Just One Thing (11 page)

“I hadn’t lost him then; I’d just misplaced him for a bit,” I explained to Sam.

“And after your son’s graduation, you started seeing him again?”

“Well, not just then. It was a start, that touch. But it—Lee and I and what we had—we didn’t find our way back fast or sudden.”

“What—”

“No more tonight, Sam. I . . .” I paused, wanting to explain. “This thing on Mondays—whatever it is—it means something to me. It’s cathartic. But to say it all at once . . .” I just shook my head.

He nodded. “And about earlier, I’m sorry. It’s just that you don’t strike me as the type who gives up. You didn’t with Grace. You fought. And I admired that because I did give up. If it hadn’t been for Grid . . .” He shrugged. “If it hadn’t been for him, I might not have been able to start again.”

“You are not my mother. You’re not my commander. Get the hell out.” Grid moved toward him. “Get the hell away from me.”

“Tut, tut, tut. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? Kiss any women with that mouth? Probably not, because at the rate you’re moving, you couldn’t catch a woman to save your sorry ass. And you and I both know, with a face like that, you’ve got to do the catching, because no woman’s going to come to you on her own.”

“Grid . . .” Sam left the threat hanging because, truth was, he couldn’t think of a threat he hadn’t tried on Grid.

His friend had relocated to Pittsburgh and found an apartment near the rehab center. Sam had protested, saying Grid should go home, but Grid assured him that the only home he’d ever had was with his friends in the service, so Pittsburgh was as good a place as any. He got a job at a local bar working evenings so that he could spend his days torturing Sam.

“I’m tired,” Sam said.

“Me too. Tired of all your pussy-boy whining. Now, get up and get your ass on the bars.”

Sam flipped him the bird.

Grid reached down, hoisted Sam up, and dragged him with very little care or gentleness to the bars. “Walk.”

“Mr. Gridley,” the therapist hollered.

Sam could have told her it was useless. Just as he’d known himself it was useless. “Bite me, Grid.”

“Listen, there were guys who didn’t get to come home. If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for them. You owe them, Sam.”

Sam swung at Grid, who neatly ducked out of the way, and Sam found himself sitting on the floor.

“Great. Get mad. I don’t care. Just get your ass up and walk the bar. You get out of here, and maybe I’ll leave you alone.”

“Promise?”

Grid wouldn’t let the therapist help him up, nor would he offer a hand himself. He waited and watched until Sam clawed his way back up to the bars, then slowly walked to the other end.

“I would have given up if it wasn’t for Grid. I would have just sat back and stopped. But he pushed me. The therapists yelled about insurance issues and tried to keep him away. He didn’t listen to them any more than he listened to me. He just kept hammering away at me. He wouldn’t let me quit. I didn’t imagine you giving up and the thought of it pissed me off.”

I snorted. “You think you know me from whatever this is, but Sam, you don’t know me at all yet.”

“But you’ll tell me?”

I wanted to say no. I wanted to let him live with his illusion of me being strong, just like Gracie had. But I knew I’d come too far to lie to him now, either by saying the words or by omitting them.

Lies of omission were still lies.

“I’ll tell you. But I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

“Lexie, it’s your mother,” Mom announced over the phone late the next afternoon. She’d always started conversations that way, as if I wouldn’t know who she was unless she told me. “I’m coming out for dinner.”

“Mom, today’s not a good day for me. I’m working on this project—” I’d been stitching a graduation cap into the tapestry. I’d worked on it all day today.

“Lexie, you and I both know that no day is a good day for you anymore. There haven’t been any good days in a long, long time.”

That was true a few months ago, but not anymore.

Mondays were good days.

It was as if talking to Sam brightened . . . well, everything. I felt the need to work again. I felt . . . I searched for a word. More alive.

I’d tried therapy, but I’d just ended up sitting across from some bottle-redheaded woman, staring at her and trying not to think about how much money I’d wasted in order to sit and stare at her.

But at The Corner Bar, for the price of a bottle of Killian’s, I’d found my couch.

“Mom—”

“Don’t cook. We’re going out.” She hung up.

“Great,” I said to Angus. “Looks like I’m going out on a Tuesday.”

I glanced in the mirror. Then did a double take. I looked . . . well, haphazard. As if I’d taken a shower and thrown on the first clean clothes I’d found, then pulled my wet hair back in a ponytail.

I probably looked that way because that’s exactly what I’d done. My mother wouldn’t believe I was okay if I didn’t look the part. Marion Jones Morrow was a firm believer in putting on a social-face. “Looks like I’d better do some spit and polishing first.”

Angus barked.

“Everyone’s a critic,” I muttered.

