Page 8 of The Guardian

"Okay," he said, "but I'll hold you to your promise."

She laughed and nodded toward his car. "Come on."

Richard warmed to the sound of her laughter, the first time he'd heard it this evening.

She's a cautious one, he observed. Kiss her once, and she seemed to question it all. But allow her to lead, and the caution seemed to fade. He knew she was trying to figure him out, trying to match his story to the man she saw sitting across from her. But there was no mistaking the sympathy on her face the moment she realized how similar they were.

Six

The Sailing Clipper was a bar typical of small coastal towns: Dimly lit and smelling of mildew, cigarettes, and stale booze, it was popular with blue-collar workers, who crowded around the bar ordering Budweisers in volume. Along the far wall, the stage overlooked a slightly warped dance floor that seldom emptied when bands were playing. A few dozen tables, carved with the initials of most everyone who'd walked through the door, were arranged haphazardly, unmatching chairs circling them.

The group on stage, Ocracoke Inlet, was something of a regular at the Clipper. The owner, a one-legged man people called Leaning Joe, liked the group because it played songs that put people in a good mood, which made them want to stay, which in turn was good for business as they ordered booze in quantity. They played nothing original, nothing daring, nothing that couldn't be found in jukeboxes around the country, which was exactly the reason why, Mike thought, everyone liked them so much. Really liked them. When they played people came in droves, which wasn't the case with the bands he played with. Never once, however, had they asked Mike to fill in, even though he was on a first-name basis with most of the group. Second-rate band or not, the thought was depressing.

But then, the whole evening had been depressing. Hell, the whole week had been depressing, for that matter. Ever since Monday, when Julie came by to pick up her keys and casually (casually!) mentioned that she'd be going out with Richard on Saturday instead of spending tonight with them, Mike had been in a funk. He'd been mumbling to himself about the unfairness of it all with such regularity that a couple of customers had even commented on it to Henry. Worse, Mike couldn't summon the courage to talk to Julie the rest of the week, knowing that if he did, she'd press him on what seemed to be bothering him. He wasn't ready to tell her the truth, but seeing her walk by the shop every day reminded him that he had no idea what to do about the whole situation.

Sure, Henry and Emma were great, and he liked spending time with them. But let's be honest here-on a night like this, Mike knew he was a third wheel in this little group. They had each other to go home to. Mike, on the other hand, had zip, unless he counted the occasional mouse that scurried through his kitchen. They had each other to dance with; Mike had to sit at the table alone half the time, reading beer labels as he peeled them off the bottles. And when Emma did ask him to dance, which she'd done regularly tonight, Mike would head to the floor, his head hung low, hoping to God that no one would see him dancing with his sister.

Sister. Sister-in-law. Whatever. Technicalities weren't important at a time like this. When she asked, it still made him feel as if his mother had offered to go with him to the prom because he couldn't get a date.

This was not the way things were supposed to be tonight. Julie was supposed to be here. Julie was supposed to be the fourth wheel. Julie was supposed to be the one dancing with him, smiling over a drink, laughing and flirting. And she would have been if it wasn't for Richard.

Richard.

He hated that guy.

Didn't know him. Didn't want to know him. Didn't matter. Simply thinking the name caused him to scowl, and he'd been scowling a lot, all evening long.

Watching his brother carefully, Henry finished the last of his Coors and set the bottle off to the side.

"I think maybe you ought to cut back on that cheap beer you're drinking," Henry commented. "Looks like it's giving you gas."

Mike looked up. Henry was smirking as he reached for Emma's bottle of beer. She'd gone off to the bathroom, and considering the ever-present lines in a crowd this size, Henry knew she might be a while. He'd already ordered another to replace it.

"I'm drinking the same stuff you are."

"True," Henry said, "but you have to realize that some men can handle it better than others."

"Yeah, yeah . . . keep talking."

"My, aren't we in a mood this evening," Henry said.

"You've been riding me all night."

"Considering the way you've been acting lately, you deserve it. We had a great dinner, I've been engaging you with my sparkling wit all night long, and Emma's been making sure that you're not always sitting alone at the table like some loser whose date just stood him up."

"That's not funny."

"It's not meant to be. I'm simply speaking the truth. Think of me as your very own burning bush. When in doubt, when you need answers, you come to me. For instance-you need to lighten up about this. You're letting it ruin the whole night."

"Look-I'm doing my best, okay?"

"Oh," Henry said, cocking an eyebrow, "I see. Sorry. I guess I'm just imagining all the deep sighs."

Mike pulled the rest of the label off his bottle and crumpled it into a ball. "Yeah, yeah. You're a funny guy, Henry. You should head to Vegas with your act. Believe me, I'd be the first to pack your bags."

Henry leaned back in his seat. "Aw, c'mon. I'm just having a little fun."

"Yeah-at my expense."

Henry held up his hands, looking innocent. "You're the only one here. Who else can I pick on?"

Mike glared at him before turning away.

"All right, all right . . . I'm sorry already," Henry said. "But listen-I'll say it again. Just because she's out with Richard doesn't mean that you've lost your chance forever. Instead of moping around, use it as a challenge. Maybe this should inspire you to ask her out."

"I was planning on that."

"You were?"

"Yeah. After we talked on Monday, I decided to do exactly what you said. Tonight was supposed to be the night."

Henry studied him. "Good," he finally said, "I'm proud of you."

Mike waited for more, but Henry stayed silent.

"What? No jokes this time?"

"No reason to make jokes."

"Because you don't believe me?"

"No, I believe you. I have to, I guess."

"Why?"

"Because I'll get to see you do it."

"Huh?"

"The gods are with you, little brother."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Henry raised his chin, nodding in the direction of the door.

"Guess who just walked in?"

Richard stood beside Julie just inside the door as she craned her neck, looking for a place to sit.

"I didn't realize it would be so crowded," Richard shouted over the noise. "Are you sure you want to stay?"

"C'mon-it'll be fun. You'll see."

Though he flashed a quick smile of agreement, Richard was doubtful. This place struck him as a refuge for those who drank to escape their problems, people who were desperate for the companionship of a stranger. It was, he thought, the kind of atmosphere that promoted the notion that everyone here, whether with someone or not, was up for grabs. Julie didn't belong in a place like this any more than he did.

On stage, the band had started up again and people were trading places on the floor, some heading in, others taking a break. He leaned in close to Julie's ear, and she could feel his breath against her. "Let's get something to drink," he said, "before we find a place to sit down."

Julie nodded. "Sure. You lead the way. The bar's straight ahead."

As Richard began squeezing between people, he reached back, offering his hand to Julie. Without hesitation, she took it. When they reached the bar, he held on to it as he raised his other hand to get the bartender's attention.

"So that's him, huh?" Emma said.

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