by Maddie James
“Happy hour only comes once a week, you know, so we wouldn’t want to miss it,” Ellen Harper chimed in.
Gracie widened her eyes and took in the expression on the woman’s face. This same woman, who had to be pushing sixty, who taught her piano lessons when she was a child, and who drilled Bible verses into her head in Sunday school for years, was a Geeks groupie, too?
“Ellen?” Gracie was aghast.
Ellen cocked her head and stared back. “Gracie! Don’t look at me like that! I’m a grown woman and can do whatever I wish.”
Shaking herself, Gracie nodded in agreement. “Well, yes, I didn’t mean anything by that. I just didn’t think you—”
Outside the shop door, a woman’s shriek interrupted her comment. All eyes turned toward the sound. Through the glass of the shop window, Gracie could see Betsy Baker, the twice-widowed town librarian, standing very still, her arms shoved out from her body as if in surprise, her eyes wide, her face turned skyward.
She appeared to be dripping. Water-soaked. To the skin. Hair and clothing to boot.
Oh my.
Simultaneously, Gracie and the others jumped up and raced toward Bets only to hear a splunsh! as the door opened. Bets wailed again and looked upward. Gracie, reaching the scene first, glanced up only to see the tip of a ponytail fly back into the window of Carson’s apartment.
What in the world?
Gracie looked back at Bets, mouth still agape, dripping huge droplets of water from the tip of her nose, hair plastered against her skull, and then to the concrete sidewalk.
Balloon bits.
Water balloon bits.
Everywhere.
“Bets! Come in here! Quickly!” Gracie ushered her friend inside and through the shop where she planted her in a chair in her office. “I’ll run upstairs and get some towels.”
That child! What had gotten into her?
No time to ponder that now, she thought.
Quickly, she snatched some towels from her linen closet and headed back down the stairs. She was almost certain she caught sight of Izzie peeking out through a crack in Carson’s door. Later. For now she had to take care of Bets.
“Here we go,” she said breathlessly as she entered her office again.
Bets looked up at her, hair still stringing down her face. “Now what am I going to do? I had my hair all fixed and everything!” she whined.
Gracie knelt beside her and started daubing a towel around her face. “I’m so sorry, Bets. I’m sure your hair was beautiful. For the life of me I can’t imagine...”
But that was a lie. She could easily imagine. She just didn’t know why.
Bets’ shoulders dropped. “I just had it done this afternoon,” she whined some more. “It was a new cut, new style. It was the new me. I couldn’t wait to show it to all of you.”
The women all consoled her. Constance rubbed her back, Kelly murmured comforting words. Ellen patted her hand.
“And I was so looking forward to Happy Hour.”
Gracie stood, not believing what she was hearing. Had they all gone mad?
“Happy Hour?”
All five women looked up and nodded. Gracie thought they were a pitiful sight.
“What in the world is this sudden captivation with Happy Hour?” she asked. “What about the book club? What about our discussion of the hottest, sexiest romance novel to come down the pike in quite some time?” She picked the book up off her desk and turned to Constance. “Huh? What about this? You couldn’t wait to discuss this last month and now the lot of you can’t wait to get out of here and go get happy with some geeks next door!”
All five women just stared at her, the blankest looks on their faces Gracie thought she’d ever seen.
“You just don’t understand, do you Gracie?”
“That’s right, I don’t. We’ve been doing the Friday night book club for years. Now that this...this Geekmeister’s thing is next door, you all have all but forgotten about the book club and me.”
Constance cleared her throat and stepped forward. “That’s not true, Gracie, we had every intention of bringing you with us.”
That statement, which certainly intended to make Gracie feel better, didn’t.
“But I don’t want to go to Geekmeisters!”
The women sat stunned before her. Gracie hadn’t meant to shout, but she had. It took several seconds, then Bets stood and turned to Kelly. “You think you could fix this hair of mine?”
It was like Gracie was totally and absurdly, dismissed.
Kelly nodded furiously and smiled. “Let me try.”
“All right.” She turned to Grace. “Got a blow dryer around here?”
Dumbfounded, Gracie nodded and pointed toward the bathroom. Kelly retrieved the thing and in a matter of minutes, had coifed and dried and fluffed to Bets’ satisfaction.
“There,” she proclaimed.
Bets looked in the mirror from all angles.
“I love it,” declared Constance.
“Gorgeous,” exclaimed Ellen.
“You’re a whiz with a blow dryer, girl,” Wanda added.
“Not too shabby,” said Kelly remarked, surveying her work from several angles.
“You really like it?” asked Bets.
“Uh-huh,” the other women chimed in unison.
“Then let’s go.”
“Wait! Blow dry my shirt!” she told Kelly.
Bets had no longer flung the words from her mouth than Kelly had dried her clothes as well and each of them scrambled for the door. To Gracie, it was like something out of some insane Lucy and Ethyl spoof.
They’d all gone mad. She was convinced.
Before she realized it, Gracie put two fingers between her lips and whistled the most unladylike whistle she’d whistled in her life. She owed that to her cousin Eric who taught her how to do that when she was twelve.
The crew stopped dead in their tracks and slowly turned to look at her. Kelly still had her blow dryer in her hand.
