Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
The parking lot of the Walleye Tavern, the most established business in town, is packed with cars. I slow as I consider my Dollar Store dinner. Becky won’t be meeting me for another hour. I could grab a greasy burger, some fries, a nice cold beer, and still get to the Iverson cottages before her.
My mouth waters.
I haven’t eaten anything since a prepackaged salad and iced tea at O’Hare Airport.
For the record, the flight time from O’Hare to Kalamazoo isn’t the one hour they claim. It’s almost literally—wheels up to wheels down—no more than thirty minutes. There’s not even a beverage service, much less pretzels or peanuts.
Steering the rental car into the gravel parking lot, I contemplate my next move. The Michigan license plate won’t give me away. My trepidation comes with the possibility of coming face-to-face with the people who I once knew.
Turning off the engine, I let my growling stomach make the decision.
It isn’t just my hunger for food that has my stomach in knots.
Being back in Blue Gil has me on edge. A tried-and-true old alliance blooms anew—the yearning for a liquid sedative.
Maybe something a bit stronger than a beer would help to calm my nerves.
As I approach the front entrance, the door opens, the screen door banging against the building as a couple no older than twenty-two come out, tangled together.
If I know them or they know me, there’s no connection.
With the man’s arm wrapped around her, the young woman only has eyes for him.
I slow my steps, waiting for them to pass.
The Smoke-Free Air Act Law eliminated smoking from bars and restaurants in Michigan in 2010.
Pushing the inside door open, I’m hit with a wave of stale smoke.
The air is clear. There’s no cloud hanging near the ceiling, yet the stench is still there.
The Walleye Tavern has been in this same location for over half a century.
The faded paneling, neon signs up on the walls and over the windows, and the vinyl chairs are no doubt all culprits in retaining nearly fifty years of stench.
My eyes adjust as I take in the atmosphere.
Not much has changed. Booths line three sides of the large room with tables filling the floor.
There is a long bar along the wall to the left and two pool tables in the attached room off to the right.
Only one of the pool tables is in view, but from the sound of things, including f-bombs being thrown here and there, both are in use.
Flat television screens with closed caption dot the walls and twang-filled music permeates the air.
Both families and couples occupy most of the booths and tables.
Until the Valley Concert Venue opens, there is only one night spot in Blue Gil—and this is it.
As I survey the crowd, I sense a cloud of reverence settled over the patrons.
This isn’t a usual Friday-night foray. Instead, the atmosphere holds a somber undertone.
It makes sense. Most of these people undoubtedly spent today paying tribute to Craig Gilbert, beloved coach of Blue Gil’s state football championship teams.
I make my way through the scattering of tables to the bar and take a seat a few empty stools from anyone else.
Beneath my touch, the tips of my fingers stick to the shiny surface.
Behind the bar the shelves are filled with bottles of different liquors.
In the center there is a tap. The handles advertise not only the commonly found beers but also a few local craft brews. I set my ID on the bar.
“What can I get you?”
When I look up, my gaze meets pale blue eyes beneath a crown of wavy brown hair.
I turn toward the tables, taking in the meals others are eating. When I turn back, I ask, “Is it too late to order food?”
Mr. Blue Eyes reaches for a menu. It’s one page sealed within a plastic case. He places it on the bar in front of me and glances down at my ID. When he looks up, he asks, “How about a drink while you decide?”
“I’ve decided.” I push the menu back and retrieve my ID.
“Cheeseburger, well done. French fries and slaw. Oh, and I’ll take a—” My lips press together as I focus on a few patrons farther down the bar.
There are two women staring my way. My stomach does another flip.
I look back at the bartender. “How about a double shot of” —I peer above the bar to the bottles on display— “Makers.”
The tips of his lips curl as he nods. “Coming up, pretty lady.”
I inwardly scoff at his comment, while simultaneously and hypocritically, noticing the way his worn jeans sit low on his hips, the way his tattooed biceps bulge beneath the short sleeves of his gray t-shirt, and the name of the tavern stretches nicely over his wide chest.
A million questions continue to swirl in my mind about Craig.
As I wait, I realize I’m eavesdropping on a conversation coming from the table behind me.
The family didn’t notice my entrance or care.
They’re talking about Mr. Gilbert, the younger boy lamenting the loss of a great football coach and his missed opportunity to play under Mr. Gilbert’s tutelage.
