Chapter 12
CHAPTER
I need to make a stop.”
My eyes flash to my mother sitting in the passenger seat and back to the road. We just came from a doctor’s appointment. “Sure. Where?”
“The church.”
I frown. Figures. But what could she possibly need to do there at 6:30 in the evening? Daily mass was always 9 a.m. and 4 p.m., unless Saint Matthew’s has changed things up, which I doubt. Lord knows the Catholic Church abhors change.
“What’s to do there at this time of the evening?”
“Pray.”
“Isn’t mass done by now?”
“We don’t need a ceremony to take time out of our day to talk to the Lord. You should try it sometime, might make you a better person.”
I bite my tongue, rather than argue over which one of us is the shitty human. “Fine.”
Ten minutes later, I pull up at the curb outside of Saint Matthew’s and leave the engine running.
“Aren’t you going to park and join me?” my mother asks.
“Not unless you need me to help you walk in. Praying is your thing. Not mine. I’d prefer to wait right here for you.”
My mother juts her chin out, but opens the car door. “I don’t need your help.”
I wait a half hour, then another fifteen minutes more.
When a full hour ticks by and there’s still no sign of her coming out, I unbuckle my seat belt and turn the car off.
She’s probably taking her time to be spiteful, but she’s also sick and frail.
There’s a tiny part of my heart that hasn’t turned black when it comes to my mother, so I can’t help but worry, even though I hate myself for doing it.
Then again, this may just be her way of getting me to come inside.
The vestibule of Saint Matthew’s hasn’t changed one bit—church bulletin board with dozens of pinned posts, worn black pleather chairs that parents force their rowdy children to sit in when they grow too loud at Sunday service, holy water fonts on either side of the door leading to the nave.
I peek inside and spot my mother sitting in a pew a few rows from the altar.
A man sits next to her—a priest, I assume.
I ponder turning around and going back to the car, waiting her out.
But I need this day to be over with. So I take a page from my mother’s book—lift my chin high with righteous indignation and walk in like my feet aren’t burning with each step.
The priest spots me first, and my footsteps falter when I get a look at his face. Father Preston —the one Ivy told me she confessed something to years ago. This town might as well have been frozen the last two decades with the amount of change it’s seen.
I look away, not wanting to meet his eyes. But when I glance to my left, a statue catches my attention. That was not here twenty years ago. The taste of bile rushes up from my stomach, yet somehow I keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Father Preston stands when I arrive at the pew they’ve been seated in. “Elizabeth. It’s wonderful to see you.”
I point back to the statue. “Is that new?”
“Saint Agnes? Why, yes it is.” He smiles. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“When did you get it?”
“A parishioner donated it about a year ago, I think.”
“What parishioner?”
His brows furrow. “It was an anonymous donation. Why do you ask?”
Another coincidence? How can one little town be filled with so many?
I look back at the statue, and cold seeps into my body. It’s probably still ninety outside, and the church doesn’t have air-conditioning, so it means one thing—a panic attack is coming. I need to get the hell out of here quick .
My mother still hasn’t acknowledged me. Her head is bowed like she’s full of shame. I thought this was the place you came to get rid of that stuff. “Mom . . .”
She turns. The change in her position lets me see there’s something in her hand. I take a step closer, squint for a better look.
Drinking Fornication
I close my eyes. Her sin list. No wonder it’s taken so long.
Mom traces my line of sight and pulls the paper tight to her chest so I can’t see it.
Which makes me wonder—what else is on there?
I should’ve read the entire thing when I had the chance earlier.
Is she here to confess just her sins? Or does she feel the need to rat out everything she believes is a crime against the Lord, even if the sins don’t belong to her?
“What can I get you?”
The bartender, a woman who looks barely old enough to drink, slaps a napkin in front of me. She might be young, but she fills out the half shirt she’s wearing pretty damn well. I guess that’s more important in a place like this.
“I’ll take a whiskey. Macallan Double Cask, if you have it.”
Her lip twitches. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
I shake my head. “Not anymore. I take it that means you don’t have Macallan?”
“No, we don’t.”
“What type of whiskey do you have?”
“We got Hendrick’s.”
I don’t bother to inform her that Hendrick’s is gin , not whiskey. I’d drink rubbing alcohol at this point. “I’ll take that. Thanks.”
