Memory Tree Read Free Page B

the amount of snow the region had suffered the last two Christmases. Last year, in fact, he remembered a snowstorm hitting them on Halloween and little relief after that until April. At this hour, though, despite the unseasonal temperatures, there was something about the big sky and its shroud of darkness that produced a natural chill, and it reminded Brian of his solitude. Or was that loneliness? Sure, he had Janey to light his life, she who filled his days with boundless joy. But then there were those nights, especially when he was off from tending bar and Janey was helping over at the Knights’ with baby Jake, when he found himself pacing the farmhouse with no purpose. He stopped, setting the clean glass down on the washcloth, and let out a sigh. Taking a look around the place where he spent most nights, the quiet jukebox and the empty chairs, the smell of beer wafting through the air, he wondered, not for the first time, what more he could be doing with his life.
    Just last Christmas he’d asked the same question of himself, and rather than seeking out answers, he’d wrapped himself up in the complex lives of others, like Nora Connors Rainer, like Thomas Van Diver, strangers then, now friends and expected tomorrow for Thanksgiving dinner. He’d solved their issues and ignored his own, and then a new year had begun and life just chugged along, Brian’s life the lone whistle at the end of the journey. And suddenly it was Thanksgiving again, and along with Nora and Thomas, several other guests were expected, and so Brian supposed he ought to stop wallowing in his brand of self-pity and get on home. His life wouldn’t be changed tonight, and that turkey wouldn’t cook itself tomorrow.
    A rap of knuckles against the glass pane of the front door caught his attention.
    He waved, said, “Sorry, I’m closed.”
    He could see a deflated expression cross the face of the person on the wrong side of the door. Brian noticed through the panes of glass that it was a woman. He didn’t recognize her.
    She knocked again, persistence winning out. Maybe she was in trouble.
    Tossing down the towel, Brian crossed the floor again but didn’t immediately turn the lock.
    â€œSorry, I just closed up,” he said. “Taps are turned off.”
    â€œI’ll be quick,” the woman said.
    â€œQuick about what?”
    â€œThis is a bar, yes?”
    â€œYes. A closed bar.”
    â€œYour sign here says you’re open till two.” She pointed toward the H OURS OF O PERATION placard that dangled from one of the panes.
    â€œTrue, but I hardly ever do. Maybe weekends. Look . . . miss, I’m sorry . . .”
    He again saw defeat crumple her weary features. He sighed again, turned the lock, and let her in before turning the deadbolt behind her. No other strays allowed tonight, he thought, just this one. And she better be not just quick but a good tipper. As he made his way back to the bar, the woman, whom he guessed was around thirty, trailed after him and hopped up on one of the stools found midway down the bar. He turned to her just as she was removing her fur-trimmed overcoat, a bit bulky considering the mild temperatures outside.
    â€œSo what’ll it be?” he asked.
    â€œScotch, neat,” she said. “You got Johnny Blue?”
    Brian’s top shelf didn’t reach that high. “I think I have Dewar’s.”
    â€œIt’ll have to do in a pinch.”
    Brian poured the requested drink, sliding it over with a gentle push. She peered through the glass, judging its contents’ clear brown character before taking a sip. Satisfaction apparently met, she knocked back the rest of it with one gulp, setting the glass down with a loud thunk. Her gesture indicated that Brian should hit her with a refill, not that she ever voiced such words. He did so, her hand helping him tip the bottle until it had produced a double.
    â€œBetter?” Brian asked with