The Darling Songbirds

by Rachael Herron

  It might have been poker.

  And it sure as hell looked like they were playing with real cash.

  The wi-fi went out as Adele brought up a search window on her phone: Is poker for money legal in California? She was pretty sure she knew the answer, but before confronting them about it, she wanted the law in her hand, to show them. She searched for the modem to reset it, but couldn’t find it anywhere, and this spot on the coast seemed to have no satellite coverage at all. Damn it.

  At five o’clock, a family came in: a young mother wearing a green-and-white flowered dress and bedazzled flip-flops, the father dressed in corporate-casual Dockers and a T-shirt that read Code this. Three little boys followed them in, raucous ducks bobbing and weaving in their wake. The parents sat at the bar while the boys raced each other from the jukebox to the door and back.

  ‘Two rum and Cokes,’ the man said without looking at Adele. ‘Three Rob Roys. And four grilled cheese sandwiches. We’ll share.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Adele. ‘We don’t serve hot food here.’

  The man dropped his sunglasses an inch to stare past her. ‘Seriously?’

  His wife made a distressed noise.

  ‘It’s fine, Maris. We’ll just get ice-cream afterward at that place up the road.’

  ‘This just a bar, then?’ The woman looked scandalised, as if she expected fish-netted prostitutes to ooze out from the storeroom.

  ‘A saloon, yeah.’

  ‘The website said the Golden Spike was a hotel, café and saloon.’

  ‘Was is the right verb. Currently under renovation.’

  ‘Are my children even allowed in here?’

  Adele had been allowed in the bar as a child. Of course she had.

  Though maybe that had just been Uncle Hugh flouting the law. Adele would google it, but the wi-fi was still down. And after an hour of searching, she still hadn’t found the modem. Where would Nate have hidden it, for the love of God? Who knew if children were allowed in a bar anymore? Adele cast a beseeching glance at Norma – wouldn’t she have an opinion on this? But the older woman now had a single track of silent tears running down either side of her face. Her tarot cards stayed in a quiet stack in front of her. Inexplicably, there was a candle holder in front of her now and it … it kind of looked like a menorah. In September? And was that a pile of candles in the plastic bag hanging next to her on the coat hook? Adele made a hurried mental note to find the fire-extinguisher. Right after she found out if kids were allowed in a bar.

  Not that it mattered. The three children didn’t appear to be children – they were wildebeests. One had climbed to the top of the jukebox and was straddling it, apparently trying to shake the songs loose with his hips. The middle-sized boy was on the stage, yanking on an amp cord. The smallest was lying on the floor, trying to lick up what looked like an old piece of bubblegum.

  ‘Just the five drinks, then?’

  She got an irritated nod from the father, and ‘Make mine a double’, from the mother.

  The Rob Roys were easy (Molly’s favourite childhood drink) but Adele didn’t really know what a double rum and Coke was. It should be easy, but the more she thought about it the harder it got. Two shots, right? Instead of one? Or did a single actually have two shots? How much Coke? Did you double that, too, for a double? Another thing that would have been instantly answered by the MIA internet. She just made both of them stronger than seemed necessary and handed them over. The mother muttered something about Yelping the place, and Adele bit the inside of her lip, hard.

  Was there a way to pay to remove bad reviews?

  Thirty minutes later, a boy and girl came in who couldn’t be more than nineteen. Their IDs, though, looked perfect. ‘What’s your birthday?’ Adele asked the girl. The girl recited the date without hesitation, and then, unprompted, added the address listed. ‘Are you an organ donor?’ she asked the boy, noticing the red dot’s absence on his ID. ‘Not yet,’ he said apologetically. ‘But I’m totally going to sign up.’

  ‘Emmylou Harris,’ Adele muttered. She made their drinks, two Old-Fashioneds. Within half an hour, they were both in the single washroom, and the walls were making rhythmic noises, audible in the saloon.

  Adele put five dollars of her own money in the jukebox (shouldn’t there be a key for this?) and hit Random but all that came out, song after song, were Darling Songbird tunes. One of the poker players said something about what you got when you crossed a Dixie Chick with a Darling Songbird, but Adele, her cheeks on fire, hurried out the front door with a broom to avoid hearing the answer.

