Page 16 of Hello, Summer
“And you’ve been worrying and fussing at me since then too,” Conley said.
“This isn’t Atlanta, you know. Nothing respectable is open this late at night.”
“Who says I want respectable?” Conley winked, and when she went to kiss her grandmother’s papery cheek, she was surprised when Lorraine pressed her hand to the side of Conley’s face, caressing it briefly.
“Headstrong,” she said. “Keep your car doors locked, will you? And promise me you won’t do anything foolish.”
“Me? Foolish? Never.”
Conley drove aimlessly through what was left of her hometown’s business district, growing more depressed by the moment. Silver Bay, it seemed, hadn’t yet fully recovered from the last hurricane to blow through town. The sidewalks were rolled up tight.
What she needed was a drink. But the only half-decent restaurant in town, the Lamplighter, which had a small bar, closed at nine. She drove toward the Bowl-A-Rama, which was where she’d first experienced the thrill of being served an underaged beer when she was home from her senior year of boarding school. The bartender at the time wasone of Grayson’s many former admirers, and he’d slid the icy can of Natty Light across the polished bar top with a knowing smile and the equally magical phraseon the house. The guy—his name was Jeb—called her the next night to ask her to the Christmas formal, and she’d turned him down flat, explaining that she had a firm policy about dating her big sister’s exes.
He’d been shocked into silence for a moment, then disconnected without another word.
Conley slowed the car when she reached the shopping center where the Bowl-A-Rama had been a fixture for as long as she could remember, and now it was her turn to be shocked. The shopping center was still there, but the Publix had been replaced with something called Pawn World, and on the spot where the bowling alley had once stood, nothing remained but a weedy patch of cracked asphalt.
“Damn it,” she muttered, racking her brain to come up with a viable alternative. “Not the Bowl-A-Rama.”
She racked her brain for another late night option. There was always the bar at the country club, where her great-grandfather had been a founding member, but her tank top and jeans would hardly meet the dress code. Anyway, there was a distinct possibility she might run into Grayson and some of her country club pals, and she really didn’t feel like knocking back a cold one with her sister after their testy exchange earlier in the day.
As far as Conley could recall, there was only one other actual bar within the fifteen-minute drive she was willing to make for a drink and some company.
“The Legion it is,” she muttered, pulling back onto the highway.
7
The Silver Bay American Legion Post 42 was ten miles outside the city limits. The parking lot outside the boxy redbrick building was half full, most of the vehicles pickup trucks or late-model sedans, heavy on American-made, light on Hondas and Kias.
The bar at the Legion looked like something out of a seventies movie, with knotty pine paneling, neon beer signs, a variety of taxidermied bass and bucks, wall-mounted televisions, and nicotine-stained everything, although Conley was relieved to spot the largeNO SMOKINGsigns posted near the door. She was also relieved to note that she wasn’t the only female on the premises. The bartender was a woman, and she spotted six or seven other women in the room too.
There was a jukebox, and it was playing Patsy Cline. She was fairly sure “I Fall to Pieces” had been playing the last time she’d been to the Legion. One wall of the room was lined with booths, and there were a dozen small four-tops scattered between the booths and the long bar.
Conley found a vacant stool in the middle of the bar. She didn’t recognize anybody, but this was not a surprise, since she hadn’t darkened the door of the Legion in at least fifteen years.
“What are you drinking?” The bartender gave her an appraising look. She looked to be in her early twenties, with a burgundy-tintedpixie haircut, pale skin, and tattoo sleeves on both her well-muscled arms. Sort of like a punk version of Audrey Hepburn.
“Um, what kind of bourbon do you have?”
“You’re probably not gonna like any of the rotgut shit we sell. Best I can offer is Four Roses.”
Conley laughed. “What makes you think I don’t like rotgut?”
“I’m a bartender. I read people. Those shredded jeans you’re wearing cost hundred-eighty a pair, and you didn’t get that cut and color anywhere around here. At home, you probably drink Knob. Or maybe one of those boutique brands. Pappy Van Winkle? Right?”
“Guess I should be flattered,” Conley said. “I couldn’t afford Pappy even when I was working. Now? I’m just an out-of-work newspaper reporter.”
“So Four Roses?”
She nodded. “On the rocks, with water.”
As the bartender moved away, Conley felt a hand clap her shoulder and a grizzled cheek rubbing against her own.
“Well, look what the cat drug in! Sarah Conley Hawkins, what in the hell are you doing here?”
She pulled away from the stranger. But it wasn’t a stranger after all.
“Skelly?” Conley whooped and threw her arms around the slender man’s shoulders. “Skelly! Oh my God!”
