Chapter 8
From the outside, the Mohegan Inn is just as I remember it.
Maybe a new coat of paint covers the ancient white clapboard; maybe the porch steps have been repaired so you don’t risk losing a leg.
Otherwise, it’s the same rambling, shambling building in which the early Winthropites would have toasted the Declaration of Independence.
I pause on the threshold, gathering memories.
But the nostalgia evaporates when I open the door.
Instead of a squalid public room, giving off beery vibes of health department violations, I find a tavern of hand-finished wood and gleaming metalwork.
Behind the bar, the bottles of craft liquor line up like soldiers and a man in a barn-red T-shirt places a set of sparkling glassware on the shelf.
At the sound of the door, he turns in my direction.
The first thing I notice is the lettering on the shirt—Taproom at the Mo, it says.
“Taproom? What happened around here, Sedge? It’s like, hygienic.”
He hops down from the footstool. “My girlfriend happened. She’s in the restaurant business? We did a big reno last May. Rebuilt the kitchen.”
“No way. And what did Mike have to say about that?”
Sedge grins. “Audrey is Mike’s daughter, Luce. Putty in her hands.”
“His daughter? Someone had Mike’s baby?”
“Crazy, right? Long story. So what are you doing here so early in the day? Celebrating the kid’s first day of school? Can I get you something?”
“Not here for the day drinking, sorry.” I set a bottle of Old Orkney on the counter. “I have a little show-and-tell for you.”
Sedge picks it up and examines the label. A frown dents his forehead. “Where did you get this?”
“Found it in my basement. A whole case of them.”
He lets out a long, low whistle and places the bottle back on the counter. “I’m assuming you know what you have here,” he says.
“Sort of? I mean, I know that 1926 was Prohibition times.”
“Right. So liquor could only legally be sold as medicinal spirits in bonded bottles, from one of a few American distilleries licensed by the federal government. And as I’m sure you know, you couldn’t legally import booze at all.
So anything with a foreign label, like this, would’ve had to be smuggled in. ”
I nod. “Rum-running. That’s what I thought. Because Winthrop would’ve been the perfect place to land liquor, I bet. Right here at the edge of Long Island Sound. Tricky tidal current to give the Coast Guard the slip.”
“You got it. And you found a whole case of this in your dad’s basement?”
“More like a crate. Twenty bottles.”
Sedge shrugs. “Everybody was doing it. Including your grandparents, it looks like.”
“You think they were rumrunners?”
“Nah. I’m guessing they had a supplier. You had a big Jazz Age party coming up, Jay Gatsby sailing over from East Egg in his yacht, you’d put in an order with your guy. This was probably left over from some kind of soirée. Unless.”
He picks up the bottle again.
“Unless they were storing it for somebody?” I ask.
“Possible. Like if the rumrunners would land the booze and need somebody to keep it for a while.”
“The crate was in the back of the crawl space. For sure, someone was hiding it.”
Sedge sets down the bottle and admires it. “So what do you want from me? Certificate of provenance or something? I’m not really an expert. I’m just a bartender.”
The kitchen door opens in the middle of his speech. Audrey strides in, wearing a barn-red apron (Kitchen at the Mo) and a blond ponytail. She sets a steaming bowl in front of Sedge. “Just a bartender. Right.”
“I admit, I have questions,” I say.
“Let’s just say this is his retirement hobby.” She picks up the bottle. “What’s this?”
“Vintage spirits from Lucy’s basement. I’m guessing she wants to know what they’re worth.”
Audrey looks at me. She has wide, blue-green eyes that take no makeup or bullshit. “You want to sell this or drink it?”
“Sell. Definitely.”
“I know a few guys who can help you. Here.” She nudges the bowl toward Sedge. “Try this for me. It’s the tagine I want to work into the fall menu.”
Sedge winks at me. “It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it.”
He stirs a few times and lifts the spoon to his mouth. “Jesus Christ.”
“So that’s a yes?” Even in her apron and ponytail, her plain white T-shirt and jeans, Audrey Fisher exudes this lithe, elastic, animal elegance that floors you. A lioness.
Sedge turns to her with an expression you could only call idolatrous. “Marry me,” he says.
Audrey’s cheeks are flushed; she’s trying to kill a smile. “You’re so biased. Lucy? Honest opinion.”
Sedge grabs a fresh spoon from the container of bar tools and pushes the bowl toward me. Meat and chickpeas and apricots and a thick, rich sauce. I sample a mouthful.
“Stop it. You made this?”
“She’s a trained chef,” says Sedge.
“You don’t think it needs a little more acid?” Audrey asks.
“I think it needs a Michelin star.”
Sedge shrugs one shoulder. “I might be biased, hon, but I wouldn’t lie to you.”
Something about the way he holds her gaze. An electric, intimate current that passes between them like a kiss. You would think they were touching, but his hand remains resting on the counter, the other at his side; hers crossed over her chest.
Audrey turns away first. “Guess I’ll head back to the kitchen, then. Nice seeing you, Lucy.”
When the kitchen door closes behind her, I say, “So things are pretty serious with you two.”
He’s still staring at the door with that worshipful expression. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.” I nod to the bowl. “Are you going to finish that?”
“Go ahead. She’ll have a whole clay pot situation in the kitchen. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Glass of water would be nice, thanks.” I swing onto a stool and drag the bowl in front of me.
Sedge sets a glass of water next to the bowl. “Ben said he took you to see that spot on the beach. You know. Where he found your dad’s clothes.”
“Yeah, it was good. Closure.” I eat the tagine in silence and gather my nerve. “I was kind of surprised to see Ben. I mean, I’m glad you two buried the hatchet and everything. But—I mean, how long is he planning to stay here?”
Sedge shrugs. “As long as he wants. Until he’s ready to go back into the world again.”
“Back into the world again? What does that mean?”
“The whole media shitstorm. The public lynching. He’s pretty beat up, even if he doesn’t let on.”
“What are you talking about? What shitstorm?”
Sedge is polishing some glassware with a bar cloth. He stops in midswipe and fixes me with a bemused stare. “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
Sedge sets down the glass and folds the bar cloth into a neat rectangle. “Don’t you get any football news over there? I mean, I know it’s Europe and all, but…”
“American football? Not really.” I scrape the last of the tagine from the bottom of the bowl. “Does Ben still play? I thought he was a landscaper now.”
Sedge starts to laugh. “Holy shit. A landscaper? Luce, he’s one of the all-time greats. Three Super Bowl rings. Pro Bowl—I don’t know how many times. A lot.”
“What? Are you serious? That’s—wow. That’s amazing. The literal Super Bowl?”
Then I notice Sedge’s expression of incredulity. I rest the spoon in the bowl.
“So what happened? If he’s so famous. What’s he doing mowing your lawn?”
Sedge lays the bar cloth on the counter, arranging the corners just so. He speaks in a hushed voice, like you use in a hospital or a funeral.
“He killed a guy, Luce. In a game, last January. Laid a monster hit on the tight end and snapped his neck.”