Golden Girl(107)

“What can I get you?” Marshall asks.

“Ginger ale,” Carson says. “What the hell, make it a Shirley Temple.”

Marshall nods and cashes out the only other member at the bar, Dr. Flutie, who must be a hundred years old. He used to play Santa Claus at the club Christmas party when Carson was a kid.

“Shirley Temple seems a little strong for you,” Marshall says. “Did something happen?”

The club is a good place for Marshall to work, Carson decides, because he takes a genuine interest in people the way bartenders do in the movies. They’re always portrayed as good listeners filled with sage advice. The only thing Carson ever asked people at the Oystercatcher was if they wanted to cash out or start a tab. She’s interested in making drinks, in providing quick, accurate service, and she’s interested in cash on the barrelhead. But she isn’t interested in people. She has too many problems of her own to take on someone else’s, even for twenty minutes. But Marshall’s plate seems pretty empty, so he can heap on servings of his customers’ anxiety and stress.

“I got fired,” Carson says. She holds his eyes. “I had a douchebag customer, big-money guy, who ordered kamikaze shots and asked that I do one with his group.”

Marshall groans as he sets her Shirley Temple down in front of her. It’s dark pink, nearly red; he had a heavy hand with the grenadine, but that’s how Carson likes it, and he added three cherries. Bravo.

“That happened four times,” Carson says, shaking her head. The situation with Brock Sheltingham is one that seems far worse now than it did in the moment. What had she been thinking?

“You did four shots with a customer?” Marshall says. He looks equal parts impressed and aghast. “Can you imagine if I did that here?”

“Then the guy asked me for a kiss,” Carson says.

“You slapped him, I hope?”

“I was too angry to slap him. I kissed him good, trying to make a point, which was lost among all the people cheering us on and filming it.”

“Oh, Carson.”

“And that’s not even why I got fired,” Carson says. “I got fired because I insulted a barback who worked with me and she saw me doing coke in the ladies’ room and told our boss.”

Marshall is quiet. She has horrified him.

“My boss, George, the owner, had been clear about us never doing drugs on the job. So I got fired.”

“I’m sorry,” Marshall says.

“Don’t be,” Carson says. She stirs her Shirley Temple and watches the grenadine swirl through the ginger ale like watercolor paint. “I deserved it. George was way cooler than he had to be. He said he’ll give me a glowing reference when I get my act cleaned up.” She looks up at Marshall, who is staring at her, bar towel draped over the shoulder of his pink oxford shirt. He’s wearing a madras tie. He’s absolutely darling. “Which is what I’m trying to do now.”

“You’re doing pretty well,” Marshall says. “You made it through dinner with your family.”

“And I am not unproud of that,” Carson says. “But after my mom died, I went off the deep end. I was smoking too much, drinking too much, doing coke, taking pills.” She pauses. “I was abusing caffeine. I didn’t want to feel anything. Also, I was in a bad relationship that just ended, so I thought, What if I give up everything that’s hurting me and see if I feel better?” She takes a sip of her Shirley Temple. “I haven’t given up drinking forever. I haven’t given up weed forever. But I’m going to live clean until I feel strong enough to let those things back into my life.”

“Well, when you’re ready to date again, I’d love to take you out,” Marshall says.

“What about your little Lilly Pulitzer chickie?” Carson says. “The girl I saw you with at the Box.”

“That was my buddy’s girlfriend. I asked her to help me make you jealous.”

“Whaaaaa?” Carson says. “Are you serious?”

“I saw you dancing and I asked Peyton to pretend to be my date in front of you.” Marshall grins. “Did it work? Were you jealous?”

Carson laughs. She can’t believe sweet, adorable, fresh-as-pine-scented-air-off-a-deep-Oregon-lake Marshall would dream up such a long-game caper to get her attention. “Actually,” she says, “I was a little jealous.”



After Leo and Marissa leave the Field and Oar, Marissa wants to go to a party at Miacomet Beach—a bunch of summer kids from Connecticut they both know will be there—but Leo says he’s not up for it.

“Do you want me to drop you at the party?” he asks.

“I’m not going without you,” Marissa says.

“So I should take you home, then?”

“What is wrong with you?” Marissa says. “You didn’t stick up for me at all during dinner. Your entire family was making fun of our wedding plans, insinuating they won’t even happen—”

“Marissa,” he says. He swallows. He should just tell her: The wedding won’t happen. I’m not marrying you. I’m not in love with you. But he’s too tired for drama tonight. He’s too tired for drama anytime. He wishes Marissa would go to the party in her low-cut, extremely short dress and find someone else to sink her claws into. He wishes she and Peter Bridgeman had hooked up at the bonfire the night before his mother died.