46
The man had shared his location with her. She still couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t answered any of her texts, but she’d been notified several hours ago that he was sharing his location, and she could see that he was still at the hospital at nine o’clock, nine-thirty, ten, ten-thirty.
He was almost certainly in surgery, and she knew that could take all night. This was his way of letting her know if she should expect him or not.
But when she checked at eleven, he had left the hospital.
The bad news was that they were not too far from the neighborhood he lived in, so they wouldn’t know until the last minute if he was coming to the sleepy little nightclub or going home. But if she had to hunt him down, she’d do it in the morning.
She put her phone into her purse and zipped it shut.
“So, is he different?” Eve asked curiously. “I haven’t seen him since your high school graduation, I think. Or maybe it was Hart’s.”
“You’ll know him right away,” Liesl predicted. “His looks haven’t changed, to speak of.”
Clara was surprised. “Really? I was shocked when I saw him.”
“Oh, I thought he looked the same.”
“No, not at all! He’s all filled out now. Older . More facial hair.”
Eve nodded wisely.
“He’s still very serious,” Liesl went on. “Wouldn’t you say, Clara?”
“Yup,” she sighed. He was very serious, like he carried the weight of the world. “I was hoping I could get him to have some fun tonight, but he’s probably exhausted. I should text him not to bother.”
“At least it’s near his house,” Eve said supportively. “He can just stop in for a minute, and it might cheer him up if he’s had a rough day.”
“Well, there he is,” Liesl announced, nodding toward the entrance. “What do you think, Eve? Would you know him?”
“Wow, he looks great,” Eve said.
“Dibs,” Clara said at once, and Eve grinned at her. “I’ll be right back!”
She slid out of the booth and caught sight of him talking briefly to the bartender. He was wearing a dark, collared shirt and he looked dangerously handsome, but something was wrong, she thought. He didn’t just look serious this time.
He saw her and gave her a dull nod of recognition that just about broke her heart. Why did the man look so tragic?
“Jesse,” she said as she reached him, and she put her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “Hug me back.”
He obeyed, and surprised her with an uncomfortably tight squeeze.
She leaned her head back to look at him. “Your eyes.”
“Fine,” he said.
The DJ started playing a slower song, a tacky remix of a Frank Sinatra classic, and she grabbed his hand. “Dance with me.”
“No, I don’t want to dance,” he said instantly.
“It would be cruel of me to insist,” she said, “but you do owe me one. From Valentine’s Day, remember? Come on.”
She half-dragged him to an open spot on the dance floor, and then she stepped close and placed his hands on her waist for him.
“Now we can keep hugging without looking like a couple of weirdos,” she explained.
“Why would I want to keep hugging you?” he asked, gripping her tightly.
“Try it and find out,” she suggested.
He sighed—it was just a massive imposition—but he dragged her closer and his arms slid around her again. She reached up and stroked the hair at the back of his neck, and his head fell forward, all the way to her shoulder.
He was not all right.
The grief that radiated from him threatened to swamp her, but she hoped illogically that she could absorb some of it.
So she petted his hair with one hand and kept the other on his shoulder blade in case he tried to escape. But he didn’t try to escape, and his arms remained locked around her so snugly that she began to have real hope that she was comforting him a little.
When the song ended and was immediately succeeded by one with a much faster beat, Jesse let go of her. “No more.”
“Let me buy you a drink,” she requested.
He looked down at her. “You’re crying,” he accused. “What the heck are you crying for?”
“I don’t know; you tell me,” she retorted, annoyed by the harshness of his tone.
“ I didn’t make you cry!”
“I’m not crying,” she lied, wiping one eye carefully. “Come on, let’s go sit down.”
He scowled at her, but followed her to the table where Liesl and Eve were again discussing Fiddler ’s opening night.
They both greeted him cheerfully, and he answered with a subdued, “Hey,” as Clara pushed him into the booth and slid in after him.
She scooted right up against his side and he put his arm up behind her on the frame of the booth.
“Long day?” Liesl asked with sympathy.
“Yeah,” he said, and didn’t elaborate. “How was the musical?”
So the women discussed the production some more, and no one pressured him to participate. The waiter brought his Jack and Coke and he kept one hand on the glass, but Clara was pretty sure he never took a drink of it.
“I hate to be the wet blanket,” Liesl finally said. “But I haven’t stayed up this late in about ten years.”
They left the club together and paused outside. “We’re parked down that way,” Clara told him. “What about you?”
“I walked from my place,” he said, indicating the opposite direction. “Didn’t feel like fighting for a space.”
“It did take us a while to find one,” she admitted. “Do you want us to drop you off?”
“No, I want to walk.”
“Okay,” she said, studying him. He didn’t really look better than when he’d come in, but at least he didn’t look worse. A good night’s sleep would probably help, if he could get one. “Don’t get mugged.”
“No, ma’am.”
“You should come to Hart’s for breakfast tomorrow,” Liesl told him. “I’m making Eve’s favorite: chicken and waffles. Are you an early riser?”
“For chicken and waffles I am,” he answered, surprising Clara.
“Great,” her aunt said pleasantly. “Clara can text you the address. We’ll see you at nine?”
“Sure.” He bumped Clara’s arm with his elbow. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Money well spent,” she joked.
He didn’t smile, but he gave her a wry look.
“Well, what did you think?” she asked, as the women climbed into Liesl’s SUV.
“He looks just how I remember,” Eve replied.
But Clara knew Liesl would understand that she was referring back to the conversation they’d had over lunch.
“I think your dad’s right,” her aunt replied.