  She swept the wooden porch, and then swept the last good porch swing on the property. She reached up and swept the cobwebs out of the high corners, for good measure.

  Then she sat. It didn’t creak and fall, but it was probably only a matter of time.

  Screw the customers. If anyone needed a refill, they’d all seen her go outside. They knew where to find her. She leaned forward, putting her elbows on her knees, covering both her eyes with her hands. She could smell the salt of the ocean, just a block away. Its low murmur was something so integral to Darling Bay she almost never heard it but now it filled her ears, a shuuuush-shhh.

  It should have been soothing. This was paradise, after all. It would have been soothing if she hadn’t been freaking out.

  Adele concentrated on her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In, out. Repeat.

  She had a sudden, visceral memory of her breathing the night before – she’d literally panted for Nate. Her breath had heaved, and his had done the same. His body had covered hers as he’d entered her, both of them slick with sweat. His breathing had started to sound like her own, until she couldn’t tell what was his air and what was hers.

  ‘Going that good, huh?’

  The swing dipped, the chains creaking, as Nate dropped himself down next to her.

  It felt as if she’d conjured him. Feelings rose in her, more potent than any cocktail she could mix: relief, lust, irritation and, most worrisome of all, a heady wave of joy.

  Could he see all of it? Was it written on her face? Adele tried to fix a scowl onto her features, but the happiness, the sheer gladness of seeing him next to her, might be radiating through. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Wanna tell me why you look like your teeth are gnashed together?’

  ‘I’m speaking. My teeth can’t be gnashed together if I’m talking.’

  Nate pulled a face, sticking out his lower jaw. ‘Yeshtheycan.’

  His face. That damn ball cap, worn backward. His flannel shirt, worn open over a black T-shirt. He was so comfortable in his maleness. God, she wanted to touch his jaw, to run her fingers along that bone that jutted out south of his ear. Light stubble. He must have left her this morning and gone somewhere and shaved. Had he napped? They’d had almost no sleep, but he looked bright. Refreshed. He looked the opposite of how she felt.

  Her stomach made a yawning noise and she wondered if she’d eaten anything yet. No wonder she felt a little dizzy.

  She stood, feeling awkward. ‘So.’

  He stayed seated, his legs splayed comfortably, as if he owned the whole building. ‘So,’ he agreed. If he’d been wearing a cowboy hat, he would have touched its brim, she just knew it.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming to work today.’

  ‘Oh. I ain’t workin’. I just came in for a beer.’

  Adele sucked in a quick breath. He was trying to get to her. That was fine. He could try all he wanted to; she’d remain calm. ‘What kind would you like?’ Say something in a can. Say something in a can.

  ‘How ’bout a black and tan?’ His eyes danced.

  That was a beer mix, she knew, but she didn’t know much more than that. But she said, ‘You got it.’ She’d put something black in a glass and then put something tan on top of it. And he would like it, by God.

  Adele didn’t look to see if he followed her, and she tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter one way or the other. But she heard the swing�
��s chain creak as he stood, and she could feel his eyes on her backside as she pushed her way through the half-door. She tried to add an extra sway to her hips and instead felt like she was hiccuping from her tailbone. Not a good look.

  Behind the bar, she pulled half a glass of Guinness and topped it, still thick with foam, with a light IPA.

  ‘That’s a black and tan?’

  Nate looked so satisfied that she had screwed it up.

  ‘It’s the only way to make one. People who say to do it the other way are just plain wrong, I’ve always said.’

  He stared into the foaming top and took a slow, careful sip. ‘Huh.’

  Adele crossed her arms, daring him to criticise her drink.

  Instead, he tipped his head to the side. He was listening to the damn Darling Songbird song that had just started playing. ‘Ah. A classic.’

  ‘Wait Till Your Father Gets Home’ was one of the songs that had seen the band rise to fame. It had been a coincidence entirely – Lana had been reading Little Women for the first time when she wrote it – but it happened to come out near September 11. It had become an anthem.

