Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Paige knew something was off when the GPS announced their arrival and all she could see in front of her was a strip mall. And not the most upscale one, either.
Shooters Bar and Grill sat between a nail salon and a place advertising tax help year-round, its sign buzzing faintly like it had needed the bulbs changed for a long time. The windows of the restaurant were darkened, the beer posters pasted on from the inside doing the heavy lifting of decorating.
Paige blinked. “Is this it?”
Graham leaned forward slightly, glanced at the GPS screen, then peered through the windshield. “According to the glowing sign and the collection of pickup trucks parked at creative angles, yes.”
She laughed. “Joe said casual. I was picturing beach casual, not strip-mall casual.”
“So was I,” Graham said. His eyes narrowed. “Seems to be a failure of specificity.” He looked at her. “I’m game if you are.”
“For sure. I wouldn’t miss this. Plus, Cece would be very unhappy if we bailed. It might not be our usual sort of place, but we’ll survive.”
“Well, then. Once more unto the breach.”
They stepped out of the car and walked past a cracked planter and a shopping cart that clearly was not where it belonged.
The door to Shooters opened straight into noise.
Voices, laughter, the clatter of dishes, some happy shouting.
All accompanied by the unmistakable aroma of fried food, which should have been off-putting, but somehow it wasn’t a bad smell at all.
Paige was surprised to find her mouth watering.
Inside, the place was dim but lively. Neon beer signs decorated the walls.
The long bar was already half-full with people who looked like they’d been in their seats for a while.
No windows to speak of besides the front ones covered in posters, which somehow made the place feel like its own little world tucked away from everything else.
Paige leaned closer to Graham, her words for him alone. “This is definitely a locals-only kind of joint.”
“‘Joint’ being a rather apropos word.” Graham glanced around, taking it all in with interest rather than judgment. “I don’t hate it. Reminds me a bit of the local pub. Which is to say, it has a great deal of character.”
She snickered. “That’s generous.”
A waitress in a tight black Shooters tee, equally tight jeans, and a whole lot of makeup waved them toward an open booth without ceremony. “Right over there, folks.”
The vinyl bench seat squeaked when Paige slid in.
“Well,” Graham said, lifting the laminated menu as he took another look around. “If ambiance were a competitive sport, I doubt this establishment would medal.”
“But if the food tastes as good as it smells,” Paige said, scanning the menu. “I have a feeling we’re about to win all the same.”
He smiled at her. “You’re rather optimistic.”
“I’m rather hungry,” she corrected.
Around them, conversations flowed. People greeted each other by name, someone argued cheerfully about darts, someone else laughed too loudly. This wasn’t a place trying to impress anyone. It didn’t need to. It had already found its audience. And they were here.
Paige leaned in, lowering her voice. “Joe plays here once a month. I wonder how he discovered this place?”
“No idea,” Graham said. “But the fact that he’s a regular seems like a good sign. Means these people actually want to hear him. That’s saying something.”
She smiled at the small stage in the corner, where a single microphone and stool waited. “This is going to be an interesting evening.”
A waitress arrived, chewing gum. She had a pad in one hand, a pen in the other. “What can I get you to drink? Kitchen’s open, too, if you want to eat before the music. Which I’d suggest. We get busy when that gets going.”
Paige nodded. “Definitely.”
“Good plan,” the woman said. “Kitchen’ll be slammed once Joe starts. You folks should stay, he’s good.”
“We plan to,” Paige said.
They ordered drinks. Ginger ale for Graham, an iced tea for her. When the waitress left, Paige leaned back, finally relaxing. “All right. I stand corrected.”
“About what?”
“About this not being our kind of place,” she said. “It’s not. But I think it might still be our kind of night.”
Graham met her gaze, amused and warm. “I had the same thought. Bit of an adventure, don’t you think?”
“I do.”
Paige glanced once more around the room. At the mismatched chairs, the hum of activity, the feeling that everyone here seemed right at home. There was almost a sense of community, if such a thing could exist in a place like this. For reasons she couldn’t really name, she liked it.
