In the kitchen, Sarah opened the cupboard above the sink, pushed aside a couple of bowls, and pulled down a small crystal vase, which she filled with water.
"This is a nice place you've got," he said.
Sarah looked up. "Thanks. I like it."
"Did you decorate it yourself?"
"Pretty much. I brought some things from Baltimore, but once I saw all the antique stores, I decided to replace most of it. There are some great places around here."
Miles ran his hand along an old rolltop desk near the window, then pushed aside the curtains to peek out. "Do you like living downtown?"
From the drawer, Sarah pulled out a pair of scissors and started angling the bottoms of the stems. "Yeah, but I'll tell you, the commotion around here keeps me up all night long. All those crowds, those people screaming and fighting, partying until dawn. It's amazing that I ever get to sleep at all."
"That quiet, huh?"
She arranged the flowers in the vase, one by one. "This is the first place I've ever lived where everybody seems to be in bed by nine o'clock. It's like a ghost town down here as soon as the sun goes down, but I'll bet that makes your job pretty easy, huh?"
"To be honest, it doesn't really affect me. Except for eviction notices, my jurisdiction ends at the town limits. I generally work in the county."
"Running those speed traps that the South is famous for?" she asked playfully.
Miles shook his head. "No, that's not me, either. That's the highway patrol."
"So what you're really saying is that you don't really do much at all, then...."
"Exactly," he concurred. "Aside from teaching, I can't think of any job less challenging to do."
She laughed as she slid the vase toward the center of the counter. "They're lovely. Thank you." She stepped out from behind the counter and reached for her purse. "So where are we going?"
"Right around the corner. The Harvey Mansion. Oh, and it's a little cool out, so you should probably wear a jacket," he said, eyeing her sleeveless dress.
Sarah went to the closet, remembering her mother's words on her message, wishing she hadn't listened to it. She hated being cold, and she was one of those people who got cold very easily. But instead of going for the "big long green one" that would keep her warm, she picked out a light jacket that matched her dress, something that would have made her mother nod appreciatively. Classy. When she slipped it on, Miles looked at her as if he wanted to say something but didn't know how.
"Is something wrong?" she asked as she pulled it on.
"Well...it's cold out there. You sure you don't want something warmer?"
"You won't mind?"
"Why would I mind?"
She gladly switched jackets (the big long green one), and Miles helped her put it on, holding the sleeves open for her. A moment later, after locking the front door, they were making their way down the steps. As soon as Sarah stepped outside, the temperature nipped at her cheeks and she instinctively buried her hands in her pockets.
"Don't you think it was too chilly for your other jacket?"
"Definitely," she said, smiling thankfully. "But it doesn't match what I'm wearing."
"I'd rather you be comfortable. And besides, this one looks good on you."
She loved him for that. Take that, Mom!
They started down the street, and a few steps later--surprising herself as much as Miles--she took one hand from her pocket and looped it through his arm.
"So," she said, "let me tell you about my mother."
At their table a few minutes later, Miles couldn't stifle a laugh. "She sounds great."
"Easy for you to say. She's not your mother."
"It's just her way of showing you that she loves you."
"I know. But it would be easier if she didn't always worry so much. Sometimes I think she does it on purpose just to drive me crazy."
Despite her obvious exasperation, Sarah looked positively luminous in the flickering candlelight, Miles decided.
The Harvey Mansion was one of the better restaurants in town. Originally a home dating from the 1790s, it was a popular romantic getaway. When it was being redesigned for its current use, the owners decided to retain most of the floor plan. Miles and Sarah were led up a curving set of stairs and were seated in what was once a library. Dimly lit, it was a medium-size room with red-oak flooring and an intricately designed tin ceiling. Along two walls were mahogany shelves, lined with hundreds of books; along the third wall, the fireplace cast an ethereal glow. Sarah and Miles were seated in the corner near the window. There were only five other tables, and though all were occupied, people talked in low murmurs.
"Mmm ...I think you're right," Miles said. "Your mother probably lies awake at night thinking of new ways to torment you."
"I thought you said you'd never met her."
Miles chuckled. "Well, at least she's around. Like I told you when we first met, I hardly even talk to my father anymore."
"Where is he now?"
"I have no idea. I got a postcard a couple of months ago from Charleston, but there's no telling if he's still there. He doesn't usually stay in one place all that long, he doesn't call, and he very seldom makes it back to town. He hasn't seen me or Jonah for years now."
"I can't imagine that."
"It's just the way he is, but then, he wasn't exactly Ward Cleaver when I was little. Half the time, I got the impression he didn't like having us around."
"Us?"
"Me and my mom."
"Didn't he love her?"
"I have no idea."
"Oh, come on...."
"I'm serious. She was pregnant when they got married, and I can't honestly say they were ever meant for each other. They ran real hot and cold--one day they were madly in love, and the next day she was throwing his clothes on the front lawn and telling him never to come back. And when she died, he just took up and left as fast as he could. Quit his job, sold the house, bought himself a boat, and told me he was going to see the world. Didn't know a thing about sailing, either. Said he'd learn what he needed as he went along, and I guess he has."
Sarah frowned. "That's a little strange."
