“Oh, so you’re our new Yank.” He’s obviously Nettie’s husband, based on his Irish accent. Well, and the fact that he’s working here. He takes a mug from under the counter and pulls on the tap. “Nettie told me you’d checked in.”
Swirls of amber liquid fill the glass, making my mouth water. “Abby Carson.”
“We were hoping you might pop down for dinner, but Nettie thought you’d be too tired.” He gestures with his head to the woman I met earlier today, who is returning to the bar with an empty tray.
She has cleaned up from her afternoon of gardening and is now dressed in a smart white shirt and gray slacks. “Welcome, Abby! Glad you could join us.”
"Just for a quick bite while I read my book, then off to bed."
Nettie smiles at me but talks to her husband. "Abby here likes to be alone."
"We'll have to change that, then won't we?" he says, sliding the glass to me.
"No, you won't," I say, matching his cheerful tone.
He laughs and points at me. "Oh, she's a quick one."
"Quick and dangerous," I mutter, looking down at my book again as a clear sign I'm not joking.
Instead of taking the hint, he says, "We’re transplants like you. Moved here from Dublin thirty years ago. Never looked back. This here’s God’s country.”
Nettie steps behind the bar and starts loading the tray with cutlery and napkins. “So, what brings you to our little corner of the world, Abby? We were speculating last night after Eunice dropped off your key. This mug head thought you were running from the law, but I said it’s more likely you’re running from a bad man.” She leans in and gives me a conspiratorial look.
“Now, is that any way to talk about your loving husband?” He holds out his hand to me. “I’m Peter, by the way. Just think of me as the poor bloke who fell in love with the cruel-but-beautiful Nettie when he was still wearing short pants.”
I laugh in spite of myself and shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“So?” they both say at the same time.
“What?” I’m momentarily confused, then remember they want to know why I’m here. I give them a serious look, glancing around the room, then lean in toward them and lower my voice. “Peter’s right. I’m on the run.”
“I knew it!” He slaps his hand on the bar. “Ha! Took forty-two years, woman, but by God, I’m finally right about something!”
His wife gives him a disgusted look. “She’s not serious, you big dope!”
His face falls, and he turns back to me, utterly dejected.
I give him an apologetic little shrug. “I’m not, but it’s a much better story than the truth.”
A man’s voice cuts across the room. “Miss! Excuse me, can we get some more water?”
Nettie smiles at him. “Of course, love. On my way.”
Peter passes off a jug to her and she’s gone, smoothly making her way through the maze of tables and diners.
A bell dings from behind a door next to the bar. Peter disappears, then, before the door stops swinging, he’s back, arms loaded with four plates of food. The restaurant is a swirl of activity, my hosts getting so busy they have no time to continue peppering me with personal questions. Thank God. I can be left alone for a few minutes. Although, now that I’m not talking with anyone, I feel like the girl at the homecoming dance wearing glasses, braces, and headgear. Being alone is so much more comfortable when you’re by yourself.
I glance around and spot an elderly couple at a table by the window smiling at me. They’re wearing matching blue sweater vests. The woman raises her wineglass to me and says, “You must be Abby. Welcome to South Haven!”
What the…?
The man, who I assume is her husband, adds, “We’re excited to have a real New Yorker among us.”
I give them a flash of teeth and a quick nod, then return my gaze to my book in a way that says no small talk for this lady. But instead of reading, I try to decide how much to reveal about myself to my nosy neighbors. It’s kind of nice not to be getting the ‘pity face’ for once. Maybe I could pretend I’m just a single woman—a novelist who travels the world for her art, breaking hearts wherever she goes. Or I could tell them the truth—that my dead husband came to me in a dream and told me I should move here. That actually might be the most effective way to go, since people tend to shy away from crazy. Or I could just be a woman of mystery who never gives a direct answer.
A lull brings Nettie and Peter both back to the bar at the same time. She sets her tray on the counter. “Well now, back to what brought you here. Let’s have it.”
I stare at her for a second, then hear myself say, “I lost my husband last year, and it was time to make a fresh start.” So much for being mysterious.
