I nod and start to walk away, but Skip says, “Miss Macey? I have a huge request.”
I turn back to him hesitantly.
He tips his hat and then takes it off politely. “You’re a fountain of information. We got your photo the other day. How about a quote to go along with it?”
I’m dying to say something. But it wouldn’t be fit for print.
Logan’s watching me fight with myself. “Come on, say something.”
I look at him. “Why?”
“Because you’re the one who’s here all the time. So tell your side of things.”
I furrow my brow at him. But his eyes are warm and safe, and I turn to Skip hesitantly. He readies his iPad for my quote, and for just a moment, I get caught up in the attention, in the idea that my side of the story matters.
“It’s not just pieces of The Cowherd walls that are bulletproof,” I say. “If you believe in the legend, then the entire bar seems to be bulletproof from love because Jane Austen’s ghost hasn’t been impressed enough with any wedding yet to open that jail door. I like to say The Cowherd protects us all from wrong love, but maybe I’m just cynical.”
Skip types furiously into his iPad as he takes down every word. “Macey, if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to sit near you tonight. Shadow you, if you will.”
Logan leaves to return to his booth just as Mama pipes in. “Skip, have you seen the photos of Jane’s ghost yet?” She points above her head. “Fascinating, aren’t they?”
Skip’s mouth drops open as he looks at them. “Amazing! When are they from?”
Without looking up, I point at each frame above my head in turn as I recite, “1892. My great-great grandfather took it with the first camera our family owned. He swore that white blurry mess was Jane inside her cell at midnight, crying for all the racket of card-playing drunk men to stop so she could get some sleep.”
I move my finger to the left. “1925. Flapper-era. Miss Reginald took this one, and she was convinced she saw Jane’s spirit in a flapper dress at two a.m., dancing inside her cell to the loud music in the saloon.”
My finger shifts further left. “1963. The night JFK was assassinated. My great-aunt Selma Door Henwood snuck into the liquor room at four a.m. for a little nip of brandy, and she heard crying. Anguished sobs coming from Cell Number One. She took a photo.”
“You can see her eyes,” Skip says in a tone of awe.
“That’s what I always said!” Mama says. “The whites of her eyes are obvious, and I’m pretty sure that blue hue is her dress. Pretty color, isn’t it?”
I sigh and point to the last frame. “And this one was taken just last year by Dye Jenkins, current bar patron. He was the last one here one night, and the bartender—me—was outside briefly. Dye crept down the hall to the liquor room to say hi to the ghost and he claims she said hi back. He said she complained to him about how dank and dark the room gets at night, especially after daylight savings time.”
“I tell Macey all the time to leave a light on for Jane at night,” Mama says to Skip. “But she often forgets. People just don’t think about ghosts the way they should.”
“And why do you have the Mr. Darcy cowboy hat and Ms. Bennet bonnet for the bride and groom?” Skip asks. “Does Vivian’s diary expressly call for that?”
Mama shakes her head. “Not precisely. The couples who’ve married here have just always worn them. I’m not sure how the tradition started, but the bride and groom must wear them.”
Jamie walks in the door, saving me from any more conversations about ghosts.
I wave and step out from behind the bar to greet him. Ginny calls out from Logan’s booth and invites us over to sit down.
They’re in the extra-large circular booth, the one that easily seats ten, but I try to say there isn’t enough room. My excuse disappears into the air when Blake immediately scoots closer to Logan and drags me into the seat next to him. Jamie slides in on my other side and puts his arm around me.
I introduce Jamie to the table, and everyone but Logan says hello.
Logan’s buzzed. He’d never be this cold to Jamie otherwise. Ginny gives me a look from across the table. Blake tries to stifle his laugh. Jamie looks from Ginny to Blake to me, trying to figure out what’s going on.
I clear my throat and ask Gigi to introduce me to her sisters. She apologizes for her lapse, blaming it on her glass of wine.
As her sisters say hello to me, I try to make small talk with them. But Logan won’t stop shooting daggers at Jamie—in between the glances he’s giving me behind Blake’s back.
Ginny gives me another look. Blake smirks, and this time, his laugh escapes out of his mouth. It’s a loud laugh, and Gigi asks him what’s so funny.
“Nothing.” Blake reaches for his beer as his bleach-blond hair falls across his forehead.