  It had been the song playing when Molly went down onstage. The night that ended everything, the night the band and the sisters broke up.

  ‘I swear to God I didn’t put this on. I hit the random button.’

  ‘Sure you did.’

  ‘It’s just playing Darling Songbirds. I can’t make it do anything else.’

  ‘Your uncle wasn’t too fond of the random button. Possibly paid the tech to reprogram it so it wasn’t really random.’

  ‘Sweet Dolly Parton.’ She sat on the high stool she’d placed behind the bar.

  ‘Nope. Not on random, anyway.’ Nate’s shoulders jumped as a particularly loud thonk came from the bathroom area.

  ‘Ignore, please.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘I believe it’s two teenagers having sex.’

  His eyes widened. ‘Lucky kids. Most of ’em have to do it in the back of pick-up trucks around here. Aren’t you nice? You didn’t card them?’

  Adele willed him to leave, to drain his beer before he noticed everything else wrong around him. But his eyes stayed on hers, light and amused, and his long fingers (oh, those fingers – she’d sucked them, one by one last night, making him groan) stayed wrapped around his glass. Adele squirmed on the stool and then stood. It was just more comfortable to lean her arms on the bar top, anyway. ‘Their IDs were perfect.’

  ‘Signatures and birthdays raised?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘They have good machines, but most of them can’t do the raised embossing. You can tell by rubbing your thumb across the card.’ He reached forward, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. His thumb swept slowly across the skin at her wrist. ‘Like this.’

  Adele’s mouth lost all moisture. She pulled back her hand quickly. ‘Well. What am I supposed to do? Bang on the door and ask to see their IDs again?’

  ‘They’re under-age. That’s a hefty fine.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A thousand bucks, plus a year in jail if they throw the book at you. Which, this being Darling Bay, they might not, but do you want to gamble on that?’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Speaking of fines, what’s with the rug rats?’ He pointed at the boys with the disgruntled yuppie parents. One boy was tapping his head against a wooden rail and another was sitting open-mouthed on the floor, his eyes fixed on the air in front of him. The third boy wasn’t even visible, but neither parent appeared concerned, both absorbed with their cell phones. Apparently they had satellite service.

  Adele straightened her shoulders. ‘They’re with their mom and dad.’

  ‘Still illegal. We don’t serve food. You can’t have a kid in a bar unless it serves meals. You like playing chicken with the penal code, huh?’

  The door swung open, and a tall, dark-haired man entered.

  ‘And now you have real trouble,’ said Nate.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s the sheriff.’

  ‘Oh, no. Wait, Colin McMurtry is the sheriff now? Oh, crap.’

  ‘Want help with him?’

  God, the satisfaction audible in Nate’s voice was enough to choke a pelican. Adele would not say yes. She couldn’t.

  But then the sheriff’s gaze landed on the poker table.

  ‘Yes,’ said Adele. ‘Mother Maybelle Carter. Help me.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  It was a little pathetic, maybe, to be so good at this one thing. Nate had felt the occasional pang of remorse that his true life’s talent seemed to be keeping a bar running while helping the patrons stay on track, too.

  But right now? It felt damn good.

  He greeted Sheriff McMurtry with a thump on the shoulder. ‘Colin. Good to see you, brother. Been a while.’

  Colin wasn’t one for grinning, but he smiled wide enough. ‘You, too, Nate.’

  ‘Let me buy you a beer.’ They’d been friends a long time. Nate’s mother and her frequent jail stays had gotten them acquainted back when Colin was a rookie on the force. Quite a few years had passed since then.

  ‘No, thanks.’ Colin’s gaze raked the room again. ‘On duty. Got a call about –’

  Nate cut him off. ‘Hey, you two must know each other, right? Local yokels and all?’

  Adele all but audibly gulped. ‘Good to see you again, Colin.’

  Colin’s face softened. ‘Heard you were back in town, girl.’

  While Adele came around the end of the saloon to hug the sheriff, Nate swung into action. He grabbed the extra bathroom key. On his way to the back, he swooped to where Lane Thomas and his boys were playing poker. ‘Put the money away, stat, or you’re out on your ear, and I’ll tell your wives, too.’

