Page 82 of Brewbies
Cy Forrester’s mouth stretched in a wide grin. “For the record, I’m not really the door attendant. Gemma asked me to keep an eye out for you. This way,” he said, gesturing down a small, dark hallway to the main bar.
Dimly lit sconces threw shadows against the plush velvet wallpaper as they passed, the light dancing over vintage photographs of 1920s partygoers in their finest flapper attire, getting up to the dickens.
“Those were taken right here in this building,” Cy reported. “Back then, it was owned by Lou Graham.”
“Wasn’t she one of Seattle’s wealthiest women?” Darby asked, hoping to score points with her exceedingly limited knowledge of Puget Sound social history.
“Yep,” Cy confirmed. “And a notorious madam.”
“No shit.” A curious warmth flooded Darby’s chest as she glanced back at the photograph. Hers was not a new fight.
“Not a crumb.”
At the end of the hallway, Cy produced a key from the pocket of his jeans and plugged it into the lock of yet another heavy oak door.
“After you,” he invited, swinging it open.
Darby stepped over the threshold, and into another time.
The speakeasy was a chic, dimly lit affair. Luxurious oriental rugs, tasseled lamps, bookshelves, and dark booths. At the center of the room, a small platform housed a stand-up bass, drums, and an old but beautiful black-lacquered piano. Waiting, perhaps, for their musicians to return from a break.
It was over-the-top kitsch at its finest, and Darby fell immediately and wholeheartedly in love.
“Welcome to Olive or Twist!” declared a costumed barkeep, her voice tempered by years of whisky fumes and cigar smoke. She slid a smoking cocktail across the counter in Darby’s direction.
“Oh,” Darby said, eyeing the drink. “I haven’t ordered yet.”
“That’s the bees’ knees.” The bartender winked at her. “On the house.”
Darby gave the woman a tentative smile and nodded, taking a sip of the smoky-sweet concoction.
If nothing else, it gave her something to do with her sweaty hands and twitchy face while she covertly looked for Caryn.
And where had these nerves come from, exactly?
From the quiet understanding that you’re about to go talk to a woman who practically owns this town and has likely already heard about your banging her son in your camper of iniquity.
Oh. That.
“You need anything, you let me know,” Cy said, as if sensing her unease. “I’ll be right here at the bar.”
“Thanks,” Darby said.
Drawing in a deep breath, she scanned the tables.
At five p.m. on a Friday, there were a surprising number of patrons scattered around the room, drinking and talking in small groups, their conversations punctuated by the occasional staccato burst of laughter or clink of glassware.
Here uptown, there were fewer tourists and pass-through traffic. The assortment appeared to be comprised of locals looking to offload their Friday workday and unwind with a cocktail or six at the official start of their weekend.
Darby could relate.
Once upon a time, she’d been one of them.
A lowly first-year law student with a summer internship at her father’s law firm: Dunwell, McKendall & Starkes.
She’d spent a grueling summer of shuffling paperwork and answering phones when Starkes had taken one too many nips from his desk flask and decided to get grab-assy whileshe working late on a deposition. When she’d told her father about it, he frowned, then reminded her how much pressure the team had been under.
At which point, she’d asked her father if she could expect to receive the same accommodation if she up and decided to palm Starkes’ shriveled plums while he was making his opening argument.
