But Paul didn’t take the bait. I guess I should count it as progress that he even came out of his lair in search of food, but the truth is, I’m disappointed. It’s just not right for a twentysomething guy to be cooped up in the house for years. How long until all of that isolation turns him into one of those weird hermits who can’t function in normal society even if he wanted to?
I’m parked outside of Frenchy’s. I want to turn right back around and go home, but Lindy’s lecture from earlier that afternoon is still rattling around in my brain. Just because he wants to pretend he’s dead doesn’t mean you have to. We may not be New York City, but we have good people here. Work your thing, sister.
Okay, so the talk had been half sweet, half awkward, but Lindy made a good point. I don’t want to end up like Paul: socially stunted and on a one-way street toward freakdom.
I get out of the car.
From the outside, Frenchy’s—I assume the name comes from its location on Frenchman Bay—looks like a combination of ski lodge and roadside dive. The wood beams give it a homey, welcoming feeling, while the smattering of neon beer signs in the windows lends just the right amount of bar vibe. On the right side of the building is a covered deck, which I imagine is the place to be on a clear summer’s day, but in late September it’s deserted. However, the faint thump of music shows that inside, at least, there’s some activity.
I take a deep breath and open the door.
My worst-case scenario is that the entire place falls silent as everyone turns to stare at the newcomer. Best case is nobody notices me and I can find a bar stool, preferably on the end, where I can sit and get my bearings.
The reality is somewhere in between. The old-school rock music rocks on as I step inside, and although the majority of the clientele is far enough along in whiskey and beer to be oblivious to my arrival, people at the handful of tables nearest the door turn to glance at me. And then glance a second time.
Lindy assured me that this was a local hangout, a place where I’d fit right in, but I think she may have been forgetting the not-so-tiny detail that I’m not exactly a local. I don’t fit right in. Not even a tiny bit.
Even if my clothes don’t scream city girl (which they do), I stand out just by virtue of being a girl at all. I count maybe five women, sure, but the majority of the clientele is men. Fishermen, judging from the attire.
Still, it’s not quite the painful scene I was fearing. It’s uncomfortable, sure, but most of the looks are curious, not lecherous or leering. I give a tentative smile at a middle-aged couple, and the woman gives me a half smile back as her companion turns back to his phone and beer, totally disinterested.
Although there are plenty of available tables, sitting alone at a table somehow seems a little too lonely considering I’m after human companionship, so I make my way to a cluster of empty bar stools.
Almost immediately a glass of water is in front of me, followed by a white paper coaster with Frenchy’s scribbled across the middle in a no-nonsense font.
“What can I get ya?” asks a friendly voice.
The bartender is a cute brunette with freckles and warm honey-brown eyes. Her hair’s pulled up in one of those messy buns that some girls make look adorable. She’s one of those girls.
“Um, white wine?” I ask, hoping it’s not a terrible faux pas in a place like this.
“I’ve got a chardonnay or a pinot grigio. The chard’s way better.”
“I’ll have that, then,” I say, returning her friendly smile.
She plunks a glass in front of me before heading to the fridge and pulling out the wine bottle.
“Not a lot of wine drinkers?” I ask, noticing that the bottle is unopened.
She shrugs. “Beer’s definitely the drink of choice, but more people are getting wine now that I got rid of the sugary swill they used to serve here.”
“Oh, wow,” I say as she fills my glass way beyond the typical pour.
“You look like you need it,” she says with a wink before sliding back down the bar to check on the other patrons.
She’s right on two fronts—the chardonnay is delicious, and I do need it.