“I’ve got to get over to Varnedoe,” she said, pausing in the doorway. “I guess I can’t stop you from going on out to the beach tomorrow, Conley. I sure as hell can’t stop G’mama, now that she’s got you on her side. Just make sure she takes it easy, okay? She still thinks she’s a thirty-year-old. She overdoes it, then gets sick and there’s hell to pay.”
“Got it,” Conley said. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow, once we get out to the house.”
“Make sure she packs all her meds,” Grayson said. “Winnie knows what all she needs. And keep a lid on her drinking. Two drinks, then you have to take the bottle and hide it.”
“I’ve got it, Gray,” Conley repeated. “Just go cover your train crash, will ya? Nothing’s gonna happen to G’mama or Winnie. Nothing ever happens in Silver Bay.”
6
G’mama was dragging an ancient green aluminum Coleman cooler into the entry hall just as Conley returned to the house.
“What’s all this?” Conley asked. Three suitcases stood at the foot of the stairs, along with a huge wicker picnic hamper, a flowered hatbox, a bulky-looking television, a bulging hot-pink zippered garment bag, a lumpy dog bed, and a pair of enormous potted ferns.
“Just a few things we’ll need at the beach,” Lorraine said, reaching down to scratch Opie’s ears. “Were you a good boy?”
The dog flopped down onto the floor and rolled over onto his back.
“G’mama, this won’t fit in my car. Are you even sure you need all this stuff?” She nudged the cooler with the toe of her sneaker. “I thought we’d buy groceries on the way out to the beach in the morning.”
“This is just the basics. The corn and green beans and field peas Winnie froze from the garden last year and a few other essentials.” Lorraine gave her granddaughter a sunny smile. “Don’t worry. There are several quarts of Winnie’s vegetable soup and Brunswick stew in here too, along with a peach pie and a chocolate pound cake.”
“That’s great, but where will we put Winnie? And Opie? And the ferns?” She gestured helplessly at the stack of luggage. “And the rest of this stuff?”
“We’ll take the Wagoneer,” Lorraine said. “I had Winnie drive it home so it’ll be all gassed up and ready in the morning.”
“You still have Pops’s old car?”
“Of course,” Lorraine said. “And it runs like a Swiss watch. I do just like your grandfather always did—oil change every three thousand miles, tires rotated twice a year. Lamar at the Pure Station says he’s never seen such a well-maintained vehicle. He keeps making noises about buying it, but I can’t let go of Pops’s car, can I?”
“You’re not still driving it, I hope.”
“Why wouldn’t I be? I’m not that old, Sarah Conley.”
“Grayson says your eyesight is deplorable.”
“Your sister needs to mind her own beeswax,” Lorraine said. “I drive when I want to. Now. Do you want your supper? I already had some cottage cheese and tomatoes, but Winnie left you a plate out in the kitchen.”
“Supper?” Conley glanced at her watch. “It’s not even six yet.”
“Dining late doesn’t agree with my digestive tract,” G’mama said. She turned toward the stairs. “I’ve got to finish my packing, and then my show comes on at seven.”
“Right.” Conley grinned. “You’re still watching Wheel of Fortune?”
“Of course. It keeps my brain agile. And just between us girls, that Pat Sajak is mighty easy on the eyes, isn’t he?”
“Very,” Conley agreed.
* * *
When Conley went into the den shortly after nine, she found her grandmother slumped into the side arm on the sofa, her head resting on her shoulder, mouth ajar, snoring softly in perfect rhythm with Opie’s loud, shuddering snorts. Lorraine held the remote control tightly between her be-ringed fingers.
The room, which had once been her grandfather’s office, was pine-paneled and lined with overstuffed bookshelves, and at the moment, it was bathed in the blue light of the television, which was tuned to Lorraine’s other favorite channel, Turner Classic Movies.
Conley was trying to slip the remote control from Lorraine’s grasp when her hand was swatted away.
“I’m watching this,” G’mama said, struggling to sit upright.
