Page 132 of Exodus

She knows my history. And I could give her a number of reasons for my sudden appearance that has nothing to do with her husband, but she’s no fool, and she’s not out for blood.

“Be careful, Cecelia. You know well not everything is what it seems to be.”

It’s not a warning. These are words of caution from an old friend. She’s throwing me a bone, and I accept it. She’s not threatening me, but she clearly resents the fact that I’m here.

And she’s not alone.

I say the only thing I can as the winter wind whips at me from where I stand with the door partially open. “Take care, Tessa.”

Chapter Forty

Heavily buzzing, I enter the dark, dank bar as a flood of memories come rushing back. Not much has changed. The floor littered with the same small round tables and cheap wooden chairs. The walls glow with a slew of neon signs. The only addition is a thinly carpeted stage and karaoke machine set up next to the jukebox.

“Cecelia?”

Behind the bar, Eddie stands scrutinizing me. I greet him with a smile as visions of the past swim in my head. “The Boys of Summer” by Don Henley drifts from the jukebox as if welcoming me back to that time, in this place. The lyrics haunting, fitting, wrapping me up inside them as I sink back into the history I lived here.

“Hey, Eddie.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says as I approach the bar. “He won’t like it.”

No question of who he is.

“Yeah, well, I have an issue with management, and I think it’s time we settled it. I’ll have a Jack and Coke.”

He slowly shakes his head while toweling off a pint glass.

“You really aren’t going to serve me?” I blow out a breath of frustration. “Really, Eddie? I thought we were friends.” I should know better by now. I’m starting to go blind from the gleam of the “Scarlet A” on my chest. I left Tessa’s dress shop feeling like the Whore of Babylon. From the reactions of the people I used to feel safest with, I’ve been reduced to nothing but an old hood groupie.

“You shouldn’t be here, Cecelia,” he repeats.

“Don’t worry. I brought my own.” I pull my half drained brown bottle from my purse and lift it for him to see.

“You can’t bring that in here.”

I pull out my wallet and place a hundred down. “Then give me one.”

Reluctantly, he pulls a bottle of Jack and a glass up from behind the bar, and I slide the money over. He shakes his head, refusing it. “Thanks, Eddie.”

“He’s going to have my nuts for this.”

“But you’re good at keeping secrets, aren’t you?”

He grunts, and I push the money toward him again. “Can I have some change?”

He exchanges the bills in the cash drawer. And I take a few of the singles and stuff the rest in his tip jar. “Good to see you, too.”

I lift the bottle and glass, and he stalks off to tend to a man perched at the bar while eyeing me with warning.

A warning I ignore.

I set my things at the table closest to the jukebox, tumbler in hand, and search through the endless music and pause when I see it.

“Keep on Smilin’” by Wet Willie. The song Sean and I danced to in the street. I searched for it the day after the festival and kept it on repeat for days—reliving those short minutes we spent together before he left me without a word.

And I’d just had a run-in with his wife.

His beautiful wife, who he has two children with.

---