Takes place about a season after Muffy arrives at the Blue Bar.
Part II:
Remodeling
Griffin had never put much stock in superstitions. Pond-dwelling Kappas, talking teddy bears, or Harvest Sprites who sneak about making mischief in small towns.
Then comes the remodeling.
Yesterday only the bar's stark walls stared back at him, and today he wakes up to vintage posters of magicians and dancers in voluminous skirts. He is sure they weren't there the day before…or that vase of roses, for that matter. At least…he thinks they are roses. What other flowers are red?
When he heads to the shelf to wash away the morning's strangeness with a drink, his heart almost fails. The bottles kept in the same order since his grandfather's ownership have been rearranged in the most horrific way possible…by date and brand. When he reaches for the gin, he grabs the rum; when he looks for the 1998's wines, he finds the 2002's champagne.
Simply put: it's a nightmare.
When Muffy comes down that morning, she finds him on a barstool nursing a glass of sweet tea and staring contemplatively at the posters. He glances at her, at the dark circles under her eyes, before resuming his staring contest with the magician. He is winning.
"Late night?"
"A little. I had some decorations leftover from Mama's opera days, and I thought this place could use some pizzazz." Her eyes sparkle even as she fidgets with the hem of her sweater.
A pause. Then Griffin nods. "Pizzazz is good."
That afternoon when he asks Ruby what pizzazz means, she simply laughs and pats him on the shoulder.
l*l*l*l
That had been only the beginning.
As if the women of Forget-Me-Not-Valley had been brainwashed, they start to show up at the bar as if it is a grocery store. One out of five times when the doorbell jingles it is of the female variety; an improvement of the one of fifty odds, and that is usually Ruby delivering meals out of pity.
Nami comes in the most, although she had even before the remodeling, but Vesta is new. Typically the farmer stops by only on holidays to trounce everyone else in chugging. By now Griffin can mix their drinks by heart: Moon Trip and Red Punch, respectively. Chris also pops in now and then after work. (Cherry Pink.) Flora, too, (Ancient Herb,) though her words are fewer and her hair and shoes are forever coated in dirt; without fail a layer of dust is left behind on the counter by the time she mumbles "…Goodnight."
Then one night the stars align. The doorbell ding-a-lings and in comes Vesta and Chris, with a bemused Flora in tow. Muffy handles the easier drinks while Griffin mixes the most complex. That is the extent of his involvement.
Muffy slides the drinks across the counter, then props her elbows on the surface, her chin resting between her knuckles. She takes over the conversation until they twitter like birds, sharing tips on cooking, kung fu, and other matters Griffin knows absolutely nothing about. In fact, he reckons this is the longest time he's ever heard a group of women talk. He didn't even know that Flora could talk; she orders by way of pointing at the menu.
Soon enough they give no more notice of Griffin than a shadow. Just as well. It all shoots right over his head anyway. Throughout the night the instinct to slip away and let the women have their space nags at him, but the obligation to be on hand at the bar glues him to his quiet corner. He might as well lean back and observe: a bartender's secondary inclination.
Griffin would be lying if he says that he pays each lady the same amount of attention. It is not Flora's or Vesta's dimples he counts every time they smile. He blames it on the change. Since that night with Muffy's song, the metamorphosis had been so gradual he didn't notice it until it is right in front of his eyes, still wearing the same red, gold, and blue design she had as an awkward caterpillar. Now she flits from spot to spot, drawing the eye to her golden locks every time she tosses them back. The light catches in her eyes, and they sparkle when she laughs.
The spark doesn't fade when some regulars arrive. Before Griffin can budge from his spot, she is already there, filling drinks and speaking sweetly. As the regulars settle on their barstools next to the ladies, they blink in surprise at how their comfortable environment is flying with sparks and stimulation. The new customers are quick to welcome the old, and with one drink in their company, the regulars are laughing as lively as they would with three but without the rowdiness. A glance from the waitress, and even the twins are watching their imbibition.
Griffin cannot remember a night like this before.
A poet could go on and on about the changes in the Blues Bar since La Vie en Rose, but Griffin is no poet. The best he could describe it is: a woman's touch.
Or a Harvest Sprite's mischief.
After a few nights the regulars don't even blink at the additional company. For Griffin, it had taken only the first night for him to realize he doesn't miss the sleepy ol' bar at all.