The Husband Hour(12)

He glanced around the room, the filmmaker in him taking in the scene. He made a mental note to come back with a camera and get a picture of the bar with Rory’s photo.

The bartender slid his shot over to him. Matt asked her name.

“Desiree,” she said with a smile. Definitely closer to sixty.

“I’m Matt,” he said, raising his glass.

“Nice meeting you, Matt,” she said. “You here for the summer?”

“Just a week or so. Visiting.”

A bearded man two seats away in a trucker hat glanced at Matt contemptuously and raised his empty beer bottle at Desiree. She left Matt with his vodka, and by the time she drifted back, he had summoned the nerve to ask: “Desiree, do you know a woman named Lauren Kincaid?”

“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

Damn, he’d blown it. He’d rushed into it. Pace yourself.

Worst-case scenario, he could simply go to Lauren’s house and knock on the door. But it would seem predatory—which was not the way he wanted to meet her. The optimal thing would be to know where she shopped, where she worked, where she drank, so he could approach her in a casual environment.

He did another shot. Pink Floyd filled the room. God, he hated Pink Floyd.

“Pink Floyd shouldn’t be allowed in a bar,” he muttered.

There’d been a place like this in Queens when he was growing up—many places like this. But one of them had hired a friend’s older brother to bounce, and the lax door policy was his gateway to long nights of drinking against the background sound of the Steve Miller Band.

Matt pulled a few singles from his wallet, ordered a beer, then made his way to the back of the bar to the source of the offending music. He loaded two dollars into the machine and flipped through the song library.

“Don’t bother,” said a blonde at the end of the bar. “Everything on that thing is from, like, the Stone Age.”

He barely glanced at her. The last thing he needed was a hookup.

“I guess I’m from the Stone Age,” he said, programming in “Fly Like an Eagle” and “Take the Money and Run.”

“Then you look pretty good for your age,” she said, a comment that got him to give her a quick glance, if just for her cheekiness. He guessed she was in her late twenties. Maybe thirty. She was…

She was Stephanie Adelman.

He could barely believe it. If he’d had a few more shots, he’d think he was hallucinating. But no; he recognized her from Facebook.

The photo of Rory behind the bar was a sign! All he had to do was keep pushing forward. The universe was finally meeting him halfway.

“I’m Matt,” he said.

“Stephanie.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Yes, Matt, you can.”

He slid onto the stool next to her.

For sisters, Stephanie and Lauren didn’t look very much alike. Then again, he hadn’t seen a recent photo of Lauren. Her social media was frozen in time circa 2012, but back then, when she was the young wife of a former NHL player, she had worn her hair in a simple, shoulder-skimming bob. She had high cheekbones and exuded a gentleness and shyness that was evident even in photos. Rory was a guy who could have been banging any and every hottie in the country, and Matt thought it spoke highly of him that he had committed himself at such a young age to Lauren.

“What are you having?” he asked.

“A margarita,” she said. “With salt.”

He summoned Desiree with a wave. She took the order but not before asking, “You know this guy, Steph?”

“Oh, yeah. Matt and I are old pals.” She turned to Matt. “Desiree and I are old pals too. She used to bust me when I snuck in here during high school. I was a wild child.”

Still are, Matt thought. Lucky for me.

When Desiree was out of earshot, Stephanie leaned closer to him. “You here for the summer?”

“Just passing through,” he said.

“How mysterious.”

“Not really.”

Desiree slid him his beer and handed Stephanie her cocktail. He waited until she was a safe distance down the bar and said, “What about you? Here for the summer?”

“Maybe. Things are a little up in the air at the moment. Cheers.”

“Cheers. You have a house here?”

“My family does. My sister lives here year-round.”

Matt’s heart beat just a little faster. “Really? I can’t imagine being here in the winter. What is there to do?”

Stephanie shrugged. “For normal people? Not much.”

“Your sister isn’t normal?”

“Depends on who you ask. My mother thinks she’s perfect.”

The last few syllables of that sentence were mush. Clearly, Stephanie was a few drinks in.

“And what does she think of you?”

“What do you think of me?” she asked, her hand on his thigh. Her eyes were glassy. Okay, he had to work fast. She was going to suggest they get out of there, he would have to say no, and that would be the end of that.

“I think,” he said carefully, “I think that you’re very beautiful. And I am going to tell your mother, and your sister, that I think so.”

“You should,” she said, slurring. “You should tell them! I dare you.”