While Miss Half Shirt searches for the bottle, I take out my Amex and put it on the bar, then look around.
This place was a boarded-up bar when I was a kid.
I can’t remember what it was called back then, but it definitely wasn’t Liars Pub.
It’s a typical hole in the wall—dark so the patrons can’t see the glasses aren’t clean, wobbly wooden stools that need cushions, and a back room with two dartboards and a worn pool table.
A guy with a mullet and a receding hairline leans over with a cue stick to take a shot.
He catches my eye and proffers a leering smile.
I turn away quickly, hoping he won’t think my glancing around is an invitation.
I knock back my first drink within minutes of it being served.
It burns as it slides down my throat, worms its way into my belly.
I appreciate the occasional cocktail and wine with dinner, but rarely do I allow myself to get drunk.
Tonight, I plan on making an exception. It can’t be more than a mile walk to Mom’s.
My rental car can stay in the parking lot overnight.
Raising my hand, I call over the bartender.
“You want another?” she asks.
“Please.”
A voice behind me catches me off guard. “Put hers on my tab, please, Willow.”
I expect to find the mullet man when I turn, but I’m pleasantly surprised. Instead, there’s a tall, handsome—albeit too young for me—man with a deliciously crooked smile. That smile widens, unveiling a set of cavernous dimples. Oh my.
“You are definitely not from around here,” he drawls.
I swivel and face him for a better look. “Oh yeah? Why is that?”
“Because the girls from these parts drink one of three things: White Claws, High Noons, or Jack and Coke. And the third I keep away from because that means they’re going to wind up sloppy drunk.”
“I suppose the reason I don’t drink any of those is because I’m a woman , not a girl.”
Dimples looks me up and down. There’s a sparkle in his eyes when they meet mine. “You sure are.”
I chuckle. He’s corny and over the top, but something about him appeals to me. It could be the confidence. There’s nothing I’m drawn to more than a confident man. Which is why Sam isn’t the first cop I’ve dated.
“What’s your name?” I tilt my head. “Or should I just call you Dimples?”
“Name’s Noah.” He smiles, flashes those things like a weapon, and holds out a hand. “And you are?”
“Elizabeth.” I put my hand in his, but instead of shaking, he lifts my knuckles to his lips and kisses just above them.
“Pleasure. Where you from, darlin’?” He waves his head. “Wait. Let me guess.”
“This should be interesting . . .” I cross one leg over the other. Noah’s eyes drop to follow before looking up unapologetically and wagging a finger at me.
“I bet you’re from New York City.”
“Indeed I am. What gave it away?”
“You just have that look about you.”
“And what look is that?”
He grins. “Like you can eat a man alive.”
“Considering you’re standing here and just bought me a drink, I take it you enjoy being eaten alive?”
“I don’t mind it.” He leans in, putting his mouth next to my ear, and whispers, “But I’m a gentleman, so I’ll always do the eatin’ first.”
The bartender interrupts, which I’m grateful for because this young’in has got me all hot and bothered. She places another drink in front of me and lifts her chin to Noah. “You want your usual?”
“Yes, please.”
She raps her knuckles against the bar twice. “Coming right up.”
Noah slides into the seat next to me and scoots it over a few inches until his knee is touching mine. “So what brings a city girl down to these parts?”
“I’m visiting family.” I pick up my drink and take a healthy swig, watch the man next to me over the glass. “Tell me, how old are you, Noah?”
“Old enough.”
“Old enough for what?”
He grins again. “Anything you want to do.”
I chuckle. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
Over the next hour, Noah and I talk. Surprisingly, we have a lot in common—even though I did the math when he said the year he graduated high school and know he’s ten years younger than me.
Noah is a writer. He pens a sports column for the Louisiana Post , but he wants to write a novel someday.
He has a degree in journalism from Tulane, runs half marathons, and is willing to travel for a good meal at a restaurant.
He’s read Tolstoy and Faulkner, but prefers to read Stephen King on a night when the wind is howling.
And he’s currently remodeling his house all by himself, rather than hiring people.
After my third drink, I’m relaxed enough to forget the reason I’m down here for the first time since crossing the state line.
But my gut tells me the man next to me could make me forget my name for a while.
So even though I rarely take up with a man under forty, I decide to make an exception.
Noah excuses himself to go to the men’s room, and I wait a few seconds, then hop down from the bar stool and follow.