CHAPTER 1
MAREN
Three things I know for certain on a summer Friday night at the Black Lantern bar in Dark River: Dolly Parton’sJoleneis stuck on repeat, my old boots are slowly torturing my feet to death, and my best friend Lark is about to declare her independence from the entire male species. Again.
“I’m serious this time,” she announces, sliding an empty pint glass across the bar with the authority of someone who’s made this declaration at least once a month since her divorce. “Men are officially canceled. I’m going to get three more cats and name them all after different cheeses.”
“You’reallergicto cats.” I pull the tap for table six’s IPA, muscle memory taking over while my mind wanders to the notebook hidden under the register. Twenty pages of crossed-out first lines and exactly zero second ones. “And lactose intolerant.”
“Details.” Lark grabs a scoop and attacks the ice bin. “The point is, I’m done. Finished. The vagina isclooooosedfor business.”
A customer at the end of the bar snorts into his whiskey. I catch his eye and give him my best conspiratorial grin. “She’s just upset because the last guy she dated thought explaining his fantasy football lineup counted as foreplay.”
The customer—Bill, here every Friday since his wife passed last year—chuckles into his drink. “My Helen used to complain that I thought talking about fishing was pillow talk.”
“That sounds like her,” I say, sliding the bowl of pretzels his way. “But I have a suspicion she loved your fishing stories anyway. Just like she loved those terrible jokes you used to tell at karaoke.”
“Oh God,” he says, grabbing a pretzel. “You remember those?”
“Hard to forget. You’d grab that microphone after a few beers and turn Tuesday karaoke nights into your personal comedy hour.” I grin at the memory. “‘Why don’t fish play basketball? They’re afraid of the net.’ That one was my personal favorite.”
He laughs. “Helen always groaned at that one. Said if she had to hear it one more time, she’d hide the microphone.”
“But she never did.” I give him a quick wink before turning to help the couple just approaching the bar.
Seven years at the Black Lantern and I’ve learned that remembering the small things matters more than perfect pours. It’s a gift Susan Midnight taught me, back when I was twenty-one and desperate, using my parents’ life insurance money to buy this place from her. “Every person who walks through that door,” she used to say, “is carrying something heavy. We get to make it lighter, even if it’s just for one drink.”
Now, The Black Lantern is the kind of place families come for nachos and burgers at five, kids sprawled on the floor with our board games while their parents steal a moment to actually finish a conversation. It’s also the kind of place where everyonewants to be on a summer Friday night. A place where everyone’s welcome.
Tonight, we’re packed with locals seeking comfort, weekenders up from Seattle looking for small-town charm, and me trying to be exactly what each of them needs.
“Order up!” Jayson calls from the kitchen.
“Kitchen closed thirty minutes ago,” I remind him, not looking up from the gin and tonic I’m building.
“Corner booth special!”
I turn and spot Eleanor in her usual corner. She must have slipped in when I was in the storage room. She was one of my first regulars when I bought this place seven years ago and she still comes in most Fridays, always with a romance novel. Tonight she’s deep in a paperback with a shirtless Viking on the cover, completely absorbed.
I finish the G&T I’m making and deliver it to the waiting customer, then pour Eleanor’s chardonnay and grab the bowl from the pass, smiling at the extra oyster crackers Jayson piled on the side. We all have a soft spot for Eleanor.
I make my way through the bar, under the exposed beams twinkling with miniature bulb lights I hung myself. The walls hold curated local art alongside Susan’s photos of Dark River through the decades, photos she collected over twenty years while the bar was hers.
“Special delivery,” I say, setting the bowl and wine down in front of Eleanor. “Chowder to go with your wine.”
She looks up from her book, delighted. “That sweet boy. Though I did just come for a drink tonight.”
“Sure you did.” I grin as she reaches for the crackers. I’ve always loved Eleanor’s weekly book reports. “Vikings this week?”
“Vikings who time travel,” she says, showing me the cover. “Lots of, um... sword fighting lessons.”
“Of course there are,” I say.
“Chapter twelve wasquiteeducational,” she says with a perfectly straight face, making me laugh.
“Eleanor, you’re terrible.”
“I’m seventy-three, honey. I’m allowed.” She winks. “Now go on, dear. Don’t waste your Friday night on me.”
