Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The restaurant is closed for our event, and there doesn’t seem to be a bartender on duty.
I wait a few minutes, hoping one of the waiters who served our drinks will appear.
No luck. There are wineglasses and a few open bottles of white on the counter.
After waiting some more, I go ahead and pour a glass of wine for Amity.
The beer poses a trickier problem. I can’t exactly serve myself, which would require walking around the bar.
Just as an experiment, I stretch out my hand to see if I can reach the beer tap.
As my fingers touch it, I hear a man say, “Try that in a real pub and you’d get kicked out. ”
It’s the guy from the village, the handsome one with the mother I thought was an actor. He’s not scowling, which is a relief. He picks up a glass. “May I?”
“Sure, I’ll have the lager.” I want to apologize for my mistake this afternoon, but I don’t know how. As he hands me the beer, I say, “You’re a good son.”
He considers me for a moment, and his face softens. “She’s a good mum.”
It seems so uncomplicated the way he says it, like it’s possible to have that kind of relationship with your mother. Like she raised him well, with love and constancy and patience, and he’s returning the favor.
He picks up a cloth and wipes down the bar and then tucks it into the waist of his pants.
“I’m sorry about yours,” he says.
“Pardon?”
“You’re Catherine, right?”
“Cath.” No one has called me Catherine, or even Cathy, since I read Wuthering Heights in high school and forsook my namesake.
Catherine Earnshaw might have been beautiful, but she was a petulant brat enmeshed in the world’s most dysfunctional, obsessive romance.
I still don’t understand how my mother could have named me for her.
“Sorry. Cath. I heard about your circumstances.” His eyes are dark and serious, but he exudes warmth.
“I wasn’t aware that my circumstances were common knowledge in Willowthrop.”
“Germaine’s an old family friend.”
“And also the village gossip?”
He smiles a little and shakes his head. “I don’t think she spread it around. I was helping her with some logistics, and it came up. She means well.”
“So you are part of the week’s activities.”
“Can’t say.”
“Can’t, as in you’re not allowed to say because you’re playing a part? Or can’t because you don’t want to?”
He looks serious now. “I can tell you one thing: that was my mother this afternoon. And she wasn’t acting.”
“I am so sorry about that.”
“It’s okay. I didn’t mean to react so harshly. It’s just that I get a bit of a stick in these parts.”
“Meaning?”
“You know, people asking where I’m from and being shocked when I say London. The follow-up question is always ‘But where are you really from?’ As if a bloke who isn’t white can’t have a mum from Willowthrop.”
“I was sure you were part of the game.”
“Did I say I’m not?” He looks confused for a moment and then laughs. “Nah, I’m just taking the piss. I’m helping out tonight, making and serving drinks. I’ve got my own bar in town, and I’ve started a little distillery. Artisanal gin.”
“That’s a thing?” I honestly don’t know whether to believe him, but his banter is very attractive.
His face lights up. “Absolutely. Small batch, made with different aromatics.”
“I thought gin was made from juniper.” I’m impressed with myself for knowing that much.
“Juniper is the basic ingredient. But then there are other botanicals—verbena, cardamom, lemon, bay leaves. I try to source local when I can. I’ve got a batch flavored with rhubarb from my garden.” His speech has changed. He’s talking faster and with an unabashed eagerness to share.
“Isn’t gin one of England’s biggest exports?” I ask.
“Yes, it’s popular.”
“So there must be hundreds of distilleries.”
He smiles and says, “My gin is really good.”
He’s brimming with something, maybe optimism or excitement, neither of which I’ve felt in a long time.
It’s alluring; not only is there no trace of that scowl, but his dark eyes shine and his lips curl into a sweet smile.
He seems to have forgiven me for my earlier offense, which is more of a relief than it should be considering I barely know the guy.
He takes out a cocktail napkin and scribbles an address on it. “That’s my bar. Pop in one night and say hi.”
“It’s really your bar, not a stage set?”
“Come see for yourself.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say.
“Isn’t it?” He holds out the napkin. “I’m Dev, by the way. Dev Sharma.”
“Real name?”
“Does it sound fake?”
“Another deflection.”
“Excellent observation,” he says. “But of course, you’re a detective, so…”
He’s enjoying this, and so am I. Until I remember that even if he’s telling the truth about his mother, his flirtation may be scripted. And I’m not going to be the gullible American who falls for his lines.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the napkin. “I’ll try.”
Without looking at what he’s written, I shove the napkin in my pocket, crumpling it in the process. I pick up the drinks and walk away.