"And I'll give you quarters to play
Any song that you want on the jukebox
Fixin' to find us a daddy
Who'll keep buying me whiskey on the rocks
Mama loves you…"
-Mary Birdsong, "Last Call Lullabye"

1966: Age 7

From the diary of Karen Delaney: "Mama says she's looking for Daddy. She won't find him."

In such a small town, you knew everybody's business, whether you wanted to or not. Everybody knew about the Delaneys. Everybody knew that Chris Delaney died in a freak work accident, leaving behind his wife and daughter. Everybody knew that it didn't take long for Lois Delaney to go through the grieving process and get back on her feet in a way that was less than admirable. Everybody knew that Lois used a different name to go to a dive bar the next town over so that her business wouldn't be their business (but word traveled fast anyway; there was no stopping it). And everybody knew that when Lois went out at night, she took little Karen with her.

Lois played it off as suddenly being thrown into the role of a single mother, not knowing what else she could do with her kid; she certainly couldn't leave Karen home alone, and it's not like she had a family anymore. But everybody knew that Lois Delaney—or Whitley, or whatever she was calling herself now—used her daughter as a prop, in order to gain the sympathy of the men she met.

"We're going on an adventure, Kiki." Her mother said this every time she loaded her in the car and drove off. Lois always tried to make it seem as though she was taking Karen to a special land that no other kids have seen, as though Karen should consider herself lucky because of this. And every time, Karen let herself believe that this night would be different than all the other nights. This night would be exactly how Mama described it. But when she walked through the door holding Lois' hand, she quickly realized that it would be the same as it always was.

As Lois dragged her up to the bar, Karen tugged on her mother's arm. She was tired already; she just wanted to fall asleep in her bed. "Mama," she said. "Please can we go home now? I don't want to be here."

"Sweetheart, we just got here," Lois said with a forced smile as she helped her daughter up onto a stool at the end of the bar. No one ever questioned the presence of a small child here; perhaps that should have been a signal as to the kind of people that frequented this place. "Remember, I'm doing this for you. I'm going to find you a daddy who can take care of you, and of me. Don't you worry. Look, Lucas is here tonight, he'll look after you. Here, take these." She handed her daughter some quarters. "You can play with the jukebox whenever you want." And with that, she ordered her whiskey on the rocks, setting her sights on any man who looked like he took care of himself before she tried to work her way into his heart. Karen rested her head in her arms on the bar, blankly watching her mother try to deliver on promises Lois knew she couldn't keep.

"Well, hey, little lady. Are you sure you should be here?" Karen jumped suddenly at the sound of another voice, and looked up to see a smiling Lucas, one of the regular bartenders, across from her behind the bar. She gave him a small "Hi" and tried to put on a smile. Even though she hated the bar, she liked Lucas. He made her feel less alone when her mother brought her here. "I bet I know how to make that smile a little bigger," he said. And before her eyes, Karen watched him pour Coca-Cola over ice into a daiquiri glass, drop a cherry on a stem into it and stuck a small paper umbrella into the drink along with a straw. He knew these little additions were just that—little—but when he thought about what her home situation must be like, he wanted to make sure she was treated like a princess at least some time in her life. "Just for you, darlin'," Lucas said as he slid it across the bar into the little girl's hands. "You just tell me when you want another one, okay?" Karen nodded and sipped her soda, watched as Lucas shifted his attention to his other regulars.

It had been two hours before Lois came to check on her daughter. "Oh, Kiki," she slurred, looking back at the man she had been talking up for the better part of the night. "You are being such a good girl. You're the best, baby." She leaned in and kissed Karen on the cheek. Karen could smell whiskey on her mother's breath. And despite the child's protests—"But, Mama…"—Lois told her "I'll only be a little longer" before returning to her new gentleman friend. Karen could feel the tears in her throat.

She looked at the quarters on the bar. It was going to be a long night.

1998: Age 39

"You're the best, baby." It had become a habit now, this little toast to herself, under her breath, just before the alcohol hit her lips and she surrendered to the intoxication she had come to depend on. It served as nothing more than a sharp reminder that although she had tried her hardest not to, she had inevitably become her mother, looking in the wrong places for love, getting to the point where love was no longer a factor in seeking out a viable mate. Sure, she wasn't looking in small-town dive bars, but the love she had found in Manhattan, in the South, in all the other places she looked, wasn't love at all, except that one time. And look how quickly and crudely it had been taken away from her. But now, she was stuck in a loveless marriage, and she actually preferred it; she couldn't be disappointed because the bar was already set so low. Besides, she had come to realize that the only people she could really trust were the bartenders who served her. She could trust Lucas to make her a little more comfortable when her mother went out. She could trust every other bartender to give her exactly what she says she wants.

She wasn't quite sure how she ended up in this dive in the Village; maybe it was because her history had wired her to move towards these places. But the likelier reason was that she wanted to be somewhere she normally wasn't. She had gotten so sick of the socialite circle she became a part of once her relationship with Stan had become legitimate. She just wished she remembered where she kept all the clothes she had saved from her past (probably tucked away in the far corners of that ridiculously massive closet, far from Stan's prying eyes…if he even gave a damn). She felt ridiculous in her Chanel, nursing her whiskey on the rocks—sentimental reasons—sitting at a bar with chips in the wood.

"Are you sure you should be here?" Karen jumped at the voice and looked next to her, found a redheaded woman brushing a lock of curls behind her ear. Silence for a moment, and then, "You don't look like you belong here. I don't mean that as a bad thing. This place is kind of a dump. But it's cheap, so I guess that's a plus." The redhead took a sip of her drink. "Although, I think I can safely assume that money is no issue."

Karen let a sly smile play across her face. "I swear I'm not trying to slum it."

"I wouldn't necessarily blame you if you were. Park Avenue might be fun for a little while, but I'd think it would get boring. It's more interesting on this side of the fence." The girl kept her eyes on Karen as she sipped her pint, and Karen swore to god she saw the slightest hint of a smile in them.

"I know. I used to hang around in places like this. Maybe I'm trying to regain a sense of who I was. I liked myself a lot more back then." Karen winced when she said that. She didn't even know this woman; why was she so willing to spill her life story so quickly? "God, I'm so sorry, honey," she said. "This isn't why you came here tonight."

"Hey, it's okay. The bartender here is kind of an asshole, so I don't mind being the makeshift therapist." She inched her way closer to Karen, slid her glass in front of her. "Besides," she said, "you're not the only one who's hiding from something. Although I'm not sure if my dull relationship can compare to the woes of socialite living."

Karen could tell that there was something eating at the redhead, behind the sarcasm and jokes to lighten the mood. And somehow, that made her more comfortable around the woman. Knowing that she wasn't alone—even if their problems came from different places—made her feel safe in the company of this stranger. And she didn't want to leave tonight. She tried to flag the bartender down and told the redhead, "Why don't I buy the next round and we can commiserate?" The woman sitting next to her smiled and nodded. "I don't even know your name," Karen said suddenly. "I'm Karen."

"Grace," the redhead said quietly, before launching into the woes of her personal life. Karen never had anyone talk to her about things like this. And there was something about Grace—as she talked, as she listened—that Karen couldn't place but wanted to be in the presence of always. This was the most companionship she had felt for as long as she could remember, and she just met this woman.

Regardless, she wanted to make it a long night.