“Mr. Dawson,” Hannah blurted, spinning around on her barstool, the gin possibly softening her jagged, nervous edges minutely.
Peter Dawson stood next to Hannah, dressed in a pair of perfectly fitted slacks, a white collared shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, a sharp blazer that looked both casual and dressy, and shoes that had to cost more than Hannah’s entire Mississippi wardrobe. Now, this man looked like he belonged here.
“I’ve told you three times now to call me Pete,” he said, taking the stool next to her, setting his leather messenger bag—the only thing that made him stand out from the masses—at his feet.
“I’m sorry. You’re right,” she apologized and started again. “Let me buy you a drink . . . Pete.” She lifted her glass and took the last sip of her second drink, welcoming the warmth that she’d been craving. The bartender took Pete’s order, an old-fashioned, and then looked to Hannah expectantly.
“And you?”
“Oh, I couldn’t. I’ve already reached my limit,” she said, tipping her empty glass as evidence.
“You’re not going to make me drink alone, are you? What if someone saw us? What would that headline be? Senator Pete Dawson, Alcoholic?”
Hannah had forgotten how very charming she found Pete Dawson.
“When you put it that way, how can I say no?”
“I agree, it would be cruel. Here, let me surprise you. Then, if you don’t feel like drinking, you can blame it on me.” He rested his chin on his closed fist, knowing he’d charmed her. She nodded and rolled her eyes, wishing she’d been better at resisting.
“She will have a blackberry Tennessee mule. Green Label, if you have it.”
“Sure do,” the bartender confirmed, mixing their drinks while Pete turned his attention back to Hannah, taking her in.
“You look nice tonight.”
“So you are an alcoholic,” she said. The twenty-something tattooed bartender snorted at her joke and then cleared his throat and went back to pretending that he was not listening.
“No, I’m sober . . . for now,” he said as he took his drink and passed Hannah hers, without acknowledging the bartender, who smirked at Hannah as he walked away.
“To sobriety,” she said, raising her glass.
“Never,” he said, feigning shock and then raising his glass to the same height. “How about to . . . new friends.”
“To new friends,” she echoed, clinking glasses, and took a sip, the burning-sweet taste of whiskey and blackberry liquor filling her senses. Pete drank his whiskey in three mouthfuls and gestured for another, running his damp fingers through his hair. Hannah shifted in her seat, trying not to be impatient but wanting to check her phone to see the time. Pete noticed her disquietude and, taking a more judicious swig of his freshened drink, turned the conversation to the topic at hand.
“As you know, I made a little visit to the Pines today,” he said. Hannah leaned forward and put a cocktail straw in the corner of her mouth, chomping down on it. “And after you finally sent me that name and I flirted with the girl at the desk, just a little”—he held his fingers close together and then widened them a little when she gave him a skeptical glare—“she took me to the file room and . . .”
Hannah took the straw out of her mouth and rotated it in a circle, uninterested in hearing about any potential dalliances that led to Pete’s perusal of the medical files of injured and disabled children and young adults. “Go on . . .”
“I’m kidding. They know me there and let me right in. Good news—I think I found your little Evelyn.” He hefted his bag off the floor and onto his knees and yanked out a thick, oversize envelope that he plopped onto the bar and slid her way. “I didn’t take the time to dig through her whole file, but the basics seem to match.”
Hannah picked up the parcel and opened the top flap; inside were thirty-odd pages of paperwork, and likely doctor’s notes and perhaps even the answer to Hannah’s ultimate, burning question of who put Evelyn in a wheelchair and changed the course of her life. She wanted nothing more than to delve into the riches that were encased in that envelope, but Hannah used every ounce of self-control she had left to close the flap and place it back down on the counter.
“This is absolutely amazing. Thank you,” Hannah said, finding it difficult to resist the emotion tugging at her heartstrings. She took two long sips of her blackberry-flavored beverage, the burning barely noticeable this time, blinking back unexpected, and likely alcohol-induced, tears.
