A Curve in the Road(33)

Carla checks the rearview mirror and carefully pulls over. She shuts off the engine.

We both get out. I leave the car door open as I look down the embankment to the rocky bottom, where I had been trapped in my SUV.

“Lord Almighty,” Carla says as she puts her arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Yes. Me and Winston both.”

We continue to stare.

“Should we go down there?” I ask.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I feel like I need to search around. Maybe some of my stuff is down there. I never did find my sunglasses.”

But do I really care about my sunglasses? What I truly want is clarity. Would I find it by wandering around in the ravine? Probably not.

“It looks dangerous,” Carla says.

Just then, a cell phone chimes from inside the car. I recognize the sound. It’s Alan’s phone.

My pulse quickens, because every time I hear it, I think it’s him and I feel a nonsensical thrill that he’s back. But the feeling only lasts for a fraction of a second, and then disappointment comes crashing down as I remember that he’s dead and he’ll never send texts to me again.

Nevertheless, I move quickly to check the phone. I dig it out of my purse and swipe the screen.

“It’s Paula.” My blood races as I read her message. “She’s changed her mind. She wants to talk to me.”

Carla’s forehead crinkles. “Really? When?”

“Right now. She wants to meet for a drink.”

My heart begins to pound faster and harder.

“What are you going to do?” Carla asks.

“Say yes, of course.”

Immediately, I text a reply.

I hit “Send” without hesitation and hope that the memory of my happy marriage isn’t about to be shattered as easily as everything else was when Alan and I crashed into each other.





CHAPTER NINETEEN

It’s the middle of the afternoon.

Paula asked me to meet her in a bar in the neighboring town of Bridgewater, about a twenty-minute drive from my mother’s house in Lunenburg. This leaves me a brief window of time to go home and change my clothes and explain to Zack that I’m heading out to meet an old friend who also knew Alan.

A half hour later, I arrive at a sketchy-looking tavern on the outskirts of town. At first, I’m not sure I’m in the right place because it’s situated at the back of a large parking lot in an industrial area. The sign reads PAT’S PLACE, and the building is painted black, including the windows. There are only a few cars parked around back—a couple of rusty old clunkers and a pickup truck. I feel a bit like Alice about to fall down the rabbit hole.

After a moment’s deliberation, I decide to take my chances. I get out of the car, approach the front door, and walk in.

Based on my first impression of the exterior, the inside is exactly as I imagined it would be. It’s dingy and dimly lit, with low ceilings, fake wood paneling, and a pool table. There’s a noticeable stench of stale beer in the air.

My breathing accelerates, and I break out in a sweat, because I’m not the sort of person who frequents dive bars like this, especially not alone. At least there’s no rowdy biker gang in here this afternoon.

There are only a few patrons at the bar—weathered-looking old men, sitting forward with their hands cupped around mugs of beer. They sit apart from each other, watching an old box TV with a snowy picture. It sits on a shelf behind the bartender, who wears a tight, dirty gray T-shirt that barely covers his bulging belly.

Swallowing uneasily—and still not entirely sure I’m in the right place—I move beyond the entrance. My feet stick to the floor. Every step sounds like Velcro.

In that moment, I decide I’ll do whatever it takes not to have to use the washroom while I’m here.

I don’t see Paula anywhere, but there are a few tables around a back corner, so I venture deeper into the shadows. At last, I find her alone at a table near the washrooms, surrounded by empty wineglasses. Her head has fallen forward onto her arms on the table. She appears to be asleep. Or passed out.

I clear my throat.

Slowly, she lifts her head and meets my gaze with bloodshot eyes and smeared mascara. “Abbie. What are you doing here?”

“You texted me and told me to come.”

Seconds pass while she blinks up at me, struggling to comprehend my words. “Did I?”

“Yes.”

She wets her lips and leans back in the chair. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Well, you did, and here I am.”

Sitting down on a rickety chair across from her, I clutch my purse on my lap. The bartender walks by and pushes through the door to the men’s washroom. A terrible odor wafts out as the door swings shut, and I press the back of my hand to my nose to keep from gagging.

“Do you often come here?” I ask, because I still can’t believe she chose this place for us to meet.

Paula can barely hold her head up. It’s obvious that she’s drunk. “I know . . . it’s pathetic, but it’s the only place where I’m sure I won’t bump into anyone I know.”

Paula reaches for her wineglass, tips it back, and swallows the entire contents in a single gulp.

I shake my head at her. “You’re not planning on driving anywhere, I hope.”