“You were sound asleep. Come on, let me walk you upstairs to bed.”
“I’m fine right here,” Lorraine replied. “Opie will wake me up when he wants to go out for his potty break, then we’ll both go upstairs.”
“Suit yourself,” Conley said. “I think I might go out for a ride.”
“So late?” Lorraine frowned. “Where do you think you’ll go this hour of night?”
Conley shrugged. “I’m going stir-crazy just sitting around the house. My stuff is all packed. Don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl.”
Lorraine adjusted her eyeglasses and gazed up at her granddaughter. “You’ve been telling me that since you were five years old.”
“And you’ve been worrying and fussing at me since then too,” Conley said.
“This isn’t Atlanta, you know. Nothing respectable is open this late at night.”
“Who says I want respectable?” Conley winked, and when she went to kiss her grandmother’s papery cheek, she was surprised when Lorraine pressed her hand to the side of Conley’s face, caressing it briefly.
“Headstrong,” she said. “Keep your car doors locked, will you? And promise me you won’t do anything foolish.”
“Me? Foolish? Never.”
* * *
Conley drove aimlessly through what was left of her hometown’s business district, growing more depressed by the moment. Silver Bay, it seemed, hadn’t yet fully recovered from the last hurricane to blow through town. The sidewalks were rolled up tight.
What she needed was a drink. But the only half-decent restaurant in town, the Lamplighter, which had a small bar, closed at nine. She drove toward the Bowl-A-Rama, which was where she’d first experienced the thrill of being served an underaged beer when she was home from her senior year of boarding school. The bartender at the time was one of Grayson’s many former admirers, and he’d slid the icy can of Natty Light across the polished bar top with a knowing smile and the equally magical phrase on the house. The guy—his name was Jeb—called her the next night to ask her to the Christmas formal, and she’d turned him down flat, explaining that she had a firm policy about dating her big sister’s exes.
He’d been shocked into silence for a moment, then disconnected without another word.
Conley slowed the car when she reached the shopping center where the Bowl-A-Rama had been a fixture for as long as she could remember, and now it was her turn to be shocked. The shopping center was still there, but the Publix had been replaced with something called Pawn World, and on the spot where the bowling alley had once stood, nothing remained but a weedy patch of cracked asphalt.
“Damn it,” she muttered, racking her brain to come up with a viable alternative. “Not the Bowl-A-Rama.”
She racked her brain for another late night option. There was always the bar at the country club, where her great-grandfather had been a founding member, but her tank top and jeans would hardly meet the dress code. Anyway, there was a distinct possibility she might run into Grayson and some of her country club pals, and she really didn’t feel like knocking back a cold one with her sister after their testy exchange earlier in the day.
As far as Conley could recall, there was only one other actual bar within the fifteen-minute drive she was willing to make for a drink and some company.
“The Legion it is,” she muttered, pulling back onto the highway.
7
The Silver Bay American Legion Post 42 was ten miles outside the city limits. The parking lot outside the boxy redbrick building was half full, most of the vehicles pickup trucks or late-model sedans, heavy on American-made, light on Hondas and Kias.
The bar at the Legion looked like something out of a seventies movie,
with knotty pine paneling, neon beer signs, a variety of taxidermied bass and bucks, wall-mounted televisions, and nicotine-stained everything, although Conley was relieved to spot the large NO SMOKING signs posted near the door. She was also relieved to note that she wasn’t the only female on the premises. The bartender was a woman, and she spotted six or seven other women in the room too.
There was a jukebox, and it was playing Patsy Cline. She was fairly sure “I Fall to Pieces” had been playing the last time she’d been to the Legion. One wall of the room was lined with booths, and there were a dozen small four-tops scattered between the booths and the long bar.
Conley found a vacant stool in the middle of the bar. She didn’t recognize anybody, but this was not a surprise, since she hadn’t darkened the door of the Legion in at least fifteen years.
