “You know, the guy you told me I shouldn’t marry,” I added, because I couldn’t help reminding her.

“Well, was I wrong?” she asked.

“We had a little over two good years.”

“And one terrible one.”

“Just because something doesn’t work out in the end doesn’t mean it was bad from the beginning. I’m not sorry for it,” I said.

She nodded. “Good. You shouldn’t be. That which doesn’t kill you—”

“I hate it when people say that!”

“I know. That’s why I said it.” She smiled wistfully. “Don’t think I don’t sometimes wish I could run away to Aruba the way you ran off to that island.”

“North Carolina is hardly Aruba.”

“Well it ain’t Iowa, either.”

“Touché,” I said.

She put her arm around my shoulders. “Want to go check out the band with your old best pal?”

We wound our way through the crowd and found places in front of the stage. I noted the lead singer—a young woman with bleached, spiky hair—and the old guy on the pedal steel, and the bearded giant manhandling a stand-up bass. But my eyes were quickly drawn to the guitarist, who stood on the far right of the stage, as if he weren’t sure he was part of the band.

“He’s got a young Robert Downey Jr. thing going on,” Karen said, knowing exactly where I was looking. “Except his eyes aren’t as buggy.”

“He’s definitely good-looking,” I allowed.

He was lanky and slightly slouched, but in a way that seemed thoughtful rather than lazy. His hair, which needed a trim, was wavy and black.

When it came time for his solo, he turned away from the crowd, too—as if the music were so personal he didn’t want a bunch of strangers watching him make it. And because we couldn’t see his fingers on the strings, the melody seemed to radiate out from his body in a way that was utterly mesmerizing. Everyone watched him, quiet now, listening to the way the notes soared and plunged through the air.

When it was over we clapped like crazy, and then the band took off their instruments and headed offstage.

And the crazy thing was, when he stepped down from the platform, he walked over to me.

My first thought was that he believed I was someone else. So I said, “I’m not—”

“Hi,” he said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Before I could tell him that I had one, Karen slid over to me, grabbed the drink I’d been working on, slipped her spare house key into my pocket, and melted away into the crowd.

I was impressed. And not a little flustered.

“I think your wingman wants you to say yes,” the guitarist said, offering me a big, boyish smile. “I’m Rob.”

I took his hand and shook it. “Anne,” I said. “I’m not from around here, and yes, I’d love a gin and tonic.”

But as I followed him toward the bar, I had second thoughts.

Crazy ones.

“Actually?” I said.

He turned around, his dark eyes meeting mine. “What?”