  He grabbed a boy who looked about nine years old by the back of the shirt. ‘Are you chewing on that wood? You’re not a termite. Hey! Mom and Dad! You can’t have your kids in a bar. What kind of parents are you?’

  The appalled gasps and squeaks the parents made were righteously satisfying. He hoped they’d threaten to sue. Those were his favourites. Then, ignoring the dad’s heated puffings, he hauled ass to the back bathroom, and gave the door three short raps. ‘Pants up,’ he called. ‘I’m coming in.’

  When he unlocked the door, the boy – Roman Elmwood’s son Bruce – was hurriedly struggling with his belt buckle while his girlfriend, the Landrys’ youngest, hastily reapplied lipstick.

  ‘We weren’t doing anything,’ said Bruce.

  ‘Don’t play a player.’ Nate held out his hand. ‘IDs.’

  ‘No way.’ Bruce shook his head.

  ‘IDs or I call your parents and tell them you weren’t using a condom.’

  ‘But we did use one,’ gasped the girl who only then realised her mistake. ‘I mean –’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘They cost me five hundred bucks,’ Bruce grumbled, but he put them in Nate’s hand. ‘That was all the money I had.’

  ‘Did you get them local?’ There’d been a guy at the mobile home park that had an ID-printing rig, but Colin had shut him down last year. It would be worth passing the news on to the sheriff if he’d popped back up.

  ‘Internet.’

  ‘So you’re stupid as well as broke. And seriously, keep using protection. You’re too dumb to be parents yet! You see those idiots out there with their kids? You want to end up like that? Out!’ He waved his arms like he was shooing a cow out of a field. ‘Get out of here!’

  They hightailed it.

  In the saloon, Colin was still talking to Adele. Her face was bright, and she looked genuinely happy to see the sheriff. Had they ever dated? They were about the same age, weren’t they? The space between Nate’s shoulderblades was suddenly tight. He imagined Colin’s hand against her face, Colin going in for a kiss, and he felt a blast of something hot and shocking in his gut.

  Jealousy. The second time he’d felt it in his life, and both times, it was about A
dele. He was known for not getting jealous, blast it. Past girlfriends had gone so far as to try to make him feel the green-eyed monster, to prove his affection. It had never worked except to tick him off and make him break up with them faster. This feeling, though – this stomach-churning pit of acid in his belly – it just made him sick.

  Stupid. He was being an idiot, as dumb as those kids in the john.

  Keep it moving, Houston. He brought his bar (no, her bar) and its patrons back into focus.

  Laney and his boys were gone, a single ace of hearts face up on the floor under Ned Randal’s seat. He’d always been a God-awful cheat. Nate raked up the pile of ones they’d left behind and stuck it in the tip jar.

  The parents with their hellions were gone.

  That only left Norma.

  Poor thing.

  She sat at the end of the bar, and he could tell by her pallor that she was at least six martinis in, maybe seven. He looked at his phone to confirm it, but he already knew what day it was just by the colour of her dress. Thirty years prior, her father had died on the nineteenth of August. Now, every single month on the nineteenth, Norma commemorated his death. She always came in and for every drink she had, Nate made her have a glass of water and light a candle. The man had died on his eightieth birthday. Nate had found a candelabrum online that held each of the eight candles she lit for every decade of his life. It wasn’t until he’d unwrapped it that he thought maybe it was a menorah. He’d been a little worried he might get in trouble for using it disrespectfully, if that was the case. On the other hand, the base was decorated with a ring of skulls, so it was possible that he was reading too much into the number.

  Norma could get away with eight drinks, but only if she started early, only if she ate something solid – he usually bought her a sandwich from Nell’s – and only if she took it slow. It was usually a long, sad day, but he liked that if she was going to be so sad, he was the one who was with her.

  ‘Hey, sweetheart.’ Nate sat next to her instead of standing opposite her like he usually did.

  Norma mumbled something almost inaudible.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Lighter. She didn’t give me one.’ Another mumble. ‘Matches.’