She flipped the menu closed and set it down. “All right,” she said, decisively. “If we’re going to do this, which we obviously are, we’re doing it properly.”
Graham looked intrigued. “Define ‘properly.’”
“We’re ordering something fried,” she said. “Which I image will come in a basket, along with something beige on the side and some kind of sauce.”
Eyes sparkling with amusement, he scanned the menu again. “I see fried shrimp, fried chicken, fried fish, fried clams…there’s not much here you can’t get fried. Quite an impressive commitment to a theme.”
“I’m getting the shrimp basket,” Paige said. “With fries and hush puppies.”
“Excellent choice,” Graham said solemnly. “In that case, I’ll have the fish basket. We’ll see how that compares to the fish fingers of my youth.”
Paige laughed.
When the waitress came back, Paige ordered without hesitation. Graham followed suit, even adding a side of onion rings after a brief moment of uncertainty.
“All right,” the waitress said, scribbling. “Y’all want another drink while you wait?”
Paige glanced at Graham. “What do you think?”
“Given the surroundings,” he said. “A cold beer seems culturally appropriate.”
“I’m good with iced tea,” Paige said with a smile.
Once the waitress disappeared again, Paige leaned back in the booth, feeling oddly pleased with herself. “I can’t remember the last time I ordered something without overthinking the carbs or calories.”
“Could be a sign you’re relaxing,” Graham said.
“Or rebelling.”
“Both can be true.”
They sat in companionable silence, watching the room fill.
A group of retirees claimed stools at the bar, greeting the bartender like an old friend.
A younger couple bantered quietly over a game on the overhead TV.
Someone fed money into the jukebox, although Paige imagined it would be turned off once Joe took the stage.
Paige nodded toward a woman in a sparkly pink top at a nearby table. “I want to know her life story.”
Graham followed her gaze. “Oh, absolutely. She has opinions.”
“And see that man?” Paige added. “The one with the big smile and the hat?”
“The hat inside, which I realize is acceptable here, but still.”
“Yes. He’s either a regular or the owner.” The man was shaking hands with everyone and greeting them like long-lost friends.
“Or running for mayor,” Graham said.
Paige smiled, enjoying this version of an evening out and the novelty of it all. There was something comforting about a place that didn’t pretend to be more than it was. A place where people felt at home.
Their food arrived hot and in baskets, as expected. It looked surprisingly good.
Paige eyed her shrimp approvingly. “This is exactly what I hoped for.”
Graham picked up a piece of his fried fish. “Seeing this, I regret nothing.”
They ate, talked, watched. Their places were cleared and they moved closer to the stage to reserve a couple of tables, staking out their spots.
The room grew louder as more people wandered in, laughter rising, chairs scraping.
Cece, Maude, and a young man who had to be her brother came in. Essie and Frank were right behind them.
Everyone greeted each other and Maude introduced Robbie. Paige could see the family resemblance immediately.
Someone plugged in an amp near the corner stage, testing sound levels.
Paige noticed people’s attention shifting. The back door opened and Joe walked in, guitar case gripped in one hand. He paused just inside, scanning the room, already smiling as someone called his name.
A ripple of recognition moved through the bar. His smile brightened as soon as he saw Cece and the rest of them. He gave them a wave.
“There he is,” Paige said.
Joe set the case near the stage and started to head in their direction, but was quickly mobbed with fans.
He doled out handshakes, pats on the back, a couple of cheek kisses to some of the women, and some quick words to the growing crowd.
He looked comfortable here. Not at all like the retired attorney she knew he was.
Paige felt a swell of affection, not just for Joe, but for Cece, and for this strange, wonderful way the connections with her new friends kept expanding in directions she never could have predicted.
“Well,” Graham said quietly from his seat beside her. “This should be good.”
Paige nodded, eyes on the stage as Joe finally reached for his guitar.
“You know what?” she said. “It already is.”