Christian said he’d be at the Rum Barrel, but after a quick pass through the first floor, which boasts a plethora of Philadelphia Phillies memorabilia, and a quick scan of the second, I don’t see him.
The upstairs section of the Rum Barrel is somewhat enclosed, but farther from the staircase stands an open-air veranda, where a band plays. The sign out front referred to the music as cantina hits; funny, it sounds more like a Billy Joel cover band than a group of Marley wannabes, despite the maracas and steel drums.
A sense of homesickness rushes through me. I practically ache for Old Town, for the street festivals in midsummer—Micah’s favorite time of year. I gravitate toward the sound of the music, as if I’ll be miraculously passing through to Chicago—and turning back the hands of time—by the time I reach the platform.
An empty table occupies an inconspicuous place near the speakers in the corner, so I take it. Out of the way. Near enough to the amplifiers that no one would dream of speaking to me—or at least expect me to answer any questions.
No one would dream of approaching me.
Micah would, a voice in my head chirps.
It’s true. He would’ve. He had, as a matter of fact. It’s how Natasha and I met him. In Grant Park. At Lollapalooza. Amid screaming guitars and Nine Inch Nails.
I’m sorry, ladies. I can’t hear a word you’re saying.
We didn’t say anything.
I’m sorry. I can’t hear a word you’re saying.
My thumb instantly searches for my wedding band.
Still there.
I bite my lip in frustration. Why couldn’t I have continued to live in oblivious happiness?
“Welcome to the Rum Barrel.” The server shouts so I can hear him. “Will anyone be joining you?”
I shake my head. I fear, if I try to be heard, I’m bound to lose my voice.
The waiter lifts the laminated drink menu a few inches off the table, only to put it back down. “May I interest you in one of our drink specials?”
The band plays the last few notes of a song with flourish, and the vocalist croons “Tah-dahhhh!” as if he were more magician than musician.
I’m grateful not to scream. “Mojito.” After a pause, I add, “Please.”
Behind me: “Nice choice.” Christian.
He places a half-gone pint glass on my table. “Mind if I . . . ?” He’s already pulling out one of the aluminum stools at the table and helping himself to a seat.
“Anything for you, sir?”
My neighbor looks to the waiter. “I’ll have another Frogman.”
I raise an eyebrow at the name of the beer. “Sounds appetizing.”
“Try it.” He gives the glass a little shove in my direction.
I sip. It’s okay. Flavorful. Too bold for a girl whose occasional, if not rare, beers consisted of Miller Lite big mouths at Comiskey Park. “I’ll stick with the mojito.”
“Anything to eat?”
“Fritters,” I say without thinking. Every establishment on the island offers conch fritters, and thus far, I like the ones from Sloppy Joe’s best. I ordered their carry-out once last week.
“Look at you,” Christian says as the server retreats. “Ordering before you even look at the menu. It’s almost like you live here.”
“Hardly.” I narrow my gaze at him. “I’m still learning my way around.”
“Well, kudos to you. You’re blending in. Even sporting a bit of a tan, thank God. I swear, your skin probably glowed in the dark the day you got here.”
The drummer starts tapping out a beat.
“So. Veronica. Did you come to see your favorite neighbor? Or is this a happy coincidence?”
“If I didn’t know you had books to write and waves to surf in the morning, I might guess you followed me.”
“Your daughter is with my nieces, I presume.”
“Yes. They’re godsends, those girls. Bella threw a tantrum tonight.”
“Kids’ll do that.”
“She actually told me she’d rather I were gone instead of her father.”
I don’t tell him the real reason I’m here, don’t tell him about the birth certificates.
I don’t tell him about Gabrielle, about Natasha.
I don’t tell him Micah might not be dead, that he might be with another woman.
I’ll bet Micah and Gabrielle used to come here together. Or Micah and Natasha. Or when—if?—he stopped seeing Natasha in order to start seeing Gabrielle.
Had I known then what I know now, I may have years ago stalked places they’d been together, if only to catch them in the act. So I’m doing it now, too many years too late, but it still feels necessary. Call it closure. Or psychotic obsession.
I drain the mojito more than halfway in not more than a few sips, and I don’t care that it’s going to go straight to my head. I don’t care that I’ll pay for it tomorrow or that doing so with a three-year-old will be hell on earth.
“Do your nieces nanny during the day?” I stab at the mint leaves in my glass with my straw.
“You feel like getting a little insane tonight.” He takes another sip of beer, leaving a mustache of foam on his upper lip for the breath it takes to lick it away. “I’d offer to help with your daughter, but she still takes a while to warm up to me.”
“Don’t take it personally. She prefers the voices in her head to real people.”
“Nini.”
“Yes. Nini.”
The server appears out of nowhere. “Another drink, ma’am?”
Christian regards me for a second before suggesting, “Why don’t you just bring us a pitcher?”
“A pitcher?”
“Shitty day,” he says. “Let’s get wrecked.”
“I don’t mean voices, like voices,” I say. “She isn’t crazy or anything. Nini is an imaginary friend. Perfectly normal.”
“I know imaginary friends.”
Of course he does.
“Have a few myself.” He thumbs over his shoulder. “Meet Tweedledee and Tweedledum.”
I study him for a minute. “Can I ask you something?”
“It’s intensely personal, I hope.”
“Sort of, I suppose.” I wait a beat or two. “My daughter. She’s been saying things that aren’t quite on par with things an imaginary friend would tell her. I mean, blaming the spill at Fogarty’s on Nini, fine—”
“She actually blamed that on you.”
“Whatever. You see what I’m getting at. Blaming Nini for things that get her into trouble . . . I understand that. But she knows things. The day before everything happened with my husband, she told her preschool teachers that her father went to God Land. And then, I show up here, at a house, which to be honest I didn’t even know I owned until after he was gone, and there are letters missing on the archway, so the place is labeled God Land. And she keeps saying she’s seen him. Even after I tell her that she saw you, not her father, she insists.”
He’s staring intently into my eyes.
“I guess what I want to know is . . . do you believe in ghosts? Clairvoyance? Because I don’t know how else to explain the things my daughter knows.”
A tiny line forms between his eyes. His thumb worries the scar on his opposite hand. He thinks I’m crazy.
“I think . . .” He takes a sip of Frogman. “I think things happen in this world that we can’t always explain and understand. I think children are more susceptible to experiencing the unexplained because they haven’t been taught to rationalize yet. They’re not programmed against believing in ghosts. And who knows? Maybe every imaginary friend is a ghost. Who the hell are we to say they’re not?”
Why couldn’t Micah have said something like that when I’d approached him with the subject? Let’s call Oprah. She’ll know what to do.
“She’s beautiful, your Bella.”
I take another sip of mojito. “Every miracle is.”
“I suppose.”