“We’ll see about that drink you owe me,” she says. “My break’s over, but I’ll be at the bar later. Say hello.”
She snaps the umbrella closed and disappears inside with the dog at her heels. I follow a moment later. The pub is packed, the air heavy with damp clothing and body heat. In the corner, at a makeshift stage, Freya perches on a stool, a guitar balanced on one knee, the dog at her feet.
Someone grips my shoulder. “I didn’t expect to see you out and about tonight.”
I turn to where Paul leans against the wall.
“I’m escaping Idlewood for a few hours,” I say, realizing I haven’t seen him since the fire. “Sorry about what happened today.”
Paul nods toward Freya. “I’m distracting myself. These shows—” He clucks his tongue. “Do you know who convinced Freya to sing here a few nights a week? Andrea Haviland. So I have Andrea to thank for burning down my houseandfor ruining Freya’s career.”
Freya begins a slow rendition of Pat Benatar’s “Love Is a Battlefield,” her voice a throaty contralto. All around, phones snap photos for social media.
“She’s good,” I say.
“And if she performs a night here and there,” Paul says, “we can spin that as spontaneous. A whole summer? It looks desperate.” He finishes his drink. “Actually, I’ve had enough. Maybe I’ll see you at Idlewood later,” he says, stepping outside into the rain as Freya finishes the song.
Paul’s been Freya’s manager and lawyer since the nineties. He has a vested interest in what she does with her career, though from what I can see, Freya’s soaking up the attention. I join in the applause, then grab a beer at the bar and head to the back porch. A group of women laughat a table with a bottle of rosé between them. I must stare too long, because one of the women catches my eye and whispers to another. That one stares right back at me, until I retreat inside, pushing my way through the crowd to the bar, where a single seat has opened. Onstage, Freya sings Heart’s “If Looks Could Kill,” as though she was out on the deck with me and those women. A glass jar by the beer taps has a photo of Mrs. Haviland taped to it withDefense Fundwritten in black Sharpie, along with a website to donate electronically. There must be a few hundred dollars in the jar already.
The bartender approaches. He’s about ten years older than I am, with prematurely white hair and an angular face. He wears a tight concert T-shirt that shows his pecs. “Blancy, right?” I ask, remembering he and Reid used to hang out when they were in high school.
“Good memory,” he says.
He pours me another IPA and slides the glass down the bar. “On the house,” he says. “You were the hero today.”
“Seton did most of the work.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“I’ll donate to the defense fund, then,” I say, pulling up the website and adding money to a growing pot of online cash.
“Every little bit helps,” Blancy says. “It must have been a rough day all around. Tell your brother I’m thinking about him.”
A middle-aged man slides onto the empty stool beside me. “Any news about the woman who was hurt?” he asks.
Blancy shakes his head. “We’re all hoping. Andrea’s the heart of this town, even if she is a little salty.”
The man adds a twenty-dollar bill to the jar. “I’ll take one of those,” he says, pointing at my beer.
He wears thick glasses and has long gray hair tied in a ponytail, a look that signals he’s either a biker or a multimillionaire, though my guess is probably both. “You up for the weekend?” he asks me.
“I’ll be in and out for most of the summer, or I thought I would be.”
“That welt on your head must hurt. You okay?”
“Nothing worth talking about,” I say, taking a long quaff of the beer and letting the bitter liquid slide over my tongue. “How about you? What brings you to town?”
“Visiting an old friend,” the man says. “Someone I’m worried about.”
The door to the bar opens, and Seton enters. She’s changed out of her uniform and into a pair of jeans and a formfitting fleece. Her spiky hair shines from the rain, and light glints off a stud in her lip. Even here, she moves like a cop, alert and scanning the room for trouble. She stops when she finds me. I wave as a kind of peace offering, but she doesn’t approach.
“Is that your girlfriend?” the man asks.
“I’m not sure what we are,” I say.
“Seton Haviland. I hear good things about her, that she’s tough but fair. She’s having quite a day, too. She must be worried about her mom.”
The man’s words are a good reminder that what Seton’s facing right now has little to do with me and a lot to do with an uncertain future. “She is worried,” I say. “Let’s hope our friendship survives whatever the next few days bring.”