The father agrees, quoting statistics of the local high school’s rise to state prominence under Mr. Gilbert’s control.
A glass appears before me as I lift my chin and meet the bartender’s gaze.
“My name’s Theo,” he says as he pours the whisky.
“Hi, Theo. I’m Jill.”
Putting the bottle on the bar, he reaches for the edge and leans back. The muscles in his arms flex. “What brings you to Blue Gil? Are you here because of Coach Gilbert?”
Lifting the rim to my lips I inhale the strong scent. Tipping the glass, I allow the liquid to breach my lips, tingle my tongue, and flow, warming my throat. I swallow the entirety of the contents in one gulp. I blink as immediately, the double shot races through my circulation.
With the empty glass back on the bar, I shake my head. “From the sound of things, I missed the funeral.” Yes, I know that wasn’t what he asked, but it’s all I care to share.
Theo’s eyes narrow. “You’re too early for the season.”
The season—summer. Boating, hiking, and concertgoing.
“I have family.”
It’s his turn to smile. “Oh? So you’re here to visit your folks?”
“Theo,” a man calls from a doorway near the bar.
Theo lifts a finger. “Hold that thought.” He looks at the Maker’s Mark bottle and my empty glass. “Another?”
I feel the alcohol coursing through my system, the familiar way it ricochets like a pinball through my veins and buzzes in my ears. This sensation is more familiar than this town. “One more. And a glass of water with my burger.”
“Gotcha covered.”
While the ladies at the end of the bar seem to notice me, I make no sign that I recognize them. The sad truth is I couldn’t put names with the faces. Six years isn’t a lifetime, and it is.
Instead of thinking about who they are, I focus on my meal and sipping my second double. The family behind me leaves after the mother declares she’s tired, and the father admits he has plenty of beer at home. Their discussion of Coach Gilbert leaves with them.
After dipping my last fry into the remaining ketchup smeared on my plate and savoring the salty goodness, I retrieve two twenty-dollar bills from my purse and wait for the bill. A quick look at my watch tells me that I have ten minutes before the Dollar Store closes.
I wave at Theo who is talking to the two women, now with their dates. The way the brunette one looks my direction tells me that she at least suspects she recognizes me.
Damn, I should have looked at my yearbook before returning. At least then I’d have names.
“What’s the damage?” I ask as Theo’s blue eyes appear across the bar.
“On the house. We here at the Walleye Tavern take pity on weary travelers, especially those who came all the way from California.
“Wait?” My pulse kicks up a notch.
He grins. “Your ID.”
I nod. “That’s right.”
“Last name Thorne. You said you have family here. Could you be related to Jerry and Shannon?”
I swallow as my mouth goes dry and my eyes skirt to the empty glass. “You could say that.” I lay my hand on the bar. “Thing is, I haven’t told them I’m in town. So, I’d appreciate—”
“Your secret is safe with me. But I wouldn’t wait long. Our village is pretty small. Rumors travel fast.”
Don’t I know that?
“Thanks for the advice, Theo.” I tilt my head. “What’s your last name?”
“Morton.”
“Theodore Morton,” I repeat slowly. “No, I remember Theodore Morton. Gruff, graying, and he wore a uniform.”
“Theo’s the name.” He winks. “Theodore is my dad.”
“Your dad is part of the sheriff’s department?”
“One of the three deputies.”
Well, that answers my earlier question.
Leaving the two twenties on the bar, I stand. Thankfully, the dinner soaked up most of the two doubles. “Nice to meet you, Theo.”
“I sat behind you in algebra, Jillian.”
Jillian, my forever Blue Gil name.
My neck straightens as I recall the skinny, straggly kid who sat behind me. “No, he was...”
Theo’s blue eyes shine as his smile widens. “Secret’s safe. And for the record, I wanted to call you pretty back then, but you never noticed me. Let’s say my confidence has grown.”
His confidence isn’t the only thing.
“My advice,” he went on. “Avoid Main and Highway 40. That’s where my dad hangs out watching for people as they leave here.”
“Thank you. I need to make a stop at the Dollar Store.”
“Then you better hurry. Mary closes at eight sharp, and she won’t hesitate to throw you out.”
With a nod and a smile, I turn away. It isn’t until I’m in the car, approaching the Dollar Store from the rear to avoid Main and M-40, that I realize my cover is blown. I’ll need to face my parents in the morning.