"Not for him. To be honest, I wasn't surprised at all, but you'd have to meet him to know what I'm talking about." He shook his head slightly, as if disgusted.
"How did your mother die?" Sarah asked gently.
A strange, shuttered expression crossed his face, and Sarah immediately regretted bringing it up. She leaned forward. "I'm sorry--that was rude. I shouldn't have asked."
"It's okay," Miles said quietly. "I don't mind. It happened a long time ago, so it's not hard to talk about. It's just that I haven't talked about it in years. I can't remember the last time someone asked about my mother."
Miles drummed his fingers absently on the table before sitting up a little straighter. He spoke matter-of-factly, almost as if he were talking about someone he didn't know. Sarah recognized the tone: It was the way she spoke of Michael now.
"My mom started having these pains in her stomach. Sometimes, she couldn't even sleep at night. Deep down, I think she knew how serious it was, and by the time she finally went in to see the doctor, the cancer had spread to her pancreas and liver. There was nothing that anyone could do. She passed away less than three weeks later."
"I'm sorry," she said, not knowing what else to say.
"So am I," he said. "I think you would have liked her."
"I'm sure I would have."
They were interrupted by the waiter as he approached the table and took their drink orders. As if on cue, both Sarah and Miles reached for the menus and read them quickly.
"So what's good?" she asked.
"Everything, really."
"No special recommendations?"
"I'll probably get a steak of some sort."
"Why does that not surprise me?"
He glanced up. "You have something against steak?"
"Not at all. You just didn't strike me as the tofu and salad ty
pe." She closed her menu. "I, on the other hand, have to watch my girlish figure."
"So what are you getting?"
She smiled. "A steak."
Miles closed his menu and pushed it off to the side of the table. "So, now that we've covered my life, why don't you tell me about yours? What was it like growing up in your family?"
Sarah set her menu on top of his.
"Unlike what you had, my parents were Ward and June Cleaver. We lived in a suburb just outside Baltimore in the most typical of houses--four bedrooms, two bathrooms, complete with a porch, flower garden, and a white picket fence. I rode the bus to school with my neighbors, played in the front yard all weekend long, and had the biggest collection of Barbies on the whole block. Dad worked from nine to five and wore a suit every day: Mom stayed home, and I don't think I ever saw her without an apron. And our house always smelled like a bakery. Mom made cookies for me and my brother every day, and we'd eat them in the kitchen and recite what we learned that day."
"Sounds nice."
"It was. My mom was great when we were little kids. She was the kind of mom that the other kids ran to if they hurt themselves or got in a jam of some sort. It wasn't until my brother and I got older that she started to get neurotic on me."
Miles raised both eyebrows. "Now, was it that she changed, or was she always neurotic and you were too young to notice?"
"That sounds like something Sylvia would say."
"Sylvia?"
"A friend of mine," she said evasively, "a good friend." If Miles sensed her hesitation, he gave no notice.
Their drinks arrived and the waiter took their order. As soon as he was gone, Miles leaned forward, bringing his face closer to hers.
"What's your brother like?"
"Brian? He's a nice kid. I swear, he's more grown-up than most people I work with. But he's shy and not real good at meeting people. He tends to be a little introspective, but when we're together, we just click and always have. That's one of the main reasons I came back here. I wanted to spend some time with him before he headed off to college. He just started at UNC."
Miles nodded. "So, he's a lot younger than you," he said, and Sarah looked up at him.
"Not a lot younger."
"Well... enough. You're what, forty? Forty-five?" he said, repeating what she'd said to him the first time they'd met.
She laughed. "A girl's got to stay on her toes around you."
"I'll bet you say that to all the guys you date."
"Actually, I'm out of practice," she said. "I haven't dated much since my divorce."
Miles lowered his drink. "You're kidding, right?"
"No."
"A girl like you? I'm sure you've been asked out a lot."
"That doesn't mean I say yes."
"Playing hard to get?" Miles teased.
"No," she said. "I just didn't want to hurt anyone."
"So you're a heartbreaker, huh?"
She didn't answer right away, her eyes staring down at the table.
"No, not a heartbreaker," she said quietly. "Brokenhearted."
Her words surprised him. Miles searched for a lighthearted response, but after seeing her expression, he decided to say nothing at all. For a few moments, Sarah seemed to be lost in a world all her own. Finally she turned toward Miles with an almost embarrassed smile.
"Sorry about that. Kind of ruined the mood, huh?"
"Not at all," Miles answered quickly. He reached over and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Besides, you should realize that my moods don't get ruined all that easily," he continued. "Now, if you'd thrown your drink in my face and called me a scoundrel..."
Despite her obvious tension, Sarah laughed.
"You'd have a problem with that?" she asked, feeling herself relax.
"Probably," he said with a wink. "But even then--considering it's a first date and all--I might let that pass, too."
It was half-past ten when they finished dinner, and as they stepped outside, Sarah was certain that she didn't want the date to end just yet. Dinner had been wonderful, their conversation liberally greased by a bottle of excellent red wine. She wanted to spend more time with Miles, but she wasn't quite ready to invite him up to her apartment. Behind them, just a few feet away, a car engine was clicking as it cooled, the sounds muffled and sporadic.
