For Love or Magic (4 page)

“And yet, you're in a bar,” he countered.

“Fair enough,” I said, conceding the point. “But I don't drink alcohol during daylight hours, so I'm not buying any.”

His expression didn't change.

I glanced down at Seamus, who was sitting at my feet. “Go ahead, boy. Sic him.”

Seamus gave no indication he'd even heard me. Little asshole. The bartender could launch himself over the bar, wrap his beefy hands around my neck, and throttle the life out of me, and Seamus would only move if one of my twitching limbs disturbed his personal space.

“Hey.” The bartender leaned over the bar and looked down at Seamus. “We don't allow dogs in here.”

“Yeah, well, you didn't see what he did to my truck the last time I left him in there alone,” I muttered.

The bartender stared at me, as though he hadn't heard me.

“He's my service dog,” I said, a bit louder. “His name is Seamus.”

The bartender didn't miss a beat. “You want to keep the dog in here, it'll be two drinks.”

“Look,” I said, holding out Judd's picture, “if you want me out, just tell me if you've ever seen this man, and I'm gone.”

“I told you, it'll be—”

“Quit being a jerk and answer her questions.”

I glanced over to my left, the direction the voice had come from. Two stools down from me, a woman with long, curly brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail was huddled over a drink. Her jeans and T-shirt were baggy on her, like she'd lost a bit of weight quickly and hadn't exactly noticed yet. I had instant sympathy for her; that was how my clothes had fit in the early weeks after Judd had died.

She raised her head and turned toward us. She was about my age, maybe a little younger, so I put her at late twenties, early thirties. She wore a black T-shirt that read D
EPARTMENT OF
R
EDUNDANCY
D
EPARTMENT
in blocky yellow type. She was pretty, but her face was drawn, and her eyes had the hollowed-out look of someone who'd been through it lately. I had no idea what specifically had happened to her, but whatever it was, it was recent, and it wasn't good.

“I can take a look at it if you want,” she said, motioning to the picture in my hand without looking directly at me. “I work at the waffle house in town. Pretty much everybody goes through there.”

“Does it have a liquor license?”

She shook her head.

“Yeah, in that case, Judd probably wouldn't have paused passing by, but…” I set the picture on the bar between us. She picked it up, angling it to hold it in the dim shaft of yellow light that came down from the hanging lamps over the bar.

“I'm not even sure he was ever here,” I said, deflating. “I just want to know why I suddenly own a house in this town. That's all.”

She stared at the picture for a bit and shook her head, then held the picture out to the bartender. “I don't think I've seen him. How about you, Larry?”

Larry shot me a hard glance. “Two drinks.”

“Wait.
You're
Happy Larry?” I said, staring at him. “So it's an irony thing, then?”

“Fine,” the woman said to Larry. “Two more drinks. For me. I'm buying.” Her words were only slightly slurred, but I could tell she'd been there for a while.

Larry shook his head. “Not for you, Liv. You're cut off.”

Liv turned to me. “Honestly. I threw up in this bar
once,
when I was sixteen, and the guy still holds a grudge.”

I looked at Larry, and for a moment I caught a hint of something in his eyes, and it wasn't a grudge. He was worried about her. But it was just a flash, and as soon as Liv looked up it was gone.

“I'm not going to barf on your stupid floor, Larry. I'm a paying customer, and I just want—”

“Two drinks,” I said to Larry. “I'll have what she's having.”

Larry's eyes flitted back and forth between the two of us, and he proceeded to pour what looked to be gin and tonics, hold the tonic. He slid them both in front of me and said, “That'll be fifteen dollars.”

“Fine.” I pulled my wallet out of my back pocket and peeked inside. “I've got twelve bucks and a stick of Juicy Fruit.”

Larry gave me a beady-eyed glare, but held out his hand. I put the money into it, kept the gum, and said, “That sign in the window. You're hiring? For what position?”

“Bartender. Why?”

“Because you just took my last twelve dollars, that's why.”

His eyes narrowed. “You want to work here? You got experience?”

“I'm cranky and intransigent,” I said. “That pretty much seems to be the vibe here, right?”

