At Last (The Idle Point, Maine Stories)(40)

"But you're asking me to change all my plans on a moment's notice. I'm not a rich man's daughter. I can't turn away from a scholarship. I might not get a second chance."

Her words hurt. She didn't mean them to. He knew she was trying to make him understand how much school meant to her. He shouldn't have said anything about marriage. There was something elusive at the core of Gracie's personality. The more he pushed, the more she withdrew. He must've been nuts to think she'd toss everything aside to run away with him. School meant everything to her. Hell, she wouldn't even cut class to see a movie.

No matter how hard he tried, he would never be able to understand how it felt to worry about money. If he never worked a day in his life, he would still be okay. It wasn't something he thought about down at school but with Gracie it was a major issue. "We'd better get moving if you want to talk to Del before she goes to bed."

She brushed his words aside. "You know I love you, Noah. I've loved you since we were five years old. It's just that I—"

The sound hit them first. A piercing wail that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up. Gracie looked at him, her eyes wide, and before he could say a word they were hit with the lights. An ambulance and a squad car were bearing down on them full speed. Gracie fumbled for the stick shift but he stopped her.

"Wait," he cautioned. "They're not coming for us. Let them pass."

"They're heading toward the docks, " she said. He could see that her hands were trembling.

"Probably some drunk fell into the water," Noah said then cursed himself. "You know what I mean, Gracie." He didn't mean it as a cheap shot against her father.

She shook her head. "It's Gramma Del. I can feel it."

"Maybe it's a car crash," he said. "They haven't repaired the streetlights yet past Bigelow's. Somebody probably rammed into the fence near Fogarty's farm and—"

"No," she said, starting to cry. "It's Gramma Del and she's gone."





#





After a good meeting Ben always felt like he could whip his weight in polar bear. If you'd told him five years ago that he'd be spilling his guts in front of a bunch of other drunks almost every night he would have laughed in your face and reached for another whiskey, but damned if that wasn't exactly what he was doing.

Too bad this hadn't been a good meeting. They had probed too deeply tonight. Or maybe he was feeling too exposed. Questions seemed to carry a sting; comments were thick with innuendo. When the group leader mentioned they were negotiating with Simon Chase's Gazette for meeting space in the basement, it was all Ben could do to keep from telling them all to f*ck themselves and walking out.

What he wanted was to get drunk.

He'd been attending meetings over near Boothbay for almost six months now and he'd been dry for seven. One day at a time. That's what they said. One painful uneasy day at a time. Just keep stringing those days together and don't take anything for granted. There were no guarantees. Nobody could promise you that you would never take another drink. That part was up to you.

The first time he'd walked into a meeting he'd been shocked by the familiar faces all around him. He knew Bill Minelli and Richie Cohan liked their booze but he hadn't figured it was a problem for either one of them. They were happy drunks, hail-fellow-well-met types whose presence turned good bars into great ones. Mitzi Baines and her married sister Tabitha were there too. They sat together on the far side of the room and tired hard to be invisible. Mitzi taught second grade at Idle Point Elementary while Tabitha worked as an office assistant at the Gazette. Mr. Hennessey from the bank shocked hell out of him when he walked into the room and greeted everybody like long lost friends. Hennessey? He looked like the kind of guy who slept in a suit and tie, real buttoned-down, always in control. Not a pathetic drunk like Ben himself.

There was something about finding out that some of the best people in town had the same problems as you that made your problems seem less insurmountable. Looking at the world through clear eyes took a hell of a lot of getting used to. You needed all the help you could get. Without booze to dull the sharp edges of your mistakes, those mistakes cut into your every waking hour. His hatred of Simon Chase had always been clear and sharp to him, even through the murk of whiskey and wine. It had survived both blackouts and sobriety intact. How it must have amused the bastard to have Del working for him. His enemy brought so low that his mother had to cook for the man who destroyed his family. That's what booze did to you. Wrecked your pride, humbled your family, made you forget why you were put on the earth.