“I apologize again for keeping you past closing.” Laura extended her hand to Marge, the Crystal Springs librarian. What she’d envisioned as a short, get-acquainted visit had expanded into two hours of facility tour, village history lesson, and discussion of the various bestseller lists.
“Not a problem. Since my hubby retired last year, Friday isn’t my night to cook.” Marge selected a key from her bright-coiled bracelet to lock the front entrance. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
“Same here,” Laura stepped into darkness with soft streetlight punctuation. “I’ll be trying Jack’s Village Tavern for my own supper.”
“Good choice. Their Friday fish fry draws a crowd from the entire area.”
Laura gave the older lady a wave as she unlocked her car. This spur-of-the-moment visit to the library answered several of her questions. The emails they’d exchanged during the previous two months contained such formal language, she’d feared the village librarian was the stereotypical nineteenth century ogre. Instead, Marge proved to be open and friendly under a thin coating of old-fashioned manners. The lady was also overwhelmed with the response to an adult reading challenge issued for the new year.
A few minutes later, she pulled open the door of Jack’s. Warm noise wrapped around her in invitation. A few round, tall tables clustered near the end of the long bar where half a dozen taps speared the air. A chalkboard covered with daily food specials dominated the space behind the polished barrier. The remainder of the dining area featured square tables with simple wooden chairs. She chose to claim a space under a large window with a gaudy beer sign and view of Front Street.
Muted light escaped from the upper windows of one twenty-four Front Street. Downstairs a single fixture glowed near the door. She made a mental note to check about timers for security lights if she got the lease. A lot depended on the commercial space in her view.
Monday morning. She and Brad would be meeting at the landlady’s home in Wagoner to discuss details of the lease. The weekend remained to meet other people and learn nuances of local business customs.
“Evening. What would you like to drink?”
Laura pulled her thoughts away from business dreams. “What goes good with the fish fry?”
The twenty-something server pulled a cardboard coaster from her apron pocket and emitted a mixture of laughter and sigh. “We carry six beers on tap, another twenty in bottles, Coke products, and Bear Country Root Beer. Then we have the fixings for cocktails and several nice California wines. Am I hitting any possibilities here?”
Laura exposed her palms to the waitress as if to halt the onslaught of beverages. “Bring me the root beer. And I’ll have the regular size fish dinner with slaw and fries.”
“Coming right up. Name’s Tiffany if you need to give a holler.” She scribbled on her order pad and moved on to a table of new arrivals, her auburn ponytail waving with every step.
Now what word in Jack’s Village Tavern missed my brain? She glanced out the window again and this time took note of the red and white beer sign above her head. With deliberate motions, she shed her coat and gathered her nerves closer together. The longer she studied the room, the more comfortable the mixture of voices and scent of deep fried fish became. The atmosphere fell somewhere between family dining and rowdy sports bar.
One closed captioned large screen showed sports highlights from the week. A pair of men at the single pool table seemed practiced at ignoring advice from half a dozen onlookers. On the other side of the entrance, two women tended four small children.
Her hand went to the hidden rings as she tried to picture Scott across the table. The image didn’t clarify. A city man, he’d be restless, unable to adjust to the slower pace.
Yet, she imagined him in the shop across the street. During her actual inspection and almost on demand, she could call up his lean body reaching for a book on a high shelf or resting his arm on that former serving counter discussing the merits of various biographies with a customer. The space suited their business model better than any of the vacancies they’d considered a year ago last November.
Yes, Scott would enjoy a visit. Living here? He’d feel confined and would soon be uneasy. A person didn’t just drop into Wal-Mart in the wee hours on impulse when a thirty-mile drive was involved. She smiled at the memory of one of their visits he’d prompted. It was so natural and comfortable to stand side-by-side, reading food labels and exchanging comments. Scott was unique—a relationship to be savored.
She took her first sip of rich root beer and considered the positive side of things. Memories of Scott should be rare here. They’d only visited once, at the height of the fall colors three years ago. Three years. Daryl still worked for the Secret Service then. Roger was struggling with a new crop management computer program. And Brad, he was taking orders in the army with both arms intact.
“Are you the Starr girl?”
Laura looked up from her hot fish fillets into the weathered face of a man with sparse gray hair. “Guilty. My father was Richard.”
“Pegged you right off. You favor him. I rode the school bus with both of those boys way back when. It was a sad day when Roger told me he’d died. Cancer?”
She nodded. “Leukemia.”
“Well, you hang in there, young lady. I got to go. We’ve got the grandson with us tonight and he’s in a hurry for his fish. You tell Roger that Lloyd Carlstead is alive and well.”
“I’ll do that.” She repeated his name, wiped her fingers, and went digging in her coat pocket for pen and pad.
Three out of four tables were occupied and the sounds of conversation, laughter, and snap of play at the pool table hummed in the room by the time Laura finished eating and stood to put on her coat.
“Allow me, ma’am.”
She sealed her lips before an exclamation escaped. Myles Wilcox worked and lived in the community. It should be no surprise he patronized a local business. She slipped one arm into her parka and then the other. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Did you enjoy your supper?” He stood on the edge of her personal space between her and the exit.
“Excellent. I recommend the beer battered fish.” She forced her gaze to sweep over him without turning away in rudeness. His fresh haircut matched Scott’s favorite and forced her breathing to pause. A slow parade of melted ice slid down her spine.
“Spoken like a native.”
She reached back and lifted her single, long braid free of her collar. “I’ve a long way to go before I’ll attempt that claim. But I do have ties to the area. I’m thinking the grapevine has kept you well informed.”
“I’m not a gossip. You should tell me your story one of these days.”
“Not tonight.” She took a small step toward the door, paused when he touched her arm and spoke low near her ear.
“You have beautiful eyes, Mrs. Tanner.”