“My pleasure, truly.” He put his hand over hers on top of the file. Reflexes slowed ever so slightly, Hannah slipped her hand away after a brief delay.
“What can I do to repay you, Mr. Dawson?” she said, lingering on her return to formality in an attempt to regain any sense of professionalism, finishing her beverage so she didn’t have to look at him. She appreciated his help but didn’t want to fall into his crosshairs of attraction. He withdrew his hand and tossed the rest of his drink back with a flick of the wrist, placing the glass down with an exaggerated clink.
“How about this, Miss Williamson?” he said, emphasizing her last name as payback for her return to proper etiquette. “If you publish this story, or make a podcast—or whatever people are doing these days—mention that good ole Pete Dawson helped you out of the kindness of his innocent little heart,” he said, hand resting on his chest like he could hear “The Star-Spangled Banner” playing in his head. “Not to sound too self-serving, but this would play well with my female constituents. And promise me that next time we meet up it will be for dinner.”
“Yeah, not self-serving at all,” she teased, trying to keep him close without letting him take over the situation. “But that sounds like a fair enough trade,” she said, stowing the envelope in her bag and passing her credit card to the bartender. “And I should probably leave the whole ‘alcoholic’ thing out of it, don’t you think?” she asked, winking.
“That was a joke, and you know it.” He pointed at her, eyeing her in that half-suspicious way he did when she first met him, staring at her mouth whenever she talked. She had to get out of there, or a first move was going to happen. Guy’s jokes and touches were tender and innocent in comparison to Pete’s bold moves, and she didn’t like it.
“Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t,” she said, signing the bill and then sneaking a glance at her phone. It was 6:05 p.m.; alarm bells rang in her head and overpowered her subtle buzz.
“What about dinner to go along with these drinks? I’d love to hear more about you and your story. There is something about you that I can’t help but like.”
“I’m sure it’s my sparkling personality,” she sassed back, the alcohol in her bloodstream making her brave. “But I’m sorry, Mr. Dawson, I have a reservation next door. I must be on my way.” She shook his hand and let go quickly. “Thank you again.”
She brushed past his knees before he could answer. He was able to catch her hand just before she was out of reach, but her fingers slipped out of his easily.
“My name is Pete,” he called after her, and Hannah just smiled.
CHAPTER 28
Hannah left the busy bar and rushed over to the Capriccio Grill across the hotel lobby. Every step she took reverberated through her body, shouting to her soul, “He’s here.”
Would he be waiting by the entrance to the restaurant, or maybe he’d thought to meet her outside the hotel, so she didn’t get lost? Or maybe . . .
Self-conscious that she was already ten minutes late, Hannah decided to try the restaurant first and then worry about other options. Alex had always been extremely punctual, and Hannah’s perpetual tardiness was one of the primary sources of contention in their relationship, which just put her more on edge.
“Hi. I’m here to meet a friend. He may have checked in already. The reservation is for Alex Penbrook.” Hannah checked in with the young hostess, who was all teeth and hospitality.
“Looks like you’re in luck—he’s already seated and waiting for you. Give me a moment, and I’ll tak
e you over there.” Her accent was thick like it was an elixir she’d swallowed whole and it was coating her throat and mouth. As the hostess disappeared behind a partition, Hannah retrieved a tube of lip gloss from her bag and slathered on a quick, fresh layer.
Rubbing her glossy lips together, she took in the people around her, trying to distract herself and look calm and collected, which she was not. She was about to see him for the first time in a long time and maybe the last time. Soon he’d be another woman’s husband. And she’d have no excuse to not move on. God. That was as scary as seeing his face again.
There was a middle-aged couple snuggled up on benches off to the side of the restaurant’s entrance. A family with young children bustled around close to the restrooms; one girl with a big smile made her think of Rosie and—as a result—Guy. Why did thinking of Guy make her feel so guilty? He was a great guy and an amazing friend, but . . . what else was he becoming? No, that was the whiskey talking.
