He took her phone from her again, then added his name and number to her list of contacts. “Just in case you change your mind.”
“Thanks,” she said, and even managed another smile. But he could tell that her mind was already at the bar and grill down the street—and whatever trouble he suspected was waiting for her there.
Chapter Four
Serena found a vacant spot in the crowded lot outside the Ace in the Hole and shifted into Park. She pocketed the keys as she exited her vehicle, the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach increasing with every step she took closer to the oversize ace of hearts playing card that blinked in neon red over the front door. She could hear the music from the jukebox inside as she climbed the two rough-hewn wooden steps. The price of beer was subject to regular increases, but the ancient Wurlitzer still played three songs for a quarter.
There were a few cowboys hanging around outside, cigarettes dangling from their fingers or pursed between their lips. She held her breath as she walked through their cloud of smoke and ignored the whistles and crude remarks tossed in her direction as she reached for the handle of the old screen door with its rusty hinges.
Once inside, her gaze immediately went to the bar that ran the length of one wall with stools lined up along it. Booths hugged the other walls, with additional tables and chairs crowded around the perimeter of the dance floor.
She made a cursory scan of the bodies perched on the stools at the bar. The mirrored wall behind the rows of glass bottles allowed her to see their faces. She recognized many, but none belonged to her mother.
Rosey Traven, the owner of the Ace, was pouring drinks behind the bar. Catching Serena’s eye, she tipped her head toward the back. Serena forced her reluctant feet to move in that direction.
She found her mother seated across from a man that Serena didn’t recognize. A friend? A date? A stranger?
Amanda Langley mostly kept to herself. For the past couple of years, she’d worked as an admin assistant at the mill, but outside of her job, she didn’t have a lot of friends. And as far as Serena knew, she didn’t date much, either.
She was an attractive woman, with the same blond hair and blue eyes as her daughter, but a more boyish figure and a raspy voice courtesy of a fifteen-year pack-a-day habit that she’d finally managed to kick a few years earlier.
The man seated across from her wasn’t bad looking, either. He had broad shoulders, a shaven—or maybe bald—head, and a beard and moustache that were more salt than pepper.
Serena hesitated, trying to decide whether to advance or retreat, when her mother glanced up and saw her. Amanda looked surprised at first—and maybe a little guilty? Then she smiled and beckoned her daughter over.
Serena made her way through the crowd to the table.
“Rena—what are you doing here?”
She bent her head to kiss her mother’s cheek. “I think the more important question is what are you doing here?”
“I’m having dinner with...a friend.”
Serena looked again at the man seated across the table. Up close, she could see that his twinkling eyes were blue and his good humor was further reflected in the easy curve of his lips. She added well-mannered to her assessment when he stood up and offered his hand. “Mark Kesler.”
She took it automatically. “Serena Langley.”
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Serena,” he said. “Your mother’s told me so much about you.”
“That’s interesting, because she’s told me absolutely nothing about you.”
“Serena.” Her name was a sharp rebuke from her mother.
But Mark only chuckled. “It’s okay, Amanda. In fact, it’s nice to know that your daughter looks out for you.”
“Is that what you’re doing, Serena?” her mother asked.
“I can’t seem to help myself,” she admitted.
Because it was warm in the bar, she unwound the scarf from around her neck and unbuttoned her coat. Then she reached across the table to pick up her mother’s glass and tipped it to her lips.
“If you want a drink, you can order your own soda,” Amanda said dryly.
“I just wanted a sip,” she said.
“And did that sip satisfy your...thirst?”
They both knew that what her mother really meant was curiosity, but Serena refused to feel guilty for needing to know what was in her mother’s glass. And she wasn’t going to apologize, either.
“As a matter of fact, it did,” she said.
Amanda picked up a fry from her plate, nibbled on it. Then she said quietly, “Mark knows I’m an alcoholic.”
The man in question reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a coin, then slid it across the table for Serena to look at.
She immediately recognized it as a sobriety coin. Her mother had recently earned one with the Roman numeral V on it, commemorating five years without a drink. The numerals inside the circle inside the triangle of this coin read XXV.
“I understand, more than most, that sobriety is a daily challenge for addicts,” he told her.
“Then why would you bring her here?” she wanted to know.
“Because the Ace has the best burgers in town,” Mark said.
Serena couldn’t deny that, but she still worried about her mother’s ability to resist the temptation that beckoned from the assortment of bottles lined up behind the bar. Gin had always been Amanda’s preferred poison, but beggars weren’t usually choosers, and for a lot of years, she drank anything she could get her hands on.
“But I forgot how much food they give you here,” Amanda said now. “And while I managed to finish the burger, I barely touched my fries.” She nudged the plate toward her daughter.
Serena shook her head, declining the silent offer. “I ate at the Presents for Patriots event.”
“That’s why you’re all dressed up,” her mother realized. “Did you go with a date?”
