Marry Screw Kill(28)
I am met with blank faces. No one remembers me from years ago, or being here without James by my side since his presence outshines mine. I exhale the breath I’m holding and let my shoulders fall.
Different people have sat on these barstools over time, but Paul has been the constant. He was also a dear friend of my late mother, who worked here with him as a barmaid. I have no memory of her working anywhere else.
“It’s been longer than awhile. I haven’t seen you here alone since …” he trails off, his face contorting into a grimace, and I know why. I have always believed Paul wanted to be more than a friend to my mother. I brush the thought away. It leads down a dark road of what ifs.
All my life, this exclusive club served as my home away from home. Paul would let me make my own Shirley Temple’s behind the bar when no one was looking. Employee policies prohibited me from mingling with the club’s patrons, so I hid myself away from their view. As a child, I found a small nook with a padded window seat off a service hallway to sit in and read, do homework, or write my poetry. Once I was old enough to stay home by myself, I hardly ever came to the club. But when I did, I always huddled inside the nook’s safety.
The club divided two worlds, the rich of Rochester and those who worked for them. Today, I’m standing on the other side of the divide, and I feel no different than the young girl who hid away in the nook. I’m just me, Harlow, daughter of a hardworking single mother.
“It’s so hard to be here by myself without her.” I glance down as I speak, fearing I might break down in tears. Between what I endured with James this morning and walking into this club today to see Emma, I’ll be lucky to have a flake of mascara on my lashes when I leave.
“Well, it’s great to see you.”
“And you’re a sight for sore eyes.” And my sore heart.
I move sideways and steal the corner barstool since it’s far away from the other club members. Placing my Prada handbag on the empty seat next to me, I lean forward with a sigh.
“What’s your poison, little lady?” he asks. “I’m guessing you’ve outgrown your usual Temple with a twist. You look like you could use something strong.”
“What makes you think that?” I clip, regretting how sharp my comment comes out the second Paul’s smile fades. Any other day, those words wouldn’t have been spoken, but my emotions are teetering between tears and anger. They’re bubbling up inside me for the first time in months.
“Sorry, Paul.” I reach over and pat his hand. He shakes his head once, as if to clear the memory, and his smile returns.
“It’s okay. I understand,” Paul says quietly. Our eyes meet and we don’t have to speak. I forgot how close I was with him. I’m so thankful I was able to escape the house today, even if it came with a price.
“I think you’re right. Something strong. Dirty martini, please.”
“Well, you’re going for broke. Vodka?” he asks while retrieving a glass from under the counter. I nod before he walks to the long line of bottles against the back wall. So many to choose from, but all of them have the same purpose. They numb. It’s guaranteed.
I lick my lips while I watch Paul pour the vodka into a chrome shaker. He turns and speaks to the older gentlemen at the bar who likely finished a round of golf and is enjoying the benefits of retirement at the 19th Hole. He shakes my martini in one hand while serving a drink to a man with the other. He begins to walk toward me with a glass of the much needed elixir.
“What brings you here during the daylight? I’ve only seen you at a distance with Dr. Elliott.” Paul lays a napkin down and places my drink on it. Small ice shavings float on the top of the liquid and before tasting, I know it’s how I love my martinis: cold.
“You make me sound like a vampire,” I say with a teasing smile and take my first sip, letting the coolness ease down my throat. “I’m meeting a friend and need to talk to her about my wedding.” And who I’m marrying.
I don’t miss Paul’s frown at the mention of my wedding. The conversation we are about to have wouldn’t happen if I were attached to James’ arm, but I want to hear his thoughts.
“So, you’re marrying the doctor? The old guy,” he inquires in a roundabout way. I decide to dish it back at him.
“Do you consider yourself an ‘old guy’?” One side of my mouth curls up as he ponders. “Because I believe you’re older than my fiancé. By a lot.”
“Okay, good point.” He laughs off my jab and shuffles toward me. “You are so young and …”
His voice fades away while he gazes over my shoulder. I watch his body go still and keep my head straight ahead. There’s no one behind me except a ghost’s memory.
“… and beautiful like your mother,” he finally says as his eyes find mine, his desolate stare piercing right into me. “Just promise me you’ll really think about this marriage before you jump in. I’ve been around since your ‘old guy’ came to town.”
I inch forward, expecting Paul to continue with more details or unsolicited opinions. Instead, he pats the area in front of me and tilts his head toward the retired golf crew at the other end of the long counter. “Better get back to the really old guys.”
I sink into the cushioned back of the stool and sip on my drink. James is seventeen years older than me, and our age difference doesn’t sit well in a place like Rochester, Minnesota, a town of traditions and long held values. People who rock boats in this small town tend to find themselves tossed overboard, swimming alone.