He didn't respond. I held up the picture of Judd.

“Do you remember ever seeing this man?” I asked.

Larry took the picture, held it to the light, examined it, and shook his head. “Nope.”

I called out a sarcastic, “Thanks so much,” to his retreating back and slid the drinks down the bar toward Liv. “Thanks for your help.”

She didn't look at me. “Did he run off?”

For a moment, I wasn't sure who she was talking about, but then I connected the dots. “Oh. Judd? No. He's dead. I'm just trying to put some pieces together.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, empathy on her face. “Was he your boyfriend?”

“No. Husband.”

She nodded, staring down into her drink. “Well. At least you were married.”

“Huh. Most people say, ‘Everything happens for a reason.' Good on you for going in a different direction.”

“No, I mean…” She paused for a moment, staring into her glass. “If you're married before he runs off, people don't just expect you to get over it and move on.”

“Judd didn't run off,” I said, beginning to suspect we weren't talking about me anymore. “He's dead.”

“Right,” she said, not looking at me. “Sorry for your loss.”

Unsure how to respond, I let the conversation die there. After a few minutes, the door to Happy Larry's opened, letting in an aggressive shaft of sunlight. When my eyes adjusted, I saw a strikingly gorgeous brunette in jeans, work boots, and a plaid shirt tied in a knot at the waist. She stalked across the bar, beelining for Liv.

“Hey, you.” Her voice was soft, even if her expression wasn't. “Time to go home.”

“Stace!” Liv swiveled on her stool, sloshing a bit of her drink. “Meet my new friend … um…” Liv drifted off, looking at me expectantly.

“Oh, um, hi. I'm Eliot Parker.” I waved at Liv's friend. The woman smiled stiffly and nodded. I didn't take it personally, since it was obvious her tension had naught to do with me.

“Stacy Easter,” she said, and focused on Liv. “We really have to go.”

“She's new in town,” Liv said, motioning to me. “That's her dog, Shane.”

“Seamus,” I corrected. “Not that he answers to it. I called him ‘little asshole' for a while to see if I could goad some kind of response out of him, but he didn't answer to that, either.”

Liv snapped her fingers. “Oh, hey, you're the one who just moved into that place on Wildwood Lane?”

“Yeah, that's me.”

Liv looked at Stacy and smiled. “She's the one who just moved to Wildwood Lane. She's asking about her husband. He's dead, but she's just trying to put some pieces together. Is that right, Eliot?”

“Yeah,” I said, and smiled. I liked Liv. It was rare I found someone with less social panache than I had, and it made me feel better. Of course, she was drunk, but still. I pulled the picture of Judd out of my back pocket and showed it to Stacy. “Did you ever see him around here?”

Stacy took the picture and looked at it. She was exactly the kind of girl that Judd went for; dark, gorgeous, attitude up to here, trouble with a capital
T.
If he was going to be a memorable nuisance to anyone in this town, it would be her.

“No,” she said, shaking her head as she handed the picture back to me.

“Thanks, anyway,” I said.

“I'm glad you got that place,” Liv said. “It has potential. I knitted you the dishcloths.”

“Oh,” I said, dizzying a bit as I tried to keep up with Liv's zigzagging conversational style. “Thank you.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I've got a ton of them. I knit at night while watching TV. Something to do.” She gave a small, sad smile, then added, “We used to make tiramisu for the Welcome Wagon, but Tobias was the cook and he's not here anymore, so…”

Tobias must be the boyfriend who ran off,
I thought. And from the way things looked, Liv was not taking it well. I felt a stab of deep sympathy for her. At that moment, two more pieces of my day snapped together, and I looked at Stacy Easter.

“Easter,” I said thoughtfully. “You related to Bernadette? I mean, Peach?”

“Yeah, she's married to my brother Nick.” Stacy took the glass out of Liv's hand and placed it on the counter. “We've got to go, honey.”

“We can't.” Liv motioned to the drinks. “These drinks are full, and Eliot doesn't drink, and there's no one else here except…”

Liv glanced around. It was me, her, Larry, and some tall, thin, dark-haired guy reading a book in the corner booth. He looked up and locked eyes with Stacy. Something passed between them, and while I couldn't say what it was, I could tell that whoever that guy was, Stacy was not a fan.

