Two Weddings And A Bride

Where could she go? Any decent hotel would do, but she wasn’t in the mood for a quiet, empty room. What sounded better was a noisy room full of strangers—someplace where she could get a good, stiff drink and feel sorry for herself. She opened her eyes and stared blindly at the passing blur of commercial buildings.

They were south of Twelve Mile Road before they caught a red light. The cabbie jerked to a stop, and she turned to see the flashing neon outline of a big cat just ahead.

Before she could think it through she heard herself say, “Let me out here.”

He pulled to the curb, braking hard, then turned to face her. “Ya sure about this?”

The meter read eight and a quarter. She slapped a ten into his hand, got out and the cab sped off. She hesitated at the entrance to the bar. Given her current choices she slung open the heavy wooden door and strode in.

Just as she suspected, a country-western band was keeping two-steppers happy in the center of the room. On the perimeter, boot-stomping spectators kept time at beercluttered tables. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear she was in Texas instead of Motown.

Slowly awakening from culture shock, she noted a few curious glances at her nondenim attire and shoulder-strap carryon. Self-conscience, she sauntered over to the bar on the right where a man she guessed to be in his late fifties sat in a wheelchair at the far end. There was an empty seat next to him. It appeared as safe of a place as any so she headed toward it.

“Excuse me,” she said, raising her voice over a nearby speaker. “Is anyone sitting here?”

The man smiled up at her. “You, I hope.”

The same words from anyone else might have sent her in the opposite direction, but this was the voice of a gentleman, one she sensed wanted a little company and nothing more. “Thank you.” She pulled out the stool and sat down.

Her gaze drifted slowly over the crowd, looking for that one familiar face. Why? she asked herself. Thought you wanted to be alone in a roomful of strangers? She continued to look, taking her time, telling herself it was something to do. Anything was better than thinking about the disaster she’d just left behind.

She thought about Jake for a second, remembering his rugged good looks—sun-streaked sandy hair that swept back from windburned cheeks and hung a couple inches below his too-tight collar. She kept searching, smiling at a sudden thought. He must have felt as out of place at the Townsend Hotel in his suit as she felt here in her designer silk.

Catherine scanned the entire room twice, then gave up, feeling an unexpected disappointment. She swiveled around and rested her elbows on the padded rolled edge of the table-high bar. Curious about the unusual height, she looked to her right and noticed taller stools and the traditionally higher counter at the opposite end. Interesting. Was this end designed for the handicapped? she wondered. Or was the split level simply a decorator’s idea to create a little interest. Whichever, she decided she liked it. She turned and smiled at the man in the wheelchair thinking he must like it, too. Then she let out a long sigh and glanced at her watch.

“Bartender!” The man shouted. “This pretty gal down here looks thirsty.”

Catherine stole a quick peek at his chair and noticed there were no legs hanging from beneath the brown cardigan draped across his lap. She wondered what misfortune had scarred this poor man’s life, but before she could think about it further, she saw a long, tanned arm slide a cocktail napkin in front of her.

“Well, well…slumming it tonight?”

Catherine looked up. “Jake!” She tried to hide the sudden rush of pleasure she felt at seeing him, but she wasn’t sure she pulled it off. What was he doing behind the bar? His suit coat and tie were gone, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow.

“What can I get you?” He was smiling coyly, probably relishing her discomfort, she thought, remembering her snobby remark about this place earlier. Determined to act as if this were any other night, that nothing unusual had happened, she forced a smile and answered his question.

“Something cold, wet and fattening. Surprise me.” Jake flashed the okay sign and left. She stared after him a moment, then looked back to the man in the chair. His forehead was creased with curiosity.

“You know Jake?” he asked. “Don’t remember seeing you here before.”

“I’m not what you’d call a regular.” She swiveled toward him, still a little rattled at finding Jake behind the bar. “We just sort of ran into each other earlier. He said he might stop off here, but I didn’t realize he had to work.”

“He doesn’t have to…he wants to.”

She was about to ask what he meant when Jake returned.

“Here you go. Baileys on the rocks.”

She took a generous taste, then rolled her tongue over her lips. “Mmmm…good stuff.” She stared into his dark eyes, trying to read what was behind them. “How did you know I’d like Baileys?”

“After you do this job for as many years as I have, you know.”

Jake wandered down to the other end of the bar and Catherine’s shoulders sagged. Great! She just got dumped by a successful lawyer and she can’t think of anyone she’d rather be with than a career bartender. What sick twist of fate brought her to these crossroads? Behind her, the fiddler went crazy while the female vocalist drawled her sad lament. Catherine swirled her ice cubes and stared into the milky brown liquid. Maybe coming here wasn’t a good idea after all.

“I thought Jake was at a wedding tonight,” the man next to her said.

Catherine kept her face forward and took another sip before answering. “He was. The party ended early.” She played with her straw, then bit the end of it. Maybe if she went outside and let out a primal scream she’d feel better.

“Oh…then you were there, too, huh?”

A low chuckle emerged from the back of her throat. “Oh, yeah…I was there.” For the first time she tried to picture Jake at the reception. She thought she remembered him dancing near her once with a much older woman. She rotated her stool, deciding to take her mind off herself and fish for a few details. “You seem to know a lot about Jake. Was that his mother with him at the wedding?”

The gray-haired man shook his head, the smile leaving his eyes. “Not likely!” After a slight lapse, he said, “You must be talking about his Aunt Helen.”

Jake called down from the other end, “Ready for another Coke, Sarge?”

“Sure. And bring another for…” He looked at her and cocked an eyebrow.

“Catherine…Catherine Mason,” she said and smiled.

“…bring another for Catherine here. She’s dry.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Catherine.” The fleeting distraction she’d seen in his eyes a moment earlier had vanished, the twinkle returned. “If I had a couple good legs, I’d ask you to dance. Used to be pretty good at the two-step. Can you two-step?”

She laughed. “Afraid not.” She shook her head and laughed again at the mere idea. Then without much forethought she heard herself broach the delicate subject, embarrassed before she opened her mouth, but liberated by the accumulative effects of champagne and Baileys. “Sarge. Take it your name means you were in the army?” He nodded and she braved the next question. “Is that how…?” She looked down at his chair, then quickly back to his face and its pragmatic expression.

“Vietnam…another lifetime ago.”

Jake reappeared with their drinks and for a brief moment she thought she saw a silent exchange between the two men. In a flash, Jake was busy with another customer, acting as though she didn’t exist.

“So, Catherine, what do you do for a living?” Just like that, the subject of the war was over and the focus was back on her.

“I’m a buyer for Mason’s.” It was definitely time to leave.

“Buyer of clothes?” He was reassessing what she wore now.

She thought of the store, then co-worker Mary Beth—her last-minute substitute bridesmaid. She leaned her elbows on the bar. “That and other things.”

“By the looks of it, I’d say you must do well at your job.” He drank more Coke, then looked at the dance floor. Suddenly he waved his arm high in the air and motioned someone over, a look of recognition lighting his lined face. “Charlie! How you doin’?” he shouted over the guitar twang.

A good-looking cowboy about Jake’s age sauntered over. Charlie patted Sarge on the back, then pumped his hand vigorously. “Doin’ fine, Sarge. And you?”

“Couldn’t be better.” He looked at Catherine and extended his arm. “This here is Catherine. She’s a friend of Jake’s.”

Before she could dispute the “friend of Jake’s” line, Charlie grabbed her hand and shook it, a little more gently, and said howdy.

Sarge asked, “Got a date tonight, Charlie?”