The Lives Between Us (18 page)

She left the bar to swipe a worn wooden table with her wet cloth, then laid down four sets of silverware, tightly wrapped in the hunter green cloth napkins. Skye hummed quietly to the soft Irish ballads as she prepared for the early evening dinners.

Routine mindless activity helped pass the time and made Skye feel productive. She enjoyed working Saturday afternoons after the lunch rush, when the bar quieted as if taking a nap before the hectic evening crowd.

Checking on her only customers, Skye made a quick trip into the kitchen and then returned with the Kelly’s drinks.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Kelly. How’re you today?” Skye set a plate with a carafe of hot water two lemons, and a chamomile tea bag in front of Mrs. Kelly and cleared their luncheon plates.

The Kellys were a charming elderly couple who came in most Saturdays and sometimes for the live Irish band Friday nights too. Not having grown up with any grandparents, these sweet people were what Skye would have wished for.

“Well, hello there, Ms. Skylar Kendall.” Mr. Kelly’s smile lifted his wrinkles and lit his rheumy blue eyes. “And how have you been?”

Mrs. Kelly frowned at her watch and tapped it with a boney index finger. “Old thing doesn’t work, Jimmy. I need a new watch. One with a big face so I can read it. Eyes not what they used to be, you know.” Mrs. Kelly tapped Skye’s hand as she eased out of the booth, whispering, “I’m going to just let you two chat while I visit the toilet.”

Skye nodded and turned back to Mr. Kelly. “Okay, and you?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” He leaned sideways out of the booth and peered at his wife’s receding figure. Lowering his voice, he confided, “I worry about the missus some—I don’t mind tellin’ you.”

Skye moved closer and lowered her voice. “Why? Are her eyes that bad?”

He winced and slowly shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with her eyes, and that watch works just fine—I got it new for her at Christmas last. She just...at times, she has trouble reading it—almost as if she forgot how.” His normally twinkling eyes clouded with worry. “She’s just a little off, ya know? The forgettin’ thing is just a part of getting older, but it’s the other that worries me. And then sometimes I can’t tell if it’s just me getting old, or her.”

“You? You’ll never be old, Mr. Kelly.”

“Aww, go on with you.” He swiped a creased hand through the air. “We all get old, pet. But it sure ain’t easy. I’m apt to leave the kettle on til it runs dry, but my Maureen.” He shook his head sadly. “She’s after making me feed the dog every night.” He looked up at Skye out of the corner of his eye. “Bran’s been dead goin’ on two years now. But still I gotta put the food out—she won’t have it any other way.”

“That’s a little eccentric,” Skye allowed.

“And when our Tommy was visitin’ and went to pick up the mail at the end of the lane, she must of asked me five times in as many minutes where he’d got to. It’s worrisome I tell you.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe you should talk to her doctor.” Skye looked toward the restrooms in time to see Mrs. Kelly leave the ladies room. She paused, looked right at Skye, then behind her, before pushing into the men’s restroom.

“Be right back.” Skye hurried into the men’s room, relieved to see it was empty but for Mrs. Kelly, who stood in front of the urinals, frowning at the unfamiliar setting.

“There you are.” Skye darted forward, wrapped an arm around her slight shoulders, and guided her out of the men’s room into the narrow hallway. “We need to light the hall better back here.”

Mrs. Kelly looked up at Skye. “Did you remodel, dear? I don’t remember it being so confusing.”

Not in the five years Skye had been coming here. “We did. I’m sorry. I’ll get a brighter bulb tomorrow.” Skye returned her to her husband. “Here we are. Now Molly’s a little busy in the back right now, but is there anything I can get you? Some dessert maybe?”

“No dessert, dear, but I
would
appreciate some nice hot tea,” Mrs. Kelly said as she smoothed the emerald cloth napkin on her lap.

“It’s right there in front of you, Maureen, along with your extra lemons.” Mr. Kelly pointed to the little silver carafe in front of his wife.

“Oh, so it is. You’re a dote to order it for me.” She beamed at her husband. “He’s always thinkin’ of me.”

“That he is,” Skye agreed as she moved back to the bar. It saddened her to watch this sweet old couple. Mr. Kelly’s heart was breaking right in front of her. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“We will, dear,” Mrs. Kelly said.

“Thank you,” Mr. Kelly said. “Don’t ever get old, young lady.”

