Isn't It Time (4 page)

Foster’s was a medium-sized, family-owned bar that was
located about two blocks from the office.  Because of its proximity, it was the
preferred after-work watering hole for GLC employees.  It was a little later
than I normally stopped by, but the parking lot was packed so I imagined I
wouldn’t have any trouble finding someone I knew to have a drink with.

To say that Foster’s was a dive would be an insult to dives
everywhere.  It was not a swanky place.  But it was friendly and welcoming
because the owners made it a point to know the names of anyone who had been
there more than once.  It always made me feel as if I was drinking with
friends, even if I didn’t technically know anyone else there.

Walking in, I stood at the door and took a quick look
around.  There was a long bar directly across from the entryway, with several
televisions above it, all tuned to a basketball game. There were pool tables
and dart boards off to the right and scattered tables and chairs took up the
rest of the floor space. The jukebox could always be counted on to play a mix
of classic rock, which I loved, and country, which I did not.

Surprised at not immediately spotting anyone from work, I
walked towards the bar and considered it my lucky day when I saw my favorite
bar stool – the very last one on the left end of the bar – was currently being
vacated.  I rushed over before someone else could stake their claim and quickly
nabbed the seat.

“Angie Baby!” a deep voice boomed out.  “How ya doin’,
girl?”

I looked up to see Joe, the most senior member of the Foster
family, behind the bar, wearing a big smile and heading my way.

“I’m doing great, Joe,” I informed him, while settling into
my seat.  “And I think I’ve asked you not to call me that.”

“You were named after that song, right?”

“Joe, you know darn well I was not named after
that
song.”

“Well, you shoulda been,” he said.  “It was a great song.”

“It was
not
a great song. It was a song about a crazy
woman and I. Am. Not. Crazy,” I said, pulling a face that said otherwise. 

He laughed and slid a cocktail napkin in front of me. 
“True. You’re too cute to be crazy.”

“Well, thank you, sir.  You’re very kind.  But your taste in
music is atrocious.”

He laughed again. “Salty Dog, minus the salt?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

“You got it,” he said and walked away to make the drink.

While I was waiting, my peripheral vision registered a man
taking his place at the very end of the bar to my left – a place that was large
enough to stand at but too small to have its own stool.

I glanced up briefly at the movement and caught the eye of
an average-looking guy dressed in faded jeans and a grey University of Michigan
sweatshirt.  I gave him a brief lift of the chin and a “how ya doin’” which he
returned in kind.  Then I turned back around and he looked up to watch the
game.

Joe returned with my drink, took the order for a beer from
my new neighbor and hurried off. I savored the first refreshing sip of vodka
and grapefruit juice, while thinking about Frank, of all people. 

Frank was one of those guys you could never picture as being
any age other than what he was now.  He was in his late fifties, and he always
wore a suit and tie, the crease in his trousers razor sharp.  The father of
four and grandfather of three, he was active in his church and the community
and seemed to have a close-knit family.

And Frank was disapproving.  Always.  You never really knew what
it was he didn’t approve of, but you knew he had judged you, based on some
mysterious criteria, and found your moral fiber to be lacking.  A slight purse
of the lips, a slight flaring of the nostril.  A slight disapproval.  Unless
you were Marla.  Then the disapproval rolled off of him in waves. 

He wasn’t always as difficult to deal with as he was now. 
When I first started working at GLC, he had been reasonably pleasant, if not
friendly.  Over the past couple of years, though, he had become decidedly less
likeable.  I didn’t know if it was his age, Jack’s father leaving the company,
or some unknown problem in his personal life, but something was definitely off
with him.

Still, I just couldn’t see him as the embezzling type. 
Unlikeable does not necessarily translate into criminal.  I took another sip of
my drink and realized that, as much as he annoyed me, I did not want to find
out that Frank was a thief.

I was jerked out of my contemplation of other possibly
felonious employees when all the hair on my arms suddenly stood up.  I slowly
turned my head to the right, leaned slightly forward and scanned the bar. I
looked casually down the line of unfamiliar faces then directed my attention to
the pool table area.  A jolt of recognition had me whipping my head back around
and my gaze returned to a man sitting at the opposite end of the bar.

Steve
.

“Oh my God,” I whispered. My heart hammered against my chest
and the rest of my body shook right along with it.  I quickly resumed my
face-forward position and leaned back in my seat, hoping to block whatever view
he might have of me.

The very last thing I had heard about Steve was that he had
lost the job he had while we were together and had moved to Vegas to live with
his brother.  I just couldn’t fathom why he would be here, in this particular
bar.  He had always looked down on it when we were together and would never
come with me when I asked.

I almost hadn’t recognized him at all, his appearance being
so altered from the last time I had seen him. I was having a hard time
reconciling my memories of him to the man I saw now.  When I knew him, he had
bordered on the fastidious. His blonde hair had been very precisely cut and
carefully styled to look as if it hadn’t been styled at all. His roundish face
always looked freshly shaven and he wouldn’t be caught dead with stubble. He
had, in fact, refused outright when I half-kiddingly asked him to grow some for
me.

The man sitting at the end of the bar was unkempt and about
a week beyond dirty. His matted blonde hair almost touched his shoulders and
his face looked like it hadn’t seen a razor in weeks. He had lost a significant
amount of weight, and his formerly round cheeks were sunken.

As the thought crossed my mind that he looked like some kind
of an addict, everything I didn’t understand about the end of our relationship
suddenly clicked and solidified in my mind.

“Oh my God,” I whispered again. His behavior from five years
ago began to make sense.  I had an overwhelming urge to bolt, but stifled it,
not wanting to risk him seeing me.

“Are you all right?”  The concerned voice came from my left
and I swiveled my seat in that direction, looking up into the kind brown eyes
of the guy standing next to me.

“Please,” I pleaded, without much forethought.  “I know you
don’t know me, but I’ve kind of got a situation here and I really need you to
act like we’re together.”

He didn’t hesitate and, setting his beer down on the bar, he
gave me a sweet smile and put his hand on my upper arm, rubbing lightly.

“Ex-boyfriend?” he asked quietly. 

“Yes, very.”

“You’re shaking like a leaf.  Did it end badly?”

“Understatement.”

“Which guy?” He broke the eye contact and looked out over
the bar.

“The guy on the last stool at the other end.”

He shifted his gaze in that direction while he continued to
rub my arm.  His nose wrinkled in distaste. “He doesn’t look like he would be
your type.”

“Trust me - he didn’t look like that when we were together.”

“I should hope not,” he muttered under his breath.

The arm rubbing stopped, he frowned and unexpectedly tilted
his head forward, stopping just short of touching his forehead to mine.  “Okay,
don’t panic, but he’s getting up; it looks like he’s leaving.”

My shaking increased and I let out a whispered “Oh, shit.”

“I’m going to hug you,” he warned.  “Bury your face until
he’s gone.”

I moved into his hug without question, having to part my
legs a little so he could get closer.  He stood between my legs and, as
directed, I buried my face somewhere between his neck and his chest.

His arm around my waist tightened and his other hand settled
on my upper back, rubbing in small circles.

“He’s heading this way,” he whispered in my ear.  “Don’t
look up.”

“Is he looking at us?” I asked shakily.

“No.  I don’t think he sees you.  Just another minute; he’s
heading for the door.”  He paused for a second then gave me a light squeeze.
“And….he’s gone.”

I released a relieved breath and unwound my arms from his
neck. He immediately stepped back from my inner thigh area, but remained turned
in my direction.

“Thank you so much.” I picked up my drink with trembling
hands and took a big gulp.  “That was close.”

“You’re afraid of him.”  This was said as a statement of
fact, not a question.

“Yeah, a little,” I confirmed.

“Did he hurt you?”

I paused before answering, giving consideration to how much
information I was willing to divulge to a complete stranger.  “Yes, but it was
a long time ago.”

“How long?”

“Five years.  But, really, I’m over it now,” I lied.

“You don’t look over it.  You’re still shaking.”

“It was a shock seeing him here.  That’s all.  Look, it’s a
long story and not really suitable for a first meeting.”  Trying to dissuade
him from this line of questioning, I added, “It was really nice of you to do
that for me. I don’t think most people would have reacted that quickly – and
perfectly, by the way.”  I gave him a smile that I hoped would sidetrack him.

“Yeah, well, I have two younger sisters who I wouldn’t want
to see in that position - so I just pretended you were one of them.”  He
flashed a smile of his own, revealing a matching set of dimples, and it hit me
that, although everything about his pleasant appearance said average, he was
the kind of guy whose mannerisms and way of talking – not to mention the
dimples - transformed him from kind of attractive to downright sexy.

I took a closer look.  Around my age, maybe a year or two
older, and probably just under six feet tall.  He looked very solid in the
upper-body area and I now wished I had been paying more attention when I had my
face plastered against his chest.  His brown eyes were expressive and that
great smile was almost as good as Jack’s.

“I’m Nate, by the way,” he said, extending his hand to me.

I took it and said, “It’s very nice to meet you, Nate.”

He waited expectantly, then raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you
going to tell me your name?”

“No,” I said simply.

He grinned at me.  “Why not?”

“It’s just a silly personal rule I have.  I don’t give out
my name to men I haven’t been officially introduced to,” I replied honestly.

“But you
do
know me,” he argued, maintaining the
dimpled grin.  “We’ve practically had an affair right here at the bar.”  His
eyes were amused as he picked up his beer and took a drink.

I laughed at that and felt the remainders of my trembling
leave me. 

“Sorry.  Not gonna happen,” I said, smiling to soften the
sound of that.

He made a point of looking around the bar while saying,
“What do you think the chances are that I’ll find someone in this bar who knows
both of us?”

“Probably slim to none,” I began.  “Unless you come here
often?”

He blinked at me and then laughed.  “Did you just try to use
a cheesy pickup line on me?”

“Oh, God,” I responded, somewhat mortified.  “I did, didn’t
I?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry.  I won’t try to take you up on it.” 
His face took on a teasing look as he added, “Unless you ask me really nicely.”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes at him.  While I was
finishing off the remainder of my drink, he said mysteriously, “You know, I’ve
got a bit of an ace in the hole.”

“An ace in the hole? What do you mean, exactly?” 

“I already overheard the bartender saying something about
you being named after a song. So, all I have to do is come up with the right
one.”

“Do you really think that’s going to be easy?  There are
probably hundreds of songs with women’s names in the title.”  I very
consciously pushed all remaining thoughts of Steve out of my head and began to
enjoy myself.

“Ah, so the name is actually in the title,” he said smugly.

“Okay, yes,” I confirmed.  “But that still doesn’t really
narrow it down.”

“If I guess, will you tell me?”

“Sure,” I agreed.

Joe picked that moment to return.  “Ready for another,
sweetheart?”  Joe knew not to use my name if a strange man was talking to me. 
We had had that discussion.

“Yeah, one more I think.”  I turned to Nate and raised my
eyebrows in question.

“Yeah, me too.”  Looking at Joe, he said, “Excuse me, but if
I introduce myself to you, then could you introduce me to her?” He nodded his
head in my direction. 

Joe winked at Nate and said, “Sorry, no can do. She has a
rule.”  He turned away to get our refills.

“Nice try, cheater!” I laughed.

“It was worth a shot.” He shrugged and guessed, “Layla?”

“No.”

“Lola?  Molly?  Maggie May?”

“No, no and, thank God, no.”

Joe slid our drinks in front of us and we both paused to
partake.  “You could keep that up all night and probably still never guess,” I
taunted.

“You’re probably right.”  He looked at his watch, then
added, “And I don’t have all night. My son has tee-ball practice early in the
morning so I don’t think hanging around here all night trying to guess your
name would be a good idea. Even if I wish I could.”

He had a son.  I don’t know why this surprised me.  His
being in the bar alone, doing nothing but watching a basketball game, had made
him seem somehow unencumbered.