Chapter One
Monica had no idea how many straws a camel could carry on its back. She only knew that if she was a camel, she’d reached her limit.
And really, it was not a big thing in and of itself. Just one last straw. Just Jimmy being Jimmy.
But enough. Her back had broken. She was done, done, done.
She sat at a table at the Faulk Street Tavern, nursing a glass of wine. Maybe she should have ordered something stronger, but she wanted to remain clear-headed while she contemplated that single, final straw and waited for her best friend to join her. Emma was teaching an art class at the Brogan’s Point Community Center, but she’d promised to come to the pub as soon as her final student departed. Monica calculated that Emma’s trip from the community center to the bar would take about ten minutes. Emma didn’t own a car, although her gajillionaire boyfriend could buy her a fleet of Lamborghinis if she asked him to. Of course, one reason he was so crazy about her was that she would never ask. His wealth meant nothing to her.
She had acquired a bicycle, however—used but in excellent shape—which enabled her to scoot around town a little more rapidly than traveling by foot. Monica glanced at her watch and hoped Emma would arrive soon. If she finished her glass of wine before Emma showed up, she might order another, and that would be the end of her clear-headedness.
Jimmy. The asshole.
Last night was the tenth anniversary of their first date: the junior prom in high school. Monica hadn’t even been aware that Jimmy Creighton knew who she was back then. They’d traveled in different circles. She’d been an A student, diligent and disciplined, working at her parents’ inn when she wasn’t doing homework or pursuing other moderately egg-headed activities. Jimmy had been a cut-up, a funny, handsome guy who took nothing too seriously. Yet for some reason—maybe on a dare—he’d invited her to be his date for the prom. And for some reason—maybe because he was the cutest guy who had ever asked her out—she’d said yes.
They’d had their ups and downs over the past ten years, but Monica had thought they were mostly on an up right now. They both had jobs, he selling cars and she moving up into management at the inn. The sex was good. They hadn’t had a fight in more than a month.
“For our anniversary,” she’d told him, “I want to make a special dinner for you. Okay?”
“Sure, of course,” he’d said. “I love when you cook for me. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be living on buffalo wings and beer.”
She’d scheduled a day off for herself yesterday, although she’d shown up at the inn before dawn that morning so she could accompany one of the chefs from the inn to the docks to pick up lobsters fresh off a boat. From there, she’d journeyed to the green-grocer for organic vegetables, and from there to the butcher, and from there to the wine store for a thirty-eight dollar bottle of Bordeaux. Then she’d let herself into Jimmy’s apartment, donned an apron, and gotten to work. She’d made lobster bisque. She’d made Veal Oscar, garnishing the veal with lobster meat and asparagus spears and topping it with a béarnaise sauce. She’d warmed a loaf of bread. She’d prepared a tossed salad and scalloped potatoes. She’d spread a white linen cloth over the café table that stood in one corner of his living room, and lit a tapered white candle. And waited for him to show up.
The Ford dealership where he worked closed at six. Even allowing for traffic, he should have reached his apartment before seven. At eight-thirty, she phoned his cell. “Oh, hey,” he’d said cheerfully. “I’m over at Dave’s place. A group of us decided to pop some beers and catch the Sox game on TV. I’ll be home by midnight, okay?”
Not okay. Final straw. Monica had blown out the candle, tucked the wine bottle under her arm, and walked out of his apartment, leaving behind her key to the place.
That was yesterday. Today she’d gotten through the day, keeping her grumpiness in check until she realized she wasn’t terribly grumpy, after all. After previous break-ups with Jimmy, she’d felt angry or depressed, lost or confused. This time, not really. This time she was ready to shed all those straws Jimmy had been heaping onto her back for the past ten years. She was ready to move on. A little mournful, a little anxious, but ready.
The Faulk Street Tavern was rarely crowded on a weekday afternoon, and today was no exception. Gus Naukonen, who had owned the place since before Monica was born, occupied her usual station behind the bar, wiping surfaces, filling bowls with munchies, arranging bottles. None of the wait staff had arrived yet, but anyone who wanted a drink could walk up to the bar and ask for one, which was what Monica had done. Presumably, so had the young guys in polo shirts and khakis seated around one of the big tables with a couple of pitchers of beer and heaping bowls of popcorn. They were too clean-cut and rich-looking to be a fishing crew. Monica guessed they were college kids, their spring term over and their wealthy families settling into the rambling summer homes that dotted the northern end of town, where the upper-class folks owned what they euphemistically called “cottages” but which Monica called mansions.
She wasn’t much older than those boys, but she felt older. No—she felt mature. Jimmy was a baby. She’d outgrown him.
A few other tables were occupied, and a man the far side of middle age sat at the bar, slumped over an empty glass. From where Monica sat, she could see Gus shooting occasional glances at the man, as if to make sure he didn’t lean too far in any direction and topple off his stool.
Behind Monica stood the jukebox. She had her back to it, but she knew it was there, a magnificent antique rumored to possess magical properties. With its arched wood frame and its stained-glass inset of two peacocks nestling together, it was beautiful enough to belong in a museum. Its contents were a mystery: old songs that had been recorded back when vinyl records were the only available technology. No one knew what songs were in the jukebox, though. They weren’t listed on the machine. You couldn’t choose a particular song. According to legend, the songs would choose you.
Monica had grown up hearing the myth of the jukebox’s reputed magic. She knew that if you put a quarter into the machine, three songs would play, and no one knew what those songs might be, other than that they’d be oldies, dating to her parents’ era or even longer ago than that. Sometimes a particular song would strike someone in the room a particular way, bewitching that person, or transforming her, or…something. Monica hadn’t really bought into the legend until her friend Emma and Max, the gajillionaire, had both fallen under the jukebox’s spell and found true love in each other’s arms.
Monica supposed that when it came to the jukebox, she was currently an agnostic. She didn’t quite believe it was magic, but she didn’t quite not believe it, either.
The bar’s door opened, and Monica glanced over the back of the banquette. At the sight of Emma’s wild red hair, she smiled. She was not going to cry on Emma’s shoulder. She was not going to fall apart, bemoan the death of her decade-long relationship with Jimmy, turn the afternoon into a pity party. Instead, they were going to hoist their glasses high and drink a toast to Monica’s liberation.
“Hey,” Emma said, ambling over to Monica’s table and sliding onto the banquette facing her. “I hope you didn’t have to wait long.”
Monica burst into tears.