“Just where in the hell do the five of you think you are going?”
Constance squared her shoulders and looked Gracie straight in the eyes. “To Geeks,” she challenged.
Gracie gulped and stared Constance right back.
She was losing her groupies.
She didn’t quite know what to do about it.
“Well?” Constance prompted.
Gracie glanced from one woman to another, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders just like Constance and drew herself up into her full five-foot-ten-inches height. It was now or never.
“Without me?” she squeaked.
A small grin curled at one corner of Constance’s mouth and snaked around to the other side producing a full grin. Gracie hated herself at that precise second in time.
Constance had won.
Damn.
* * * *
Carson glanced up just as the entourage entered Geeks. His gaze trailed the crew as the older woman named Constance, followed by her Friday night cohorts, picked their way through the sparse crowd toward the bar. He had to stifle a smile. Two Friday nights in a row. Wonder what Gracie would think.
But just as those words turned over in his brain, Gracie stepped right through his door behind them, startling him.
“Damn,” he whispered. “What does she want?” He found it odd that since she’d chosen to avoid him most of the week, she would venture in for Happy Hour.
There had to be a reason.
Probably wanted to blast him because the music was too loud or that his “undesirable” crowd was causing too much “undesirable” traffic in front of her shop or that he was stealing her customers or something, he thought.
But he was completely taken by surprise when she didn’t even toss a glance his way and simply made a beeline straight toward Contance and her cronies. She looked neither right nor left but kept her gaze on her friends. He was even more puzzled when she sidled up to the bar and slipped her delicate little behind onto a bar stool, her back stif
f and her heels daintily hooked on a stretcher beneath the stool.
She looked about as comfortable as a gobbler on Thanksgiving eve.
He’d waited all week for some indication that she wanted him to leave. Particularly after the Bandit thing. He’d spoken briefly and succinctly to her a few times later in the week. A quick “good morning” in the stairwell, or a cordial “hello” at Amie’s. He’d sensed she was edgy, contemplating and choosing her words carefully, as though she had a whole lot she wanted to say to him but was waiting for the precise moment or exactly the right words to enter her head before she commenced.
It was driving him crazy. He needed to know what her intentions were about his lease.
Of course, the lease was airtight. He knew that for certain. He didn’t want to, nor would he, push the issue—but he had an airtight case for keeping the lease at least a year.
He couldn’t go back to Louisville now. He’d pulled Izzie out of school, turned over his law practice to Jack, and put his house on the market. There was no turning back. And Gracie Hart didn’t know it, but she would have a fight on her hands if she chose to back out on their agreement.
Much as he hated to lock horns with her—he actually liked Grace Hart—he would do it because that would be the one obstacle in his path to achieving his goal.
His goal of a new and stable life for Izzie.
Gracie Hart would not interfere.
No way. No how.
“Barkeep! How ‘bout some service over here?”
Carson groaned at Constance’s words. He liked the older woman and she was teasing him, he knew. She was a free-spirited senior citizen who spoke her mind and didn’t act her age. She always made him smile. They’d talked at length a few nights earlier about some of her Peace Corp experiences in the sixties and the years she spent working in the Carter administration in Washington. Interesting woman, to say the least. His groan had nothing to do with Constance and the fact that he was about to take an order for a round of drinks from her and her friends—friends which no doubt would hang around a while tonight—but had everything to do with the fact that he would soon have to face Gracie Hart for more than a brief encounter.
He might actually have to be pleasant to her.
Ah. Carson had to stifle a small grin. That just might be the ticket. Perhaps he should just use his manly charms to woo her into compliance.
Truth be known, Gracie’s avoidance had bothered him more than he cared to admit. There were moments when he recalled the scene in front of their shops several days back, right after he’d frightened her and made her drop the watering can on her toe, that sent a warm surging into his stomach. The very instance he’d reached out for her dainty foot and had attempted to slowly massage away her pain kept creeping back into his head. He’d felt a sort of connection that night, something....
Wooing Gracie Hart into compliance would not be a painful task, to say the least.
At that thought, Carson groaned and shook his head. “Last thing you need, Price, is to romance and sweet-talk the woman,” he murmured to himself. “You’ve got enough on your hands without sending out the wrong signals to some unsuspecting female.”
Truth was that Carson had no intention of ever getting involved with another woman. Not after experiencing what he had when Marci left. Nope. Never again.
Raising Izzie was his top priority. His only priority. Romancing women was, well, way on the back burner.
“Woo-hoo, Mr. Bartender?” Kelly the cosmetologist waved his way.
Carson glanced back once more to the women and smiled as the Kelly grinned widely back and simultaneously winked. Gulping, he plastered a smile on his face and approached them.
“We’re ba-ack,” one of them chimed.
“I see.” Carson smiled. “My Friday night groupies, eh?”
“He’s such a cute thing, isn’t he?” Ellen patted his hand.
“Come Carson, be our boy-toy. Won’t you?” teased Constance.
Carson felt himself flush.
“Such a love machine. Grrrr...” Bets winked saucily and did a little disco move.
“Hubba hubba.” That was from Wanda.