“Miss, if you’ll follow me.” The hostess and all her impossibly white teeth were back. Hannah tried not to look around the room. She didn’t want to see Alex before he saw her, sparing Hannah from any looks of disappointment at her current appearance. She knew she’d never been beautiful, but she couldn’t bear for Alex to be able to pick up on just how broken she still was by his rejection.
“And here we are.” The hostess pointed to a table and walked away.
In front of Hannah was the man she’d tried to stop loving after he stopped loving her. Six feet tall, dark hair, green eyes like ocean glass, and a smile that had always made her blush. Alex.
“Hannah! It’s so good to see you!” He didn’t wait for her to take her seat. Instead, he rushed over and put his arms around her before she had any chance to react. Already slightly unsteady from the three drinks she had consumed with Pete Dawson, Hannah wobbled and nearly fell over, the weight of her bag shifting her center of gravity. His embrace felt the same. He smelled the same. She stumbled back, not finding the reminder of the past comforting. It was disquieting.
“Well, oh my goodness. I’m so sorry. I got a little carried away.” He was acting like she was an old college buddy and they’d lost touch after moving away, getting married, and having 1.5 kids each instead of the woman he’d promised to marry but didn’t, and his cavalier attitude threw her off as much as his overly exuberant embrace. Still unable to find the right words, she placed her bag on the back of her chair and removed her jacket as Alex returned to his seat, slightly more solemn than before.
“I can’t believe it’s been so long,” he said, as though she had been complicit in the decision not to see each other anymore.
This is going to be harder than I thought. Hannah willed herself to say something, anything, her mind and body empty. “How was your conference?” She decided to focus on the most mundane details possible, hoping it would keep her from stumbling into hurtful questions before they even had a chance to order an appetizer.
“It was fine. But that’s boring. I want to know how you’re doing.” His eyes were dancing like they always did when he got excited about something. She couldn’t remember the last time they danced for her. It was the temptation Evelyn talked about. That sparkle when he stared at her felt a lot like the promise of happiness. “You look amazing. It seems like going back to your southern roots has been good for you.”
She knew the compliment was close to meaningless—both Guy and Pete had mentioned her slightly above-average effort at looking normal today. But somehow, the words sounded special in Alex’s voice, and the brick wall inside her started to dissolve just a little.
“It’s not nearly as terrible as I thought it would be,” she said, taking a drink of her water and glancing at the menu. She needed to get some food in her stomach soon.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered a few things. Just appetizers. They have calamari here, and I know how much you like it. And some candied brussels sprouts like the ones we used to get at the Publican.”
Every time he spoke, he mentioned another memory from their past together, as though it didn’t cause him any pain. She finished her water and looked around for a busboy so she could get a refill.
“I don’t eat calamari anymore,” she said. What she should have said was I don’t eat anything that reminds me of you anymore, but she wasn’t nearly intoxicated enough for that level of honesty.
“Oh, no problem. More for me, I guess.”
They sat in an uncomfortable hush for a few minutes as the busboy refilled their water, and the waitress took Hannah’s drink order—plain seltzer water. She needed to slow the effects of her first three drinks, the attempt to numb herself backfiring. Hannah snagged a roll from the basket in the middle of the table and tried to stomach a few bites as Alex continued his attempts at small talk about his work, asking about Mamaw and living in Senatobia, and even about her job at the Record.
“Excuse me, are you Hannah Williamson?” A different waitress from the one who had taken their order and brought Alex his cocktail held a tray with a single drink in the middle of it.
“I am,” she said, grateful for the interruption but also confused how anyone but Alex would know her full name here.
“This is for you,” she said, placing a deep-purple drink on the table next to Hannah.
“Oh no, I didn’t order anything.”
“No, it’s from that man over there.” She pointed across the room to a table where Pete Dawson sat dining by himself. He held up his drink to her and winked. Hannah smirked back and raised her glass.
“Who the hell is that?” Alex asked, looking over his shoulder at Pete, who had gone back to eating.
