I’d arrived at just past five, driving over from the Kennewick Inn under a rainstorm that had blackened the dusky sky. There were three cars in Cooley’s lot, but I was the first customer. I settled onto my stool, shucked off my damp jacket, and ordered a Miller Lite. The bartender, the spitting image of Disney’s Ichabod Crane, uncapped and delivered the bottle, then placed a laminated menu with frayed corners onto the bar. I scanned it—Cooley’s Clam Pie was the specialty of the house.
It was a slow night. While I had been surprised by the relatively lively crowd at the Livery the night before, I was not surprised by the scarcity of souls that decided to brave Cooley’s on a cold, wet Monday evening. By seven the only other customers in the place were a lone man, at least seventy, who had hoisted his considerable weight onto a stool and ordered a bourbon sour, two past-their-prime blondes securing the opposite end of the bar, plus a pair of middle-aged tourists who had hesitated in the doorway, decided they didn’t have the courage to turn around and leave, and sat in one of the high-backed booths. In my two hours at Cooley’s I had sipped two bottles of beer, and tried the famous clam pie, a slice of which had arrived on a chipped plate next to a little pile of parsley sprigs. It was pie dough filled with a chopped clam and bread crumb mixture the color of wet sand. It tasted like a fishy version of the terrible filling you scrape off baked stuffed shrimp. I ate two bites, then ordered a plate of fries. The bartender looked amused.
I had spent most of the day at the Kennewick Inn, reading the newspaper in the lobby by the fireplace, then having lunch at the Livery, where I’d been served by Sidney, the slender, pretty bartender who supposedly had a crush on Miranda. While I ate my salad, she moved behind the bar with a purposeful intensity, making sure every glass was clean, and all the surfaces were wiped. She wore an oxford shirt, sleeves rolled all the way up to show off her biceps. One of her arms was entirely tattooed in flowers and pinup girls. She didn’t seem talkative, so I decided not to ask her about Ted and Miranda. But right before I left, a hotel employee came down to the bar to fill a to-go cup with Diet Coke, and I overheard their conversation.
“Have you talked with Miranda?” the employee, a heavily made-up brunette in a black suit, asked Sidney.
“I left a message on her phone, just saying how sorry we all are. I don’t expect to hear back.”
“Jesus.”
“I know, right. I keep thinking about her . . . about it . . . Ted.”
“What do you think she’ll do?” The woman in the suit, who looked like an events manager, took a long pull of her Diet Coke through a straw.
“That’s what everyone’s asking me. Honestly, I don’t fucking know. She’s a friend, I guess, but it’s not like I know her that well. For all I know, we’ll never see her again.”