Page 2 of A Christmas Harbor

He looked to his left, where a few blocks away the white dome of the Maryland State House gleamed against the dark sky, the rain making its silhouette shimmy like an old movie reel. If he walked in that direction, he’d be back at his bed and breakfast in no time. Maybe by tomorrow afternoon he’d be home with his family, who would greet him with hugs and pies and understanding.

Paul turned right and continued his search. Before going back, he had to make one last attempt atforward. He had no idea whatforwardlooked like, only that it needed to be interesting enough to overwrite year-old memories.

The sidewalk changed from brick to concrete, potentially a good sign. Any neighborhood with a dive bar probably wouldn’t have fancy brick sidewalks.

As he trudged, the rain fell harder, pelting his hood so he heard nothing but its relentless rattle, like he was inside the world’s least soothing white-noise machine.

Finally he stopped beside an unassuming wooden church, where the figures of a life-sized nativity scene huddled beneath the eaves of their stable. It was tempting to evict a shepherd so he could squeeze in to escape the storm, but that would probably be a sin against Christmas or something.

He looked up and down the street again, stamping his feet to bring feeling back to his toes.

And there it was.

On the next corner sat a tavern with a blinking green sign that readLive Music. People-shaped figures moved about in the dim space within.

Halle-freaking-lujah.

Giving a tiny fist-pump, Paul stepped off the curb—straight into an ankle-deep puddle.

He drew back, yelping from the cold. “Jesus Motherfu—” He bit off the word and glanced at the nativity scene. “Sorry.” The Holy Family remained serene, though the donkey seemed to be giving him the stinkeye.

He hopped over the puddle and hurried across the street. The “live music” would probably feature Christmas carols, but right now he’d take a kazoo band playing aCatsmedley just to see a fellow human in the wild.

Paul pulled open the tavern door. Toasty air swept over him, bearing the scents of clove and cinnamon. A bluesy piano riff came from his right, along with a wistful male voice singing The Eagles’ “Please Come Home for Christmas”—a song to remind Paul of what he needed to forget, for one last moment before he eradicated every brain cell housing those memories.

In other words, an excellent song to get drunk to.

He pushed back his hood and headed for the nearest corner of the square-shaped bar. A young bartender stood there drying a beer mug while watching the piano player. His face wore a crooked frown that matched the music’s mood.

At the sight of Paul, the bartender flashed a broad grin, his Hollywood-white teeth contrasting with his dark skin. A set of raggedy reindeer antlers waved limply atop a crown of shoulder-length dreadlocks.

“Welcome! What can I get you? And before you answer, can I interest you in our drink special? One night only.” The barman jazz-handed toward a chalkboard that readMulled Wine - $5in pale-green chalk. Beneath the5lay a poorly erased10.

Paul could never resist a clearance sale. “I’ll take a large.”

“Fantastic.” The bartender pointed both index fingers at him. “I knew it the second I saw you. I said to myself, ‘Jackie, my man, that is an adventurous drinker.’” He pulled an Irish-coffee glass from under the bar. “Back in a blink.”

As Jackie disappeared through a swinging door, Paul took off his gloves and used them to wipe rivulets of rain from the front of his coat. He needed to hit the men’s room to wring out his soaking sock, but first he’d stake out the best people-watching spot.

To Paul’s left, at one corner of the bar, a man around his age with close-cropped sandy hair sat alone, holding an empty lowball tumbler by the rim and slowly rotating it on its bottom edge. His jaw, square as a window pane, shifted from side to side.

To his right, a man and a woman sat near the bar’s other corner, each holding but not drinking a half-full glass of red wine. They perched close enough to be a couple, but their bodies angled away from each other as they stared at their phones. With screen lights paling their impassive faces, they sat motionless, disconnected, as if trapped in an Edward Hopper painting.

A recessed ceiling light shone upon the piano man, picking out silver hairs among the black. At a two-top beside the piano, an old man sipped what might have been a gin and tonic through a fat green straw. He swallowed, then smacked his lips and nodded at his drink like it was the best one—or maybe the last one—of his life.

The song ended on a familiar trickle of melancholy notes. Paul clapped, along with the gin-drinking guy. Without acknowledging the applause, the piano player took a sip of amber beer from the pint glass beside him on his bench. Then he readied himself, fingers poised over the keys like the claws of a swooping falcon.

Semi-sweet chords drifted from the instrument, but Paul couldn’t place the song from this intro. Then the melody began—no vocals this time, just subdued piano tones.

He blinked away the wave of heat threatening his eyes. Of course it would be Wham!’s “Last Christmas.” The absolute last song he needed to hear tonight.

A deep groan came from his left. The guy with the sandy hair was shaking his head hard, palms clamped over his face like a basketball player who’d just blown an easy dunk. Then he lightly pounded his fists against the sides of his head, eyes squeezed shut.

What was going on there? Did the song also remind Sandy Hair of a lost love? Did it loop endlessly in the soundtrack of his memories, the way it did Paul’s?

His brain shifted into writer mode, as it always did when too much pain pressed upon it. Maybe if Paul observed him long enough, this guy could unknowingly star in his next book—whatever the hell that was. Paul could construct any narrative he wanted, fuel his imagination with a few details and a quart of mulled wine.

Or…he could walk over there and discover the real story. It was Christmas Eve, after all. If ever there was a time to help someone, to ease the ache of a quietly desperate life, tonight was the night.

---