"Would you like to head over to the Tavern?" Miles suggested. "It's not that far."
Sarah agreed with a nod, pulling her jacket tighter as they started down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, walking close together. The sidewalks were deserted, and as they passed art galleries and antique stores, a realty office, a pastry shop, a bookstore, nothing appeared to be open at all.
"Just where is this place, exactly?"
"This way," he said, motioning with his arm. "It's just up and around the corner."
"I've never heard of it."
"I'm not surprised," he said. "This is a local hangout, and the owner's attitude is that if you don't know about the place, then you probably don't belong there anyway."
"So how do they stay in business?"
"They manage," he said cryptically.
A minute later, they rounded the corner. Though a number of cars were parked along the street, there were no signs of life. It was almost eerie. Halfway down the block, Miles stopped at the mouth of a small alley carved between two buildings, one of which looked all but abandoned. Toward the rear, about forty feet back, a single light bulb dangled crookedly.
"This is it," he said. Sarah hesitated and Miles took her hand, leading her down the alley, finally stopping under the light. Above the buckled doorway, the name of the establishment was written in Magic Marker. She could hear music coming from within.
"Impressive," she said.
"Nothing but the best for you."
"Do I detect a note of sarcasm?"
Miles laughed as he pushed open the door, leading Sarah inside.
Built into what appeared to have been the abandoned building, the Tavern was dingy and faintly redolent of mildewed wood, but surprisingly large. Four pool tables stood in the rear beneath glowing lamps that advertised different beers; a long bar ran along the far wall. An old-fashioned jukebox flanked the doorway, and a dozen tables were spread haphazardly throughout. The floor was concrete and the wooden chairs were mismatched, but that didn't seem to matter.
It was packed.
People thronged the bar and tables; crowds formed and dispersed around the pool tables. Two women, wearing a little too much makeup, leaned against the jukebox, their tightly clad bodies swaying in rhythm as they read through the titles, figuring out what they wanted to play next.
Miles looked at her, amused. "Surprising, isn't it?"
"I wouldn't have believed it unless I'd seen it. It's so crowded."
"It is every weekend." He scanned the room quickly, looking for someplace to sit.
"There're some seats in the back...," she offered.
"Those are for the people who're playing pool."
"Well, do you want to play a game?"
"Pool?"
"Why not? There's a table open. Besides, it's probably not as loud back there."
"You're on. Let me go set it up with the bartender. Do you want a drink?"
"Coors Light, if they've got it."
"I'm sure they do. I'll meet you at the table, okay?"
With that, Miles headed toward the bar, threading his way through the crush of people. Wedging himself between a couple of stools, he raised his hand to get the bartender's attention. Based on the number of people waiting, it looked like it might take a while.
It was warm, and Sarah took off her jacket. As she folded it under her arm, she heard the door open behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she moved aside to make room for two men. The first, with tattoos and long hair, looked downright dangerous; the second, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, couldn't have been more different, and she wondered what they could possibly have in common.
Until she looked a little close
r. It was then that she decided the second one scared her more. Something in his expression, in the way he held himself, seemed infinitely more menacing.
She was thankful when the first one walked by without seeming to notice her. The other, though, paused as soon as he drew close, and she could feel his eyes on her.
"I haven't seen you around here before. What's your name?" he said suddenly. She could feel the cool appraisal in his gaze.
"Sylvia," she lied.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
"No, thank you," she answered with a shake of her head.
"You want to come and sit with me and my brother, then?"
"I'm with someone," she said.
"I don't see anyone."
"He's at the bar."
"C'mon, Otis!" the tattooed man shouted. Otis ignored him, his eyes locked on Sarah. "You sure you don't want that drink, Sylvia?"
"Positive," she said.
"Why not?" he asked. For some reason, even though the words came out calmly, even politely, she could feel their undercurrent of anger.
"I told you--I'm with someone," she said stepping back.
"C'mon, Otis! I need a drink!"
Otis Timson glanced toward the sound, then faced Sarah again and smiled, as if they were at a cocktail party instead of a dive. "I'll be around if you change your mind, Sylvia," he said smoothly.
As soon as he was gone, Sarah exhaled sharply and plunged into the crowd, making her way toward the pool tables, getting as far away from him as possible. When she got there, she set her coat on one of the unoccupied stools and Miles arrived with the beers a moment later. One look was enough to let him know that something had happened.
"What's wrong?" he asked, handing her the bottle of Coors.
"Just some jerk trying to pick me up. He kind of gave me the creeps. I'd forgotten what it's like in places like this."
Miles's expression darkened slightly. "Did he do anything?"
"Nothing I couldn't handle."
He seemed to study her answer. "You sure?"
Sarah hesitated. "Yeah, I'm sure," she finally said. Then, touched by his concern, she tapped her bottle against his with a wink, putting the incident out of her mind. "Now, do you want to rack or should I?"
After taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, Miles retrieved two pool cues from a mount on the wall.
"Now the rules are fairly simple," Miles began. "Balls one through seven are solid, balls nine through fifteen are stripes--"