Monday after the Fourth of July holiday was like waking up from a three-day hangover. Freya opened the bar that afternoon, a bit apprehensive to see what lay in store, how bad the damage had been. She turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, inhaling the familiar sweet stench of the bar: sweat and cigarettes and spilled alcohol. Friday night had been one of the wildest nights the North Inn had ever experienced, and for many nights and summers after, those who had been there that evening would talk about what happened that night: how the air had cracked with heat and fire; how the music seeped right into your soul, into your limbs; how the drinks were luscious and addictive; how everyone had seemed just a bit out of control. The party had continued to rage, spilling into Saturday and Sunday, with no rest or respite; she had kept the bar open nonstop the entire weekend, the music growing ever louder, the crowd rowdy to the point of obnoxious. It had been a carnival, a circus, and a festival rolled into one.
She was emotionally and physically exhausted, not just from the carousing and the work but from spending the entire three days in the company of Killian Gardiner, neither of them leaving to eat or sleep, catching catnaps in the back while the other tended to the customers. It did not matter that they were soon to be family, that she was to be his brother’s wife, that there was a wedding on the horizon—none of it mattered, only heat and desire and now. There was no tomorrow. There was only Killian, and Freya was vulnerable to his every wish and command.
He had even offered to help her clean up on Monday morning but she had rebuffed him. She needed a few days to herself. On the way to the North Inn she had called Bran, but his cell did not pick up. She kept dialing it anyway, listening to his message, wanting to hear his voice to bring her back to earth.
She did not know how she felt about anything or anyone. She felt as if she were being pulled in two directions, and if she was so sure once of Bran and their love for each other, she was now equally sure that she could not live without Killian either. What was new? Freya had been the kind of girl who hopped into bed at the slightest invitation; in the past she had many lovers of both sexes, and was constantly in the throes of infatuation. But sex was different, sex was easy—a physical release, a game, a bit of fun—a “shag,” as the Brits liked to say. It didn’t mean anything. Love was something else, and it was difficult. She was not prepared to feel this way for two men and did not want to think about what it meant. She had been so sure about her feelings for Bran, but now there was Killian, who had become very dear to her in a short period of time.
Thankfully, the bar didn’t look too worse for wear. Freya began by picking up all the discarded brassieres from the floor and placing them in the lost and found box. Sal had proposed nailing them all to the wall as trophies, but Freya thought that was just a little tacky and had talked him out of it. The bar backs had swept up most of the grime off the floor and run the dishwasher, taken out the garbage, and swept all the broken glass, so aside from righting a chair here and there, there wasn’t too much for her to do. She was grateful. She began her cocktail prep: chopping up mint, squeezing lemons and limes, preparing the sugar water, replenishing the vodka in the freezer. Even on a Monday night the North Inn was sure to draw a crowd.
Freya was thankful to have something to do with her hands; it kept her busy and her mind off Killian. Already he had called several times on her cell but she had declined to answer. She had left him in his bed that morning, slipping out from under the sheets without even a note of explanation. Such a cliché, the morning-after sneak-out of shame.
“We’re not open yet, sorry,” Freya called, as she heard the bar’s front door open and the bell signal the arrival of a customer.
A woman in black walked into the bar. She was tall and striking, with her blond hair pulled up in a tight ponytail. Her face was ageless and serene. “Are you Freya Beauchamp?”
“Yes, I am, who’s asking?” she asked.
“I was told I would find Killian Gardiner here,” the woman said, without answering her question, which Freya found a tad impolite.
“He’s not here right now,” Freya said, continuing to wipe the counter.
“Do you know where I might find him?”
Freya hesitated, wondering if she should be truthful, but there was no reason to lie. “He’s probably down at his boat. It’s docked at Gardiners Island, on the far left side of the house. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.”
Freya remembered what Bran had told her of Killian’s peripatetic life and how Ingrid heard that he had left a trail of broken hearts behind him. And yet the stern stranger did not look like an aggrieved ex-girlfriend; instead she had the slightly formal air of those involved in law enforcement. Was Killian in some sort of trouble? He didn’t seem to be hiding anything. When she asked him about the rumors surrounding his past, he laughed and told her that people liked to tell stories, and that none of them were true.
A few minutes later the front door opened again and a young girl entered. “We’re closed, sorry. Come back in an hour or so?” Freya asked, looking up from her chopping board.
“I don’t want a drink,” the girl said with a frown.
“Good enough, since we’re not open yet.” Freya smiled. She looked up and took note of the girl’s sexual history as it flashed before her eyes: twenty-two-year-old virgin. A few chaste kisses and several unrequited crushes; it reminded Freya a little of her sister’s limited experience in that department.
“I’m looking for my roommate.”
Freya looked around at the empty bar doubtfully. “And you’re looking for her . . . here?”
“She said she was going to be here. Friday night,” the girl said stubbornly.
“That’s three days ago.”
“Yeah. I know.” The girl sighed. “I mean, she’s missing. I’m Pam, by the way.”
Pam showed her a photo of a brown-haired girl wearing large glasses. It was the little brown wren, the same girl who had taken the Irresistible potion on Friday night. Freya squinted her eyes at the picture. “I remember her. Molly, right?”
“Yeah. She never came home on the Fourth. She’s an adult, so the police told me I had to wait forty-eight hours before they could file a report. They think she just spent the weekend with some guy. But I swear that’s not the case. I’m really worried. She’s never done anything like this before.”
Freya frowned, but past experience told her Pam was jumping to conclusions. With that potion, Molly definitely got lucky on Friday night. She was probably out having brunch with her new love right now. Freya thought of how she herself had spent the weekend—a blur of drinking, working, and Killian. The three days had gone by so fast, and no one knew where she was either; it wasn’t like she’d left Ingrid or Joanna a message. (Not that either would panic, since Freya came and went as she pleased.)
“She usually calls to let me know where she is,” Pam said stubbornly. “I’m worried about her.”
Freya remembered Molly that night, dancing on a table, belting the lyrics to “You Shook Me All Night Long,” her glasses crushed beneath her feet, her hair wild and loose, swinging her body to the beat of the music, while a group of college boys, red-cheeked and jolly, shouted themselves hoarse in appreciation. Molly had looked as if she were having the time of her life. Later Freya had seen Molly making out in the back with one of the boys, the two of them wrapped around each other so tightly it was hard to see where one ended and the other began.
There was nothing to worry about. Pam might not understand since she had never experienced it: how time sped up and slowed down in a lover’s arms, how daily life faded away and everything suddenly revolved around being with one person for as long as possible. Time did not exist where love and lust were concerned. Still, it was always best to be careful.
Freya took the photograph. “I’ll ask around. See if anyone knows any of those boys she was with that night. But I’m sure Molly’s fine. She’ll probably get back this afternoon.”