She grinned. “I’m not so sure I like the alternative.”

Skye was relieved when Mr. Kelly smiled back, humor replacing the deep sadness in his eyes. “Too true. Too true.”

Rounding the polished wood bar, Skye grabbed a wine glass sank it in warm soapy water and with efficient twists, cleaned it before taking it out and running it under the steaming hot tap water. As she turned the water off and set the glass in the draining rack to air dry, between the stacked bottles of liquor, she glimpsed a familiar figure in the wall mirror.

Skye’s heart jumped in her chest, and she did a double take. Mark had just walked in. Back still to the door, she averted her eyes from the mirror with the childish thought that if she couldn’t see Mark, then he couldn’t see her. What was he doing here?

Skye scanned the back sink area for glasses to wash—an excuse to keep her hidden behind the bar while she sorted out her feelings. The sudden, compelling need to not face Mark surprised Skye; she wasn’t shy. She didn’t have a shy cell in her body, yet she couldn’t deny her strong desire to slide down the drain with the dirty soap water rather than turn around and speak to him.

She peeked in the mirror at the now empty doorway. Mark probably didn’t come in to see her. After all, this was a great little bar with tasty food. Perhaps he was meeting someone. Another woman? Skye hoped not. She didn’t have the right to be jealous. They’d never agreed to be exclusive.

After spending another three minutes restocking the gin, vodka, and wine, she took a deep breath and slowly turned around, fully prepared to paste a bright, welcoming smile on her face should Mark be sitting directly behind her. The bar was empty.

She looked at the vacant door, then scanned the sparsely occupied room. The intimate booths were the favored seats and filled first, but she only saw the Kellys finishing up their drinks. A family with a teenager occupied another booth. Had Mark left? Had he even been there or had her guilty subconscious conjured him in her mirror like the evil queen in the Snow White fairy tale?

Shoulders drooping, Skye grabbed the checkered dishtowel and began scrubbing the spotless counter in front of her. After all the ignored calls, she was silly to think Mark would come to her.

“Skye?”

She turned toward Molly, the pub owner, who inclined her curly gray head to the right. At the end of the long mahogany bar, tucked around the rounded corner, sat Mark. With hands clasped together resting atop the counter, his steady, hungry gaze encircled Skye in a way that should have made her uncomfortable with its intensity, but strangely she felt only relief and happiness. A nervous smile trembled on her lips.

“Got it,” Skye said. Her stomach jumped with nerves. Without breaking Mark’s gaze, she made her way to the end of the bar. The slight beard shadowing his face should have made him seem menacing or scruffy; instead he looked sexy as hell. As she slowly neared, a crooked smile lifted his lips, jump-starting her heart. She’d missed him.

Tossing the damp cloth on a stack of Heineken bottles, Skye bit her lip and smiled. “Hi.”

Now with only three feet between them, the warm welcome in his eyes allowed her nervousness to slip away. “Skylar. You’re looking well.”

“You, too.” She blinked at him.
Skylar?
He’d never called her by her full name before. “What’re you doing here?”

Mark glanced down at the napkin he was toying with. After a few seconds he pursed his lips. “I wanted to see you. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

“I’m sorry, too. After I had time to think, I can see how it all could have snowballed.”

Mark watched her, wary, as if waiting for the catch. “So you forgive me?”

“Sure.” Skye shrugged, suddenly needing to downplay how much he’d hurt her. “It’s not as if we were that close.”

Mark stopped spinning the cardboard coaster in front of him. “What do you mean? We were close.”

Skye felt heat climb her neck and blossom in her cheeks. She ignored his reference to their having slept together. “It’s not like we’d been dating long. We don’t really know that much about each other.”

“Yes, we do.”

“No, we don’t.”

Mark dropped the coaster he’d been fiddling with. “I know you.” He placed his forearms on the bar and leaned over them. “You love to drench your popcorn in butter—the real stuff, not margarine. You had an appendectomy when you were eight. Braces at fourteen. Tulips are your favorite flower. You twist your hair around your index finger when you’re thinking.

“Heath Candy Crunch is your favorite ice cream. You’ll do bodily harm to anybody who tries to take a bite of steak off your plate, but you’ll happily share your dessert. You have a secret passion for country music—though why it’s something to be ashamed of I don’t know.”