“What are you drinking?” The bartender gave her an appraising look. She looked to be in her early twenties, with a burgundy-tinted pixie haircut, pale skin, and tattoo sleeves on both her well-muscled arms. Sort of like a punk version of Audrey Hepburn.
“Um, what kind of bourbon do you have?”
“You’re probably not gonna like any of the rotgut shit we sell. Best I can offer is Four Roses.”
Conley laughed. “What makes you think I don’t like rotgut?”
“I’m a bartender. I read people. Those shredded jeans you’re wearing cost hundred-eighty a pair, and you didn’t get that cut and color anywhere around here. At home, you probably drink Knob. Or maybe one of those boutique brands. Pappy Van Winkle? Right?”
“Guess I should be flattered,” Conley said. “I couldn’t afford Pappy even when I was working. Now? I’m just an out-of-work newspaper reporter.”
“So Four Roses?”
She nodded. “On the rocks, with water.”
As the bartender moved away, Conley felt a hand clap her shoulder and a grizzled cheek rubbing against her own.
“Well, look what the cat drug in! Sarah Conley Hawkins, what in the hell are you doing here?”
She pulled away from the stranger. But it wasn’t a stranger after all.
“Skelly?” Conley whooped and threw her arms around the slender man’s shoulders. “Skelly! Oh my God!”
He hugged her back and rubbed his graying beard against her face until she laughed and pushed him away.
Sean Kelly’s family lived two doors down from G’mama’s house. He was a year younger than Grayson, a year older than Conley. His father was a doctor and his mother was a pharmacist, but Skelly, as he’d been called since their childhood, didn’t fit in that mold.
Tall and thin, with spaghetti-like arms and legs, he was the neighborhood prankster, with an outsize personality and an underwhelming academic record in school. He’d flunked second grade—in a small-town elementary school where virtually every kid got what was charitably called a social promotion, and had been delighted to land in Conley’s second-grade class the next year.
They’d been running mates and best friends until puberty hit Skelly upside the head at the age of thirteen and he no longer had time for skateboarding, crank-calling the cool kids, and shoplifting cigarettes and Cokes from the 7-Eleven.
Now he parked himself on the stool beside Conley’s. A self-described late bloomer, Skelly had gone off to college and surprised everyone, including himself, by graduating with honors and then going on to pharmacy school. He’d filled out some over the years, but he was still tall and lanky, with a streak of silver in his straight brown hair. His graying beard looked untamed, and he’d started wearing glasses since the last time she’d seen him. “Trish! Beer me!”
The bartender finished pouring Conley’s drink, then reached into a cooler and pulled out a longneck.
“You know this troublemaker?” the bartender asked her, setting their drinks on the bar.
“Know me? I gave this girl her first kiss.” Skelly took a long pull from his beer.
“And then I gave him his first black eye,” Conley shot back.
“But all is forgiven,” Skelly said. “Trish, meet my oldest friend on the planet, Sarah Conley Hawkins.”
Trish stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Sarah.”
“Just Conley, if you don’t mind.”
“Conley here is a big-deal, award-winning reporter in Atlanta,” Skelly said, a little too loudly. “But she’s homegrown talent all the way. Her family owns the Beacon.”
“Cool,” Trish said, unimpressed.
“Hey,” called a blonde two stools down. “Are we playing or what?”
Trish reached for a deck of cards and held them up to Skelly and Conley. “You guys in?”
“In for what?” Conley asked.
“Screw your neighbor,” Trish said.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Skelly said, reaching into his hip pocket for his billfold.
Conley rolled her eyes.
“Put up or shut up,” Trish said, tapping the bar with the flat of her hand. The two patrons sitting on either side of Skelly and Conley each tossed a dollar bill onto the counter, and the bartender shuffled the cards, then dealt one to each of the players.
Skelly tapped Conley’s forearm. “You remember how to play, right?”
“Duh,” she said, fishing bills from the pocket of her jeans and putting a single on the bar top. “Kings high, aces low.” She picked up her card. It was the eight of hearts. She placed it facedown on the bar and took a sip of her bourbon.
