Author's Note: Launching early! Hope you enjoy.
- one: bar's closed -
april :: edward
The Swan Dive's famous neon sign is dark, but light spills into the sidewalk from the big bay windows on either side of the front door.
Huh. I don't remember the Dive having any windows. Charlie's made some updates since the summer.
I crane my neck to see if anyone's inside. From my kitty-corner vantage point, it looks empty.
That seems strange. It's only seven. But it is a Tuesday. Surely Charlie's around here somewhere.
This little side street is pretty dead, especially compared to the bustling neighborhoods that surround this pocket of auto body shops, mini-marts, and laundromats. Portland Cool is encroaching—but the Dive and its environs haven't quite been swallowed up just yet.
The door slams open, releasing a stream of angry punk guitar into the night.
Along with a swearing, crying girl.
She's dragging a massive, dirty dropcloth behind her, weighed down with…something. As she hauls it over the bar's threshold, I can see the absolutely filthy white tee and baggy black jeans hanging off her slight figure.
A massive ripping sound rends the air, stopping her short.
"God-fucking-damn cocksucking piece of SHIT!"
She throws the edge of the cloth to the ground and collapses to sit on the curb, pressing her forehead against her bent knees.
I hesitate, just for a second, watching the quaking silhouette of her thin shoulder blades, winging out through the back of her shirt.
Ah, fuck. I'm not gonna be able to leave that be.
I clear my throat so I don't startle her.
"Hey—"
Doesn't work, dammit—she levitates about a foot off the curb with a sharp curse.
"Woah, my bad." I put my hands up to show I have no intention of coming too close.
I can hear the rush of cars speeding down the artery street a few streets over. From inside the bar, the muffled screaming, grunting song pounds.
Otherwise, quiet—the block's deserted. We're totally alone.
She looks at me warily, peering narrow-eyed through the dark.
"You, uh, you need some help?" I try again.
"Fuck off." She wipes at her face with equally dirty knuckles, the sharp, angry motion belying the tears. "I am so not in the mood tonight."
I drop my hands. Thrust them into my empty pockets.
This is really not going to plan. But I don't think I can give up now.
God, I could use a cigarette.
"I really don't mean to bother you—"
She snorts. But at least she's not cussing me out.
I rock back on my heels. "Ok. Well. I can see the bar's closed tonight. I was just dropping by to talk to Charlie."
"Good luck with that. He's dead."
I freeze. Shit.
"Three months ago." Her voice is dull, with an undercurrent of bitterness. "You'll have to settle for number two on the Lonely Foodie Tourist's Guide to the Best Old School Portland Dive Bars for a Cheap Beer or whatever the fuck."
I recognize the insult, but let it pass—she's crying again, dammit.
I'm striding across the street before I can stop myself, which is about the dumbest thing I could do—because now she's crying and grabbing for the jangling key ring hooked to her belt loop, which I'm sure has mace hanging off it.
"Fuck! Don't pepper spray me!" I'd been reaching for her, instinctively moving to pat her shoulder in some dumbass idea of comfort, and she was spooked. I squeeze my eyes shut, turning my head to the side protectively and throwing my hands over my face. "I just—you're crying. I hate seeing women cry."
I grimace. This is not going well. "Jesus. I'm an idiot, not a predator, I swear."
Against all odds, the air isn't burning yet. I cautiously slit one eye open to peer through my fingers.
I catch her almost smiling.
Beautiful, I think, before I've really even taken her in.
Christ, I deserve the pepper spray—she's in rough shape. Her eyes are bloodshot, like she hasn't slept. Tear tracks cut through the fine layer of dust on her skin to reveal dark smudges below her dark lashes and pale cheeks. Her unwashed hair, bleach blonde with almost an inch of dark root showing, is pulled back in some semblance of a messy ponytail; lank pieces have fallen out and hang all around her face and neck.
I recognize the signs—she's a woman firmly in The Shit, trademarked and patent pending.
I step back off the curb, into the street.
"I'm really sorry to hear about Charlie," I say carefully. "I only met him once, but he was kind to me when I needed it."
That brings a flicker of warmth to her dark eyes—brown? Hard to be sure with the light at her back—quickly cut down by a stab of pain.
"Yeah, that sounds about right."