Her mouth popped open with an instant denial, but she couldn’t. His observations had been spot on. “Well, I guess it’s me who doesn’t know you.”

“You know me.”

Skye shook her head. “Not really.”

“Sure you do.”

She arched an eyebrow. “If I did, I would’ve known that Edward Hastings is like a brother to you.”

Mark eased back onto his stool. “Touché.” They were silent for a few seconds. “My favorite color’s blue, I love to read, ski, play soccer, hockey, tennis, and golf. Favorite ice cream is Cookies and Cream—Dreyers. Love sushi, hate Mexican food—I know, it’s weird. Everybody likes Mexican. I’d become a vegetarian if I didn’t love chicken and beef so much. Oh, and I’m good with animals and kids.” He paused. “What else do you want to know?”

Skye leaned her hip against the counter. “Something nobody else knows. Something not even your best friend knows.”

“Okay.” Mark slouched in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m going to have to think on that. Something...nobody...knows...”

“Bye, dear,” Mrs. Kelly called out. Mr. Kelly placed his plaid cap on his balding head and sent Skye a wink.

She waved and flashed them a smile. “See you.”

The commotion of the elderly couple leaving reminded Skye of her job. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Tanqueray on the rocks. Make it a double,” Mark said.

“Double?” Skye raised an eyebrow.

“I’m on vacation.”

“Twist or an olive?”

“Both.” Mark sat up straight. “Okay, here’s something. Radishes make me deathly ill.”

Skye grabbed a clean seven-ounce tumbler and dipped it in the ice chest, shaking lose the extra cubes. “Deathly ill? Radishes?” She faced him with her hands on her hips. “You have a radish allergy?”

“Yup. I get chilled, shake uncontrollably, and puke my brains out.”

“Sounds like the stomach flu—or a hangover.”

“Worse.”

“And nobody else knows?”

He shook his head. “Only my mom. Most people think I just don’t like them.”

“Why haven’t you told anybody?”

“I...” Cheeks reddening, Mark shrugged. “It’s stupid. Who’s ever heard of an allergy to radishes?”

He was probably right. Grabbing the gin, Skye poured a generous double shot, speared a couple of olives and pushed it in, then rimmed the glass with a lemon rind before twisting it over the drink and dropping it in, too. She laid a fresh napkin beneath his drink. “Be right back.”

Skye trotted to the kitchen refrigerator, grabbed what she needed out of the crisper, then returned to the bar. She slapped the radish on the counter. “I don’t believe you.”

Mark’s eyes widened and fixed on the little red vegetable as if it were cyanide. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” Skye shook her head, her expression challenging.

Mark’s eyes never left the radish as if it were a hand grenade that would explode the second he looked away. Slowly he lifted his head to stare at her. Sweat beaded his upper lip, but his expression remained inscrutable.

She’d be willing to bet Mark had never backed down from a dare in his life, but this one held no win for him. If he ate the radish and got violently sick, he’d prove he wasn’t lying—but he’d be absolutely miserable. If he ate it and didn’t get sick, he still lost. They were done.

Mark pursed his lips, sighed hard and scowled at the vegetable. In one quick movement, he drained his drink, slapped the empty glass on the counter, and reached for the radish.

Skye snatched the vegetable from beneath his hand and threw it in the garbage. “You’re crazy, Dutton. I was joking.” Eyes wide, her mouth dropped open. “You were really going to do it, weren’t you?”

“If that’s what it takes to make things right.”

“We’re fine. I forgave you days ago.” She lowered her eyes and smiled. “Though that was a lovely apology.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

“In that case, I’ll have another drink. Same.”

Skye fixed another double gin martini.

Mark sipped his drink. “What were you thinking when I came in? You had a lost expression on your face.”

“I’ve decided you were right. I’m going to honor Niki by making peace with your pal and see if I can’t change his mind about embryo stem cells.” Maybe making Mark happy by pretending to make nice with his best friend would also allow her to keep an eye on the good senator. Who knew what useful information she might luck into? “I’m going to interview him the beginning of March.”

Mark’s hand stalled over the snack mix. “March?”

Skye crossed her arms and leaned back against the bar. “He’s a busy public servant. That’s the soonest I could get an interview.”

“I could get you in before then.”

“No thanks.” Skye jumped in as his mouth opened. “I appreciate the offer, but I need to do this on my own. No favoritism.”