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“Oh. Um, I’m Elizabeth Darcy. Or Lizzie. Or Liza. Or even Ellie. Ianswer to all.”
“I willneveranswer to Ellie,” she said with a shudder, confusing me.
She waved the men away, and they obeyed, claiming the table behind ours. “Do you know your name is used in a Jane Austen novel? Well, post-marriage?”
“I do. My mother lovesPride and Prejudice. She’s fond of saying she only agreed to go on a date with my father because his name was William Darcy.” Thankfully, the spicy ballet instructor and mild-mannered accountant had hit it off.
“Was?”
Sharp pangs cut through me, and my fingers flew tothe penny hanging from a chain around my neck. The coin my dad carried in his pocket until the day he’d died. A reminder, he’d said, that money could only take you so far. You required wisdom to go the rest of the way.
How I missed his quiet insight. “He passed years ago.”
“Interesting. You sound sad about it. I cheered when mine died.” Isobel sipped her drink. “Are you comin’ or goin’ from our great land, Elizabeth?”
Breezing past her first comment because I had no idea how to respond, I checked the time on my phone and said, “Going. In thirty-seven minutes, I’ll be on my way to the airport.” A groan bubbled up. “I’m supposed to attend a welcome party when I get home.”
“And where is it you call home?” she asked.
“The United States. America.” When she arched her brow once again, I added, “Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.”
“Ah.” She pursed her lips in distaste.
Why distaste? I loved my home state.
“Are you married?” Her gaze fell to my unadorned ring finger. “Or do you have a significant other, perhaps?”
Her brusque manner was turning a polite attempt to pass the time into an interrogation. I proceeded anyway, ready to launch my own inquiry. “No significant other.” As soon as things with August started to fizzle, I’d bailed. A pattern, my mother claimed. I’d liked him, I had, but we’d begun arguing even about the smallest issues. Give me peace or give me solitude.
My last impromptu date with a stranger—courtesy of Momma—hadn’t gone well. The moment the guy discovered my profession, he’d smiled all creepy-like and asked how I disciplined bad boys. Things only got worse from there.
“How about you?” I asked Red. “Are you dating? Married?”
“No’ single, but no’ married either. No’ quite yet,” she muttered, then drained the rest of her whiskey. With a determined wave that displayed perfect, painted nails, she signaled for another drink.
In a blink, the twenty-something bartender arrived with the beverage in hand. Had his feet grown wings?
“Anythin’ else I can do fer ye, Miss Campbell?” His gaze darted to the men, and he shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable.
She didn’t bother responding; she simply waved him away as she’d done to the others. He, too, obeyed. After bowing.
Was Isobel Campbell some kind of royalty?
“Wait. C’mere,” she called, and again, the bartender dashed over, eager to please. “Bring me one of those.” She pointed to my cranberry juice.
“Aye. Right away.” He rushed off and returned in a matter of moments.
Isobel claimed the glass, inspected the liquid, and thrust the beverage in my direction.
For me? I accepted with reluctance, unsure how to politely refuse. “Thank you.”
“You have a vocation, obviously,” she said, lifting the new whiskey to lips as red as her hair. “What is it you do?”
Obviously? I almost rolled my eyes. Despite my awkwardness, I like who I am as a person. I’m honest, loyal, and downright dependable. Three rare and highly valuable traits, in my opinion. “I’m an elementary school teacher. Special education.”
She wrinkled her nose again. “I see.”
Her derision failed to leave a mark. “And you?” Withoutthought, I took a long swig of my complimentary mocktail. Mmm. Even better than the first. “What is ityoudo?”