Skelly looked at his card. “Pass.” He handed it off to a fresh-faced preppie guy sitting the next stool over and picked up a new card from the top of the deck. The prepster peeked at his own card, hesitated, then accepted Skelly’s card, and passed his own to the blonde.
“So?” he asked, looking over at Conley. “What’s up?”
“Not much.” She shrugged. “I had some time off from work, so I decided to come home and check in with G’mama. Grayson’s kinda worried about her health. What’s up with you? How’s Danielle?”
He tilted his bottle to his lips and drained it. “Danielle moved back to Memphis eighteen months ago.”
“Oh. Sorry. I hadn’t heard. So you guys are officially split up again?”
He flashed his left hand, displaying a pale band of untanned skin. “She says it’s for good this time.”
“She always says that.”
He ran a finger over the spot where his wedding band had been, then looked up at Conley. His lips were smiling, but she could see the pain in his dark eyes. “She’s getting remarried, Sarah. I was refilling Jodi Pilgreen’s acid reflux medicine, and Danielle just called me up at the store today and blurted it out. Said she didn’t want me to hear it from somebody else.”
“That was quick,” Conley said.
“They work together at the university.”
“Sucks,” Conley said.
“Majorly,” he agreed.
The bartender was standing in front of them, looking expectant.
“Check it out,” Trish said, turning her card faceup on the bar. It was the jack of spades. The preppie turned over the card Skelly had given him. The nine of diamonds. The blonde went next. She had the queen of clubs. Skelly had the nine of hearts. He looked over at Conley. She turned over her eight with a sigh.
“All mine,” Trish said, raking in the small stack of bills. She reached for the bourbon bottle and poured a hefty shot into Conley’s half-empty glass.
“Drink up,” Skelly ordered.
Conley tossed the drink back. It burned as it went down, but not in a good way.
Trish dealt another hand of cards.
“How long you home for?” Skelly asked.
“To be determined.” Conley hesitated. “I’m sorta kind of between jobs.”
“You?” He pretended to look shocked.
“I was supposed to start work at a digital investigative outlet next week, but things changed. I’d already quit my job at the AJC and given up my apartment, so now here I am.”
“You’ll find another job,” he said.
“When’s the last time you were home?” Skelly asked. “Been a while, right?”
“According to my dear sister, it’s been too long,” Conley said. She was struck with a sudden pang of guilt. She clutched his arm. “Oh God, Skelly. I just remembered about your dad. I really am a horrible person. I meant to send a card or flowers or something.”
He shrugged. “It’s okay. Grayson put a real nice write-up in the Beacon.” He laughed ruefully. “We had to let people into the funeral home in shifts.”
“I know Doc could be tough on you, but he was always so sweet to me. He delivered me, did you know that?”
“You and half the population of Griffin County,” Skelly said.
“Are you two playing or chatting?” Trish demanded, waving cards in front of their faces.
“Hit me,” Skelly said.
“I’m in,” Conley agreed.
They played six more rounds, and Conley lost two more times. The drinks got stronger, and she laughed harder and talked louder than she had in a long, long time.
“I’m done,” Conley said after she’d downed her third shot of whiskey. “Any more and they’ll have to send me home in an ambulance.”
Skelly pointed toward the handkerchief-size dance floor, where a lone couple shuffled back and forth to a mournful country song she didn’t recognize. “C’mon, kid. Let’s dance.”
“Skelly, no. I’m about drunk, and so are you.”
He pulled her from her barstool. “Best reason in the world.”
He went over to the jukebox and studied the playlist, finally nodding and mashing the correct buttons.
“C’mon,” he said, leading her to the dance floor. The last notes of the country song were still fading when Skelly’s selection started to play. Conley recognized it immediately.
“Not this,” she moaned. “Not Shania.” But she put her arms around his neck, and he draped his loosely around her waist.
Hello, Summer Page 5