Chapter 7 #2
“I told you I’m not serving you tonight,” Estelle said, forcing her gaze away from the stranger. “I’ll call you a taxi, okay? Go home.” She glanced the tall man’s way again. “Everything is fine. Did you need anything from the bar?”
“A beer,” Greg said.
“Not you.” Estelle’s voice was like a whip.
The stranger’s eyes glittered in the muted light, a hint of amusement on his lips. “No, I’m all right,” he said. “Just wanted to offer my services, but you clearly have things under control.” He nodded to indicate Greg, then he winked at her and strode back toward his table.
How about that—the American gentleman wasn’t quite extinct after all.
Once she’d lost him in the crowd, she returned her attention to her miserable excuse for a husband.
For a split second, she considered dropping the bomb on him right then just to be done with it.
The words swirled in her head, on her tongue, on her lips.
I’m leaving you. But common sense won out, and instead she shook her head at him as he looked at her with bloodshot eyes.
“Don’t go anywhere,” she said sharply. “I’ll let you know when the car is here. ”
As soon as he was gone, it was as if the unpleasant interlude had never happened.
Someone else took his seat, and Estelle carried on serving drinks.
When had it become so easy to move right on along?
Was it the first time he’d embarrassed her in public?
That time she’d had to tell her favorite teacher she was dropping out of school?
Or did it go even further back to her childhood when her own parents had thrown harsh words at each other at school functions and birthday parties, and she’d pretended not to notice.
Maybe she’d always known that if she didn’t acknowledge the shameful elephant, it didn’t exist, and if it didn’t exist, she didn’t have to spend time figuring out how she felt about it. It was a good skill to have.
There was one benefit to Greg’s interruption though—it had made Estelle too preoccupied to be nervous about her upcoming performance. Before long, it was her turn, and she hurried into the back to remove her apron, change her blouse, and retrieve her guitar.
The crowd had thinned substantially because of the late hour and it being a Thursday, but she didn’t mind. She’d play for one person if she had to—each small step forward was still progress on this new journey she’d staked out for herself.
As the previous singer—a burly man with a banjo—left the small corner platform to make room for her, the audience returned to their plates and their company, so when Estelle introduced herself, not a single person in the room was looking at her.
No, that wasn’t true. The handsome guy was, his head tilted with curiosity as she strummed her first chord.
The stage had always worked like a time warp for Estelle, and that night was no different.
Her twenty minutes felt like one, and when the echo of her final note floated toward the ceiling and the audience started clapping, she returned to her body as if her soul had been out adventuring in a place she hadn’t visited in a long time.
Every nerve ending tingled with familiarity and rightness, but since she still had an hour left of her shift, she hurried to thank everyone for coming out instead of lingering in that feeling.
“You were amazing,” Sandy said when Estelle returned to the bar. “I can’t believe you wrote those songs. Where did you learn that?”
Estelle shrugged. “My grandpa played, and he gave me my first guitar when I was six. I’ve loved it ever since.”
“Well, you should definitely keep doing it.”
Estelle smiled as she filled another glass with foaming beer from the tap and set it down in front of a patron. “That’s the plan.” She picked up a rag and wiped a spill from the bar before looking up, ready to take the next order, only to find herself locked in that intense gaze once again.
“How many different jobs can one girl do around here?” the handsome guy asked, one elbow casually resting on the edge of the bar. “Making drinks, serving, handling drunkards, musical entertainment…”
“What can I say? I have layers.” Estelle smirked as she gestured to the tap. “Another one?”
He shook his head. “I don’t drink after midnight.”
“Why? Do you turn into a pumpkin?”
The full force of his wide grin hit her square in the chest as he nodded in approval.
“Funny, but no.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“See that guy in the green polo over there?” He nudged his head in the direction of the table he’d come from.
“We’re vying for the same contract, and I happen to know the guy making the decisions is golfing early tomorrow morning. ”
A man with a plan… Estelle found herself smiling back at him as something in her stomach made a double loop. “Clever. And what business are you in?”
“Construction currently. But I dabble here and there.”
“I see.” She didn’t, but it was late, and her game was rustier than an old barn nail. A small flutter of the lashes seemed a safer bet than making conversation.
He straightened. “Which is why I wanted to talk to you actually.”
She blinked up at him in surprise. “Oh?”
“That’s quite a voice you’ve got there. It’s not often that folksy Americana stuff captures my attention.”
Folksy stuff? Estelle was about to call him out on the dismissive term, but the sincerity of his compliment stopped her. Or maybe it was his square chin and rapt attention. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at her that way. Like she was a woman to reckon with.
“Anyway…” he continued. “I think you have something special, and if you’re interested, I might be able to help you out. I’ve got a lot of connections.” He placed a business card on the counter and tapped it twice.
She took it, reading the words out loud. “‘Raymond Clark, Business Manager.’”
“Hope to hear from you soon,” he said.