“No.” But she thought about Bailey now—about how much she’d enjoyed chatting with him during the meal. And how much she’d savored the security of his strong arms around her on the dance floor, and the heat of his lean hard body close to hers, stirring long-dormant desires inside her.
But sitting at the same table and sharing a single dance didn’t make a chance encounter a date. Maybe if he’d kissed her... And for a brief moment at the end of the song, she’d thought he might. But he didn’t.
“Oh,” Amanda said, obviously disappointed by her daughter’s response. Then to her date, she said, “If Serena spent a little less time with animals and a little more with people, she might find a nice young man to settle down with.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to settle down,” Mark suggested.
“Thank you,” Serena said, grateful for his acknowledgment of the possibility.
It wasn’t the truth, of course. She did want to settle down—but she had no intention of settling. She wanted to fall in love with a man who loved her just as much, then get married and raise a couple of kids and grow old together.
“She wants a husband and a family,” Amanda insisted, as if privy to her daughter’s innermost thoughts. “But she has some trust issues that get in the way of her getting too close to anyone. Totally my fault,” she acknowledged ruefully.
“Not totally,” Serena said, because she couldn’t deny that her childhood experiences continued to influence her expectations of adult relationships. “My father bears equal responsibility for walking out on both of us.”
“And then I made things worse.”
“I don’t think there’s anything to be gained by assigning blame,” Mark protested, reaching across the table to cover Amanda’s hand with his own, a tangible gesture of his support.
“Step Five—admitting the nature of our mistakes.”
Mark started to say something else, but his attention was snagge
d by the vibration of his cell phone on the table. He glanced at the screen, then at Amanda. “I’m sorry but—”
“Go,” she said. “You don’t need to apologize, just go.”
“Excuse me,” he said to Serena, as he slid out of the booth, already connecting the call.
“Mark is an active AA sponsor,” Amanda explained when the man in question had moved out of earshot.
“Is that how the two of you met?” Serena asked.
“We met at a meeting,” her mother confirmed. “But he was never my sponsor.”
“But he was an alcoholic,” she noted.
“Is an alcoholic. Sober for more than twenty-five years, but still an alcoholic.”
Serena nodded. Aside from her own experience with Amanda, she’d attended enough Al-Anon meetings as the daughter of an alcoholic to know that the battle against addiction was ongoing.
She also knew that her mother had worked hard to get and stay sober, and she deserved credit for that. “I’m sorry I overreacted,” she said now.
“I’m sorry, too,” Amanda said. “Because I know you have valid reasons to be concerned.”
“Mark seems nice,” she acknowledged.
“And you’re worried that if I get emotionally involved and it doesn’t work out, I’m going to lose myself in the bottle again?” her mother guessed.
Serena didn’t—couldn’t—deny it, so she remained silent.
“We both worried about the same thing,” Amanda confided. “It’s why we fought against our feelings for one another for so long.”
“How long have you known him?” she asked curiously.
“Twelve years.”
Her brows lifted. “How long have you been dating?”
“We’ve been spending more and more time together over the past few years, but tonight was our first official date,” her mother told her.
“And your daughter crashed it.”
Amanda smiled. “I’m always glad to see you.”
It was a sincere statement, not a commentary on the scarcity of their visits, but she felt a twinge of guilt nevertheless. Over the past five years, her mother had made a lot of efforts and overtures that Serena had resisted—not as punishment or payback, but simply out of self-preservation.
She’d lost track of the number of times that she’d given her mother “one more chance” to be the mother that she wanted her to be, and somewhere along the line, she’d stopped believing that Amanda could ever be that person. Now, however, Serena acknowledged that she hadn’t always been the daughter that her mother wanted her to be, and maybe it was time to work toward changing that.
When Mark finished his phone call and came back to the table, Serena wished them both a good-night and headed out. She caught Rosey’s eye again as she passed the bar and gave the other woman a thumbs-up. Rosey nodded and continued to pour beer.
The time displayed on the Coors Light clock on the wall assured Serena that it wasn’t too late to go back to the dinner and dance—and check on her bids—but her emotions were raw and she didn’t think it was wise to seek out the company of a man whose mere presence churned her up inside.
No, the smart thing to do would be to go home to the animals who would shower her with unconditional love—or, in Molly’s case, tolerant affection.
So resolved, she buttoned her coat up to her throat and braced herself for the slap of cold as she walked through the door and into the night. A different group of smokers huddled outside now—willingly braving the frigid air for a hit of nicotine.
Serena kept her head down and moved briskly toward her vehicle, parked at the far edge of the lot. As she drew nearer, she saw a tall broad-shouldered figure leaning against the tailgate of the truck in the slot beside her SUV.
She thought about the guys who’d been hanging around outside when she arrived and wondered—with more than a little bit of trepidation—if one of them had decided to wait by her vehicle until she came out again.
Her heart pounded against her ribs, and she considered going back into the bar and asking Mark to escort her to her SUV. Instead, she drew in a steadying breath and slipped her hand into her pocket to retrieve her keys. She held them in her fist, so that the pointed ends protruded between her knuckles as her grandmother had taught her to do, and walked purposefully, projecting more confidence than she felt.
