Hilltop House

Maeve, Nine

"How old's your daughter?"

"Eighteen. You have kids?"

"No. Never married, never had kids."

Maeve gave a bitter laugh. "It's probably easier that way. I mean, I wouldn't wish Cora away, but kids complicate everything."

John, the bartender and bar owner, offered a wan, sympathetic smile. "It's what I hear from anyone with kids who comes in here. Have to say, makes me wonder why you all have them."

Sighing, Maeve shook her head. "Because none of us know what we're getting ourselves into." She lifted her amber-colored drink and took a sip. It was too strong, whatever it was; she'd told John to make her what he thought she needed, and she must've looked a mess, because the drink tasted like rubbing alcohol. She should be driving home right now, not sitting at a bar, but her head had been in a dark place at the end of her shift, and she'd needed something like rubbing alcohol to move her thoughts away from the edge of their black hole. So perhaps John had read her pretty well after all.

He was nice—John. She'd gotten his name, finally. And she'd apologized for walking out on him the last time. Being a bartender, though, he'd said he was used to people up and leaving mid-conversation. That hadn't made Maeve feel less stupid, but she'd appreciated his attempt to mellow her embarrassment.

"How long have you been working here?"

John thought as he wiped down the back bar. "Probably . . . nine years? Friend of mine owned it up until then; he just sort of passed it on to me."

"He passed on?"

"No, no. He just left. Went to live off the grid up north, Montana. Much as I've heard from him, he could be dead, I suppose."

"Oh." Maeve didn't want to think about death, of people who were supposed to be dead, of people close to being dead. It brought up thoughts of her mother, of Martha Heyward whom she'd yet to meet, of all the old people waiting their turn, of those whose turns shouldn't have come so soon and of those whose turns should come sooner . . .

Someone down the bar called for another, and John went about his business. As usual at this hour, almost nobody was there, just a few middle-aged people looking sad, as if perhaps afraid to go home and confront the loneliness that surely awaited them. Maeve was fairly certain she'd be one of them, soon enough, assuming she made it much longer.

"So . . . just weekends, next door? I don't see you during the week."

Maeve chewed her bottom lip, spun the glass slowly between her hands. "Yeah. No, it's just a part-time. Thank God—I'd shoot myself otherwise." She realized her words bad been a bit severe but couldn't think of a way to ease them without sounding insecure.

"I get it. Well, if you hate it so much, I'd consider taking you on here, if you're interested."

She turned her eyes toward John, studied his bluff, smiling face, his solid arms, white sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing the edges of inked images higher up, and she decided to take his words at face value. "Maybe. Let me see how much longer I can go over there. If I have to sell condoms to one more teenaged boy, I—" Maeve suddenly sat up straight. "Oh crap!" She slid off the barstool. "Dammit!"

"What? You running out again?"

"I'm sorry. I—I can't finish this." She was about to turn and go but felt a twinge of guilt and looked back to him. "I forgot some guy is supposedly visiting my daughter tonight. I wanted to make sure—oh, damnit! I wanted to meet him. I'll see you around. Thanks for the drink!"

"It's on me, then," John muttered, watching her receding figure as the woman went through the door and headed across the street to her parked car.