Carson caught a glimpse of Gracie as her eyes widened in what looked to be disbelief at the sexual banter her friends were dishing out. That’s when Carson decided to get in on the game. Grace Hart was definitely uncomfortable.
And uncomfortable was definitely cute on her.
He didn’t like where his thoughts were leading him.
“So what shall we have tonight, ladies? A dip into a Fuzzy Navel? A Screaming Orgasm? A little Sex-on-the-Beach? Or something wilder?”
“Oh! Sex-on-the-Beach! That’s what I want!” Ellen called out excitedly. “I haven’t had sex on the beach since Henry died!”
Carson grinned, trying hard not to think about Ellen having sex anywhere.
“Ellen, he wants your drink order! Not the details of your sex life!” This was from Wanda.
“Oh, but Ellen, do tell! Do tell! I wanna know,” Kelly insisted.
“Well,” she began, “it was 1976 and we were vacationing in this little place called—“
Abruptly, Gracie stood and blurted out, “My God, I can’t believe I’m hearing this!”
For the next ten seconds or so, the entire group was quiet, all eyes on the tall blonde.
Carson let his gaze shift from Gracie to the five women, and back again.
“Gracie, sit down and quit being a prude.”
That was from Constance.
Carson watched Gracie’s eyes widen even more, her mouth open, then close, then open and close again very quickly. Not even a whimper escaped her lips.
Then she sat right back down again.
He took drink orders from each of them.
Including Gracie.
Chapter Nine
There, take that! Let them even think about calling me a prude again.
With near precision aim, or as much precision aim as she could muster under the circumstances, Gracie sank another olive into the martini glass on the sink. From her seat at the bar, the glass was sitting approximately five feet away on the counter against the wall. With the olive carefully positioned between her thumb and forefinger, she slightly closed one eye and tossed another across the empty space between.
Plop!
Oh yes, she was good. The glass was half full already.
And it was only her, hm, what? Her third martini?
Or was it her fourth?
Couldn’t tell from the olives piling up in the martini glass, she knew, she’d stolen most of them from behind the bar when Carson wasn’t looking.
Oh, hell, she thought. Eating olives and slurping martinis—she’d puff up like a blowfish by morning.
Slowly, Gracie leaned lower into the bar and placed her cheek against the cool, wooden surface. It was late and she was tired. She was also hot. Her brain felt slightly shrink-wrapped. The music from that stupid jukebox was bouncing around inside her skull, not to mention the poinging of those arcade machines. Her eyelids felt like sandpaper was stuck to the backs of them.
She was most likely a bit tipsy.
But, she wasn’t a prude.
Nope.
Not Grace Elizabeth Hart.
She was the life of the damned party. Poo poo on Constance and whomever else doubted her party-hardyness. Now, if she just knew where Constance and the others had gone...
Perhaps she should take a nap. Just a little one.
“Gracie, wake up, honey. We’re leaving.”
Gracie sat up like a shot and tried to focus on the face belonging to the voice in front of her, but all she could distinguish was a fuzzy blob of colors that must represent a human being of some sort, and a dull pain that landed with a thud across her forehead.
“Huh?”
“Time to go, Sweety.”
“Don’t wanna.” Gracie slunk back down and put her cheek against the bar again. Ah, that felt so good.
Someone tugged at he
r arm. “Now, honey. Before you pass out totally and we have to carry you.”
Gracie didn’t look up, partially waved a leaden arm at the voice, and closed her eyes. There were more voices behind her, beyond her consciousness almost, but she really didn’t care what the voices said.
All she wanted was to sleep...
Sometime later she realized the music and the poinging had stopped thrumming in her head and the lights weren’t nearly so harsh against her closed eyes and that the wooden counter against her cheek had been replaced with something warm and firm, but yet much softer than the bar.
That was about the same time she realized that someone was quietly talking into her ear—although she couldn’t quite understand what that someone was saying—and even through the fuzz and haze of her brain it felt suspiciously like someone had lifted her and was carrying her somewhere....
She wasn’t quite sure where.
Oh well, it didn’t matter, did it?
* * * *
“Okay, Sleeping Beauty, let’s get this over with.”
Carson whispered the words ever so softly because he had no desire to wake Gracie from her more-than-tipsy state as he carried her through his bar, ascended the back stairway, stepped through her apartment, and gently deposited her on her antique four-poster bed.
Constance had made sure Gracie’s apartment was unlocked before she’d left when it became obvious that the women were not going to budge her from the small nest she’d made at the bar. Luckily, it had been a slow night and Gracie hadn’t made a nuisance of herself while she chugged martinis and slam-dunked olives into glasses. She was a quiet drunk, lost in her own little world. Her friends were pretty much amazed, he knew, and when he realized that they were just letting her get drunk, he even questioned why they would do that.
“Do her some good,” Constance had said.
“She needs to loosen up a bit,” Kelly chimed in.
“She’ll be old before her time if she doesn’t get out and live a little,” Ellen added.
“Been doing nothing but running that shop for ten years,” Wanda said. “Shame for a young woman like that to waste away.”
“She needs a life,” Bets told him.
“She needs a man,” Constance said matter-of-factly.