Though the figure was mostly in shadow, as she got closer, she sensed that there was something familiar about his shape.
“Bailey?”
He turned, and the light in the distance provided enough illumination of his profile to confirm that her guess was correct. Her heart continued to hammer against her ribs, though its frantic rhythm was no longer inspired by fear but relief—and pleasure.
“I know you didn’t call, but I also know that the crowd here can get a little rowdy on weekends, and I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said, answering her unspoken question.
“I’m okay,” she assured him.
“Do you want to talk?”
“No,” she replied automatically, having grown accustomed to dealing with everything on her own since her grandmother had retired down to Arizona three years earlier. Then she reconsidered. “Maybe.”
“We could go back inside to have a drink,” he suggested.
She shook her head. “Definitely not.”
His brows lifted.
“I wouldn’t say no to hot cocoa at Daisy’s, though.”
“Hot cocoa at Daisy’s it is,” he agreed.
* * *
Daisy’s Donut Shop was practically a landmark in Rust Creek Falls. Originally renowned for the best coffee—and the only donuts—in town, the owner had eventually responded to the demand for a wider range of food options. As a result, Daisy’s menu now included a rotating selection of soups and sandwiches, but it was the mouthwatering sweets on display in the glass-fronted cases that continued to draw and tempt the most customers.
There were several people lined up at the counter ahead of them when they arrived.
“I think we came in with the last of the movie crowd,” Serena noted.
Bailey had almost forgotten that movies were shown at the high school on Friday and Saturday nights—but only so long as the Wildcats didn’t have the gymnasium booked for a game, in which case the bleachers would be filled with residents cheering on the local team.
“Waiting in line gives us more time to check out the desserts Eva made today,” he said, gesturing to the glass-fronted cases.
Of course, it was late, and the offerings that remained were limited—but still tempting.
“Just a regular hot cocoa for me,” Serena said, stepping up to the counter.
Bailey looked dubious. “Just regular hot cocoa, like you could make for yourself at home?”
She shook her head. “I’ve tried all kinds of hot cocoa mixes. I’ve even tried making it from scratch, but it’s never as good as Daisy’s.”
“Secret recipe,” the server said with a wink.
“Coffee, decaf, for me,” Bailey said. “And I’ve got to have one of those cheesecake-stuffed snickerdoodles.”
“Didn’t you already have dessert at Sawmill Station?” Serena asked him. “In fact, I’m pretty sure you ate your chocolate mousse and finished your sister-in-law’s huckleberry pie.”
“I did,” he confirmed. “But that was more than two hours ago.”
She smiled as she shook her head.
“Anything else for you?” the server asked.
“No, thanks,” Serena said.
“Whipped cream and chocolate drizzle on your cocoa?”
“Mmm, yes,” she agreed.
When they were seated with their hot beverages—and Bailey’s enormous cookie—Serena wrapped her hands around her mug and announced, “My mother’s an alcoholic.”
“Ahh,” he sa
id, understanding now why she’d raced away from the silent auction when she learned that her mother was at the town’s notorious drinking hole. “Was she...drunk?”
Serena shook her head. “She was drinking diet cola and eating a cheeseburger.”
“Strange place to go for a diet cola,” he noted. “Best place in town for a burger.”
Now she nodded.
“So why are you all wound up?”
She couldn’t deny that she was. Not when her hands were clutching her mug like it was a buoy keeping her afloat in stormy seas—but maybe that was an apt analogy for her life at the moment.
“I can’t help it,” she admitted. “I get a message like that, and the memories—years and years of horrible memories—play through my head like a horror movie on fast-forward.”
“Who told you that she was there?”
“Rosey made the original call. Then Shelby sent a text when I was already on my way.”
“I don’t think I know a Shelby,” he said.
“She used to be Shelby Jenkins, but she married Dean Pritchett a few years back,” she told him. “She’s worked at the Ace for a long time and has good instincts about people—and knows which customers to keep an eye on.”
“Gives a whole new meaning to neighborhood watch,” he remarked.
“Over the years, Rosey and Shelby have had a front-row seat to some of my mother’s struggles—and mine,” she explained. “And five years of sobriety hasn’t helped me forget more than a decade of drinking.”
His brows lifted.
She sighed. “And I guess two years of weekly therapy didn’t quite succeed in helping me work through my anger and frustration and fear.”
“That’s why you wouldn’t have more than one glass of wine tonight,” he guessed.
She nodded. “Some scientists believe there’s a genetic component to addiction, and I don’t want to take any chances. Although—” she lifted her mug “—it wouldn’t be wrong to say that I’m addicted to chocolate.”
Then she sipped her cocoa, ending up with a whipped cream moustache that she swiped away with a stroke of her tongue.
Bring Me A Maverick For Christmas! (Montana Mavericks: The Lonelyhearts Ranch Book 6) Page 5