Hannah’s ears perked up. She’d known Alex long enough to be able to pick out when he was feeling a little jealous. She liked that he felt that way. He deserved to feel that way.
“Oh, that’s just a friend of mine. We met at a charity event I was covering. His name is Peter Dawson. You may have heard of his dad, Jack Dawson. You know, he’s running for president.” She didn’t feel even one bit guilty, stretching the truth about her first meeting with Pete. She took another long drink from her blackberry Tennessee mule and felt as fancy as all get-out.
“That was a bold move. How did he know we weren’t on a date?”
“I don’t think he cared,” Hannah said, appreciating Pete Dawson’s personality more by the minute.
“I don’t like it.” Alex shifted in his seat, his slightly wrinkled blue dress shirt looking shabby next to Pete’s classy fashion choices. “You’re not dating that guy, are you? Because that’s pretty possessive if he couldn’t let you go out on your own.”
Hannah cackled and then reined herself in, knowing she was getting a little too tipsy for her own good. “Alex, you don’t need to take care of me anymore. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time now.”
Alex’s face was starting to turn pink on his cheekbones, which meant he was getting upset. “It’s a real jerk move if you brought your boyfriend with you to come see me, Hannah.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but Pete is not my boyfriend. He and I had a business meeting before I was supposed to meet you. I don’t get to Memphis that often, so when I do, I have to try and kill a couple of birds with one stone.”
“Oh,” Alex said, his shoulders dropping from a defensive posture and the tint of red quickly draining from his face. “Damn. Why did I want to fight that man?”
The question made Hannah’s stomach turn. She wasn’t sure if it was from too much blackberry syrup or too many alcoholic beverages in less than an hour, but whatever it was, she was tired of beating around the bush while Alex acted like her boyfriend.
“What the hell are we doing here, Alex? This sucks. You come to Memphis, and you talk to me like nothing even happened, and now you want to fight some guy like you’re my boyfriend?” Her voice trembled, and her eyes grew moist. “Something did happen. You cheated on me, and now you are about to marry that woman instead of me. And I
can’t sit here and reminisce about old times and put up with you getting jealous when you were the one who left me. I should never have come here tonight. This was a huge mistake.”
She shoved away from the table and tried to grab her things, tipping over her chair in the process. It fell with a monstrous crash, drawing the attention of every diner in the room. Storming out of the restaurant, Hannah knew she’d made a scene and that everyone was watching her pathetic attempt to escape. Trying to get as far away from Alex and the Capriccio Grill as she could, she took out her phone to order a car that would take her home.
“Hey, you okay?” Pete caught up to Hannah, putting his arm around her and guiding her to a bench by the giant fountain in the lobby.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, forcefully, working through the steps on the app that would help her to summon her ride, which was proving to be a little tricky since her brain was working against three and a half alcoholic beverages.
“Was that your boyfriend? Did I make him angry by sending you that drink? If so, I’m very sorry. It was meant to be a joke,” he explained, his arm loosely behind her, feeling more like a protective move than a flirtatious one.
“He is not my boyfriend. He is my ex-boyfriend, and you did absolutely nothing wrong. I just want to go home.”
Hannah hated allowing anyone to see her be weak, but especially Pete, who seemed perpetually strong and confident. After losing her job at the Tribune after her breakdown, it pained her to think of anyone in her professional life seeing her this way. But she couldn’t hold it in. Her lower lip trembled, and she broke down—hard—sobbing.
“I will order you a car. Don’t you worry about it for one more second.” He rubbed her shoulders with one hand and typed on his smartphone with the other, and she let him, trying to count down like Laura had taught her to. One . . . two . . . three . . .
“I had a feeling I’d find you out here,” Alex said, approaching Pete with a scowl.
“I think Hannah would like to be left alone now,” Pete said, defensively, putting his body between Hannah and Alex, his deep-seated southern beliefs about protecting women and children on full display. She bristled at all the male posturing, but her head was spinning.
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