Something fires in the back of my brain.
Charlie leaning against the bar, tapping his plain gold wedding band idly on the wood while chatting with a regular.
"Where's Bella?"
"Kicked her out hours ago. Probably taking advantage of her night off by deep cleaning our apartment. You know how she is."
Laughter, and a spirited round of razzing. "C'mon, Charlie, you can't let your girl mother you like that!"
"So…are you the famous Bella, then?" I ask.
Her mouth tightens. "Guilty."
The puzzle pieces slot into place. Charlie's widow, deep in fresh loss.
I look her over again with a more critical eye. She can't even be 30 yet. Maybe half Charlie's age. I bring up a mental image of his bristly mustache and hangdog expression and compare it against the fine-boned young woman before me, lovely even with the layers of grime and grief that cling to her. He wasn't a bad-looking man, but still. Forget out of his league—she's a game seven, World Series home run, and he's a game of catch in the backyard.
But love's weird like that—and it's obvious that she loved him.
"Damn, good for Charlie."
It pops out before I realize I'm saying it. But even muttered under my breath, she catches it.
And it righteously pisses her off.
"Excuse me?"
She's on her feet now, fists clenched like she's gonna take a swing at me. Tears are leaking down her hollowed-out cheeks again.
"Ah, shit." Stupid. "I just meant, y'know…you're not what I expected Charlie's wife to look like."
She stares at me for a beat, shocked, and then burble of laughter escapes her. Her fingers fly to her mouth, as if she's surprised she can still make that sound.
I run a hand through my hair—a nervous tic.
"Jesus," I mutter. "I'm such a dick. I didn't mean to be insensitive—"
"Daughter. I'm Charlie's daughter."
She drops her hand from her pert lips, revealing the barest hint of an exasperated smile. She's amused in spite of herself.
Her top lip's a little fuller than the bottom, I notice.
"Oh." I want to melt into the ground. I'd settle for kicking myself if it wouldn't draw more attention to my mortification. "Right. I guess that tracks."
She huffs another not-quite-laugh. I rub the back of my neck, wondering how the hell I've fucked this interaction up so badly.
"Well," she says, straightening. "Point is, Dive's closed permanently. And I've got a lot of work to do. So if you'll excuse me…"
She motions to a dumpster on the corner beside the bar, half-full of construction detritus.
She must be cleaning the place up to sell.
Something in my chest squeezes. It's been almost a year since I visited with Alice, but I'd really liked the place. I'd pictured it as a home base of sorts—I even rented a house within walking distance. And Charlie was supposed to be my connection to the Portland restaurant scene. With him gone…
One glance at Bella Swan's too-thin frame makes me ashamed of thinking of her dad so transactionally, even in passing.
Anyway, I've got Alice. She has a decent network, even though she's still relatively new herself. Guess that's bartenders for you. Or I'll just knock on doors and drop my resume around. I know firsthand that even the best kitchens have a hard time with turnover. There's always a need for a line cook who shows up on time.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
"No worries. Sorry for disturbing you." I hesitate, not at all sure how to end this very strange, very embarrassing conversation. "And…sorry for your loss."
"Yeah, me too."
The softness in her tone is a surprise.
She gathers up the corners of the dropcloth again, making a more secure bundle to haul toward the dumpster. A clear dismissal.
I watch her for just a second too long before turning back in the direction of my box-filled bungalow.
Tomorrow, I'll make a list of likely spots to try picking up shifts. But for tonight, I think I'll let myself stew in the disappointment. Just for a little while.
Author's Note: Thank you for all the enthusiasm for the prologue of this story! I was planning to wait until November to kick it off in earnest but honestly, the longer I wait, the more I futz with this chapter and it's starting to annoy me lol.
Quick housekeeping: I'm through chapter 4 of this story so far, and trying to stay a bit ahead of my posting, but I'm not committing to any kind of regular schedule. That doesn't seem to work very well for me :) Also, I am a food & wine lover, not a food & wine genius, so I will be borrowing heavily from the real pros when the story calls for pairings, recipes, etc. I'll credit my inspo in the footnotes. I do share background info, snippets, moodboards, and so forth on Facebook under Kathryn Ssomethingvague if you're interested. Link in my profile. Or just read, whatever.