By the time my mother arrived, I had on a pair of jeans that had no holes and a shirt that Conner hadn’t outgrown or Lee hadn’t passed on to me.

I’d brushed my hair and even put on some eyeliner.

“Well, you look spiffy,” my mother said as I opened the door for her. “For you,” she added.

Mom still lived with the hope that someday I’d clean up properly and be wearing clothes I could introduce her to by name. I hated to shatter that hope, so I simply said, ‘Come on in, Mother.”

She shook her head and remained firmly on the porch. “No. We’re going out. I’m dragging you away from here, at least for a little while.”

Angus hadn’t even bothered getting up from his seat on the couch. I left him there, grabbed my keys and wallet and stuffed them in my pocket, then flipped the lock on the knob and shut the door. “So, where do you want to go?”

“To your bar. I assume they have food?”

I didn’t want to take her to the bar. Maybe it was selfish, but I didn’t want to share it. It was my place. “Maybe we could go into a restaurant in Union City or even Waterford. There’s a restaurant at the old Eagle Hotel. It’s supposed to be fantastic.” The cottage sat about midway between both towns.

“Or we could go to your bar. I drove by it coming in. Come on, I’ll drive.”

My mother was a force of nature. At one time I’d stood against the Marion gale force winds, but though I felt better and stronger, I wasn’t up to fighting against her yet. So we drove to The Corner Bar.

Sam was behind the bar. Jerry was in his normal seat.

I knew they were here every Monday night, but I’d never thought about other days or nights.

They both did a double take.

“My mom,” I explained. “Marion Jones Morrow, this is Jerry—sorry, I don’t know your last name.”

He raked his fingers through his thinning hair—wisps, really—and stood. “Smith. Jerry Smith.” He extended his hand.

My mother was all grace and manners as she shook Jerry’s hand. “Mr. Smith. It’s a pleasure.”

“And this is my friend, Sam. Sam Corner.” I remembered the first time I’d brought Lee home to meet my parents. His reception had been somewhere above frostbite, but just barely. But as I introduced Sam as my friend, my mother smiled at him. “Mr. Corner.”

“Ma’am,” he said with a courtly nod.

“We’re here for dinner,” she announced.

“We have great burgers and I think there’s some chili still in the back.”

It was kind of Sam to offer that much because I’d never eaten food here and wouldn’t have known what my options were.

“Chili, please,” I said.

“Me, too,” Mom said and led me to a booth.

“So this is where you come on Mondays,” she mused as she took in the bar.

I tried to see it as if I were seeing it for the first time. There were signs for various beers on the wall, some framed pictures and . . .

Sam set a glass down in front of me. It wasn’t Killian’s. It was a darker, richer color. Brown, almost black. And the foamy head on the beer was a layer unto itself and showed no signs of dissipating. I knew what it was without asking, but I wasn’t sure how or why.

“I got a keg,” Sam announced, answering the how, but not the why.

“Pardon?” I asked stupidly.

“I was going to surprise you next week. I have a keg of Guinness. Jerry said he’d switch over to it, and I’ve got a sign coming in, so hopefully we’ll have a few regulars try it, too. I waited for you to tap it.”

“You got a keg,” I repeated.

Sam looked embarrassed as he nodded. “I thought I’d see if we could build a following. Might be good marketing. I don’t think any other bar around here carries it on tap. And according to the experts, draught is the only way to drink it.”

He shot my mom a charming smile. “It’s not like other beers, I’ve been told. And when I bought the keg, my dealer told me there’s an art to pouring a pint right. Thank goodness for YouTube. They had more than a hundred videos on how to do it. It’s a two-part method of pouring a pint of Guinness.” He nodded at my glass. “I did okay for a first attempt. But hey, if it takes off, I’ll have it down to a science soon. It’s good business,” he said again.

But we both knew it wasn’t business. It was a gift.

I took his hand and squeezed it. “Thanks.”

He smiled and we just stayed that way for a minute. Me smiling my thanks, holding his hand. Him smiling back at me.

My mom cleared her throat.

“Sorry. Ma’am, what can I get you to drink?”

“I’ll have what she’s having.”

So there I was. At Sam’s on a Tuesday with a pint of Guinness and my mom.

Sam didn’t ask me one-thing.

I didn’t offer one.

And yet, there’d been a moment. Just one small thing. And I’d learned that maybe that’s what life was all about, one thing after another. One small moment. Good or bad.

This one was good. A very good moment.

My mother and I ate in companionable silence. I thought she’d grill me, or tell me how worried she was about me, but she simply ate.

“Mom?”

She looked up, still silent.

“Connie came out a few weeks ago. I told her about the day after dad died, when we went for a walk on the peninsula.”