“
Desmond
called you to come get me?” Liv said softly, her voice mixing surprise and a little disgust. The tall, thin guy—I presumed that was Desmond—returned his attention to his book.

“Let's go,” Stacy said, tugging on Liv's arm, and Liv picked up her purse and stood without a word of resistance.

“It was nice to meet you, Eliot,” Liv said as Stacy herded her out the door.

I waited a moment for my eyes to readjust to the dimness again, then picked up the two gin and tonics and headed over to the booth where Desmond was sitting. Seamus lumbered along behind me.

“Hi,” I said, putting the drinks down in front of him. “Larry made me buy these, but I don't drink during the day.”

He raised his head, looking up at me with intelligent brown eyes and cheekbones that could cut glass. His hair was wavy and a little unkempt, but he still cut a fine figure in his pressed black shirt and pants. There was something elegant about him, and a little strange, which I liked. I could tell by his clothes alone that he wasn't from around here, where the prevailing fashion seemed to be construction-worker shabby, and there was something about the way he obviously didn't fit in that made me feel more comfortable around him.

“I don't drink much, either.” With long, delicate fingers, he motioned toward the full beer in front of him. It had been sitting there so long that the condensation had dribbled down to create a small pool of water at the base of the glass.

“Huh.” I sat down across from him in the booth. “What are you doing in a bar, then?”

“I imagine the same thing you're doing.” He flashed something that seemed to be an attempt at a polite smile, but really made it clear he was tolerating my intrusion on his solitude out of civility, and not a great desire to talk to me. That made me like him even more.

“And what am I doing here?” I prodded. I didn't care much if he wanted to talk to me, I just didn't want to go back to that house without any answers. Not yet.

“Absorbing the atmosphere.” He said it completely deadpan, and even though he came off a bit cold and rude, I felt instantly comfortable around him. It was better to have someone be rude and let you know where you stand than charm you so much you couldn't see the hits coming. Being married to Judd had taught me that, at least.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“About a year,” he said, and it was then that I noticed the light touch of aristocratic England in his tone.

He has an accent,
I thought.
Run.

But instead of leaving, I pulled the picture of Judd out of my back pocket and slid it across the booth table to him.

“Have you ever seen this guy?”

Desmond picked up the picture and held it in the light. He studied it for a while, then shook his head and handed it back to me. “I'm sorry. Is he missing?”

“No.” I sighed, dropping the picture on the table. “I know where he is.”

“All right.” Desmond put his hand back on his book but didn't open it, a polite gesture to let me know that if I wanted to leave, I could do so without offending him, but if I wanted to stay, he'd tolerate my presence a little while longer.

“Being and Nothingness,”
I said, reading the spine of his book. “Sartre will make you jump off a bridge, you know that, right?”

He smiled, and there was a slight glint of surprise in his eyes, the same surprise I usually see when people discover I've read books. “You're not a fan, I take it.”

“Of the books? No,” I said. “I like the letters.”

One eyebrow rose. “The ones he wrote to Simone de Beauvoir?”

I nodded. “Yeah. They're both so dense and pretentious in their philosophical texts, but the letters they wrote…” I smiled, remembering how I'd felt when I'd read the letters, like I was slipping into a cozy, warm robe, fresh from the dryer on a cold day. “They weren't trying so hard, you know? She was one of the world's most kick-you-in-the-balls feminists, and he called her ‘My dear little girl,' and she
liked
it. She could just be a woman with him. Don't get me wrong, she was a hot mess, but he knew it and loved her anyway and there's something hopeful in that. A nutty lid for every crazy pot, that kind of thing.”

“Hmmm,” he said noncommittally. “I haven't read the letters.”

“You should. The things they wrote to each other were more real and meaningful than any other work either of them ever did. I mean, the guy is famous for saying, ‘Hell is other people,' and yet the only reason anyone reads
Being and Nothingness
is so that other people will be impressed. What kind of messed-up legacy is that?”