More Than a Memory. Roz Denny Fox

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СКАЧАТЬ and the menu slipped from her hand. “You know me?” she managed to ask.

      At first the woman cackled in disbelief. But as Jo struggled to leave the booth, the woman—Mildred—backed away. “Don’t believe in ghosts,” she hissed. It was plain she didn’t intend to say more.

      “Please,” Jo implored. “I’m not sure who you think I am. I recently discovered some high-school yearbooks from this town. I came here hoping for…I don’t know…information, I guess.”

      “If you ask me, and nobody did, if you are Colleen Drake and you ain’t dead, you’ve got some explaining to do. Not to me, but to poor Garret Logan.”

      “L-Logan?” Jo stumbled over the name. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “I…my mother never mentioned anyone by that name.”

      The woman’s top lip curled, and she took up a rag to start swabbing the counter. “No surprise there. With her puttin’ on airs and thinking you and her were better than anybody born in these parts? May the good Lord forgive me for being blunt, but this town and the Logans will be better off if you trot on back to whatever snooty place you been keeping yourself.” Mildred eyed Jo’s linen slacks and her matching purse and sandals, then proceeded to shake another cigarette out of a pack of Marlboros she dug out of her apron pocket. Lighting up, she blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

      Jo choked on the smoke. Her head began to throb, and she could hardly breathe. This woman couldn’t have known her mother if she thought Sharon Drake put on airs. Everything she did was to promote Jo’s career.

      But it was pointless to argue. Instead, Jo left the café. Making enemies wouldn’t get her anywhere. And there was no question but that Mildred thought Jo owed this Garret Logan, whoever he was, an explanation or something.

      Perhaps if she tracked him down he could clear up this mystery and she could be back in Gatlinburg before dark, having had a decent meal in a chain restaurant. If that was putting on airs, she was guilty of it, not her mother.

      Reaching her car, Jo hesitated. She ought to ask Mildred where she could locate Garret Logan.

      Fortunately, a boy of about twelve or thirteen passed Jo on a bicycle. He darted her a friendly smile, then swerved toward the city park.

      “Hey,” she called. “You on the bike. I’m trying to find a man named Logan. Do you know where he is?”

      The boy circled back. “Sean just went into the bank.”

      “Garret. I’m looking for Garret.”

      “I reckon he’d be at the pub.” The boy once again started across the street.

      “Thanks, but where’s the pub?” The most she got out of the kid was a thumb jerked at the opposite end of the street. She did remember seeing a tavern almost at the edge of town.

      She could’ve walked, but driving gave her a moment to collect herself. She pulled into a graveled lot at the end of a log structure. Jo looked the building over as she locked her car. Neon lettering spilling out of a giant foamy beer mug identified the establishment as Logan’s Pub.

      At once a different image flashed before Jo’s eyes, making her blink. In her mind the sign said not Logan’s Pub, but Garret and…someone else’s…Pub. The second name swam, refusing to come into focus. The entire image dissipated in an instant. But it lasted long enough to startle Jo, and her sweaty hand slipped off the heavy oak door.

      A plaque nailed at eye level announced live bluegrass music on Friday and Saturday nights. Thankfully that sign didn’t float or change. Still, her stomach fluttered as Jo stepped inside and took a minute to let her eyes adjust to the dim interior.

      Suddenly her knees threatened to buckle as she was overwhelmed by a rush of nostalgia she couldn’t explain. A polished bar reflected light from several brewery signs. Her nose wrinkled at the malty smell of beer. As far as she knew, this was the first time she’d ever set foot inside this tavern or any other.

      Her eyes skimmed the dark-haired bartender who had his back toward the door as he filled a glass with a dark amber brew. Two other men sat at the farthest end of the bar, deep in conversation. One had a glass of beer and a sandwich in front of him. The other had a sandwich but no beer. Dismissing the men, Jo’s eyes lit on a small empty stage opposite the bar.

      Aloud crash had her whipping her head back toward the bar. The bartender had dropped the glass, and a million winking pieces swam across the floor in a river of ale.

      GARRET LOGAN HAD HEARD the front door open and close. It was early for the onslaