“Good. How are you?”
“Good. Thanks for this,” I said as I lifted the wineglass.
“My treat,” he said, and then lowered his voice. “Rosie suggested no tie tonight. If you think it’s disrespectful to the other patrons, just say the word.”
“William, you’re the only one in here who ever wears a tie, so it might be a relief.”
“I appreciate that.”
He glanced to his left, where one of the day-drinkers had bellied up and was now signaling for his usual. William poured two fingers of Old Crow and walked it down the bar.
I turned on my stool. Anna Dace was seated at a table at the rear in the company of two girlfriends, one dark, one fair. Given the chill March evening, all three seemed too scantily dressed: tank tops, miniskirts, and high heels. They had their heads together, and Anna seemed to be reading the palm of the blonde, who appeared to be the younger of the two girls. I watched her trace a line along the blonde’s thumb, speaking earnestly. Nothing so fascinating as being the focus of someone else’s rapt attention.
Monday nights are quiet in most neighborhood watering holes, but the recent influx of police personnel opened the door to chance encounters with officers I didn’t usually have occasion to run into. A case in point being Jonah Robb, who sat in a booth by himself. I eased off my perch and crossed the room. “You up for company?”
“Of course. Have a seat. It’s good to see you,” he said.
I slid into the booth across from him. He looked gloomy, but he was otherwise aging well; trim, graying at the temples. He was what’s referred to as Black Irish, which is to say black-haired and blue-eyed, an irresistible combination from my perspective.
I’d first met him when he was working missing persons and I was looking for one. For years, he’d been married to a girl he’d met in seventh grade when they both were thirteen years old. He thought marriage was for life, but Camilla’s commitment was on-again, off-again. She left him at intervals, taking their two daughters with her, leaving Jonah with a year’s worth of frozen dinners she’d done up herself. Jonah was hopelessly smitten with her, and the worse she treated him, the more hooked he seemed to be. At one point she left with the two girls and came home pregnant by someone else. Jonah took her back without a murmur of complaint. That little boy, Banner, was coming up on three years old by my count.
Rosie appeared from the kitchen and made a brief stop at the bar before she headed in our direction. Now that police department personnel were gracing the tavern, she’d begun to make eye contact with new patrons, whereas before she generally looked to me or to someone familiar to translate requests from strangers. She delivered a fresh glass of Michelob on tap for Jonah and a basket of freshly popped corn for the table. I sprinkled Parmesan cheese over the surface and began to munch.
“What’s happened to you? You look great,” I said.
“That’s a backhanded compliment.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. You look fabulous.”
“What makes you say that?” he asked. “I’m not fishing for compliments. I’m really curious.”
I studied him. “Good haircut. You’ve lost weight. You look rested. Also, depressed, but that’s not always unattractive in a guy.”
“Camilla’s back.”
“Good news.”
“She’s perimenopausal.”
I paused with a handful of popcorn halfway to my mouth. “Which is what?”
“Hot flashes and night sweats. Irregular menses. Loss of libido. Vaginal dryness. Urinary tract infections.”
“Shit, Jonah. I’m trying to eat.”
“You asked.”
“I thought you’d talk about mood swings.”
“Yeah, well, those too. She says she’s home for good. No more fooling around.”
“Then why so glum?”
“I just got used to her being gone. The girls have been living with me for the past year, and we do great. Camilla parked Banner with us when she took off. That was last September as a matter of fact. Kid’s in preschool; bright, verbal, well-adjusted. She comes back and now he’s wetting the bed and socking classmates in the mouth. I get calls from his school twice a week. Camilla wants us in counseling and she thinks he should be on medication.”
I decided to steer off that subject. The pair had been in counseling off and on for years at Camilla’s insistence and look where it had gotten them. “How old are the girls now?”
“Courtney’s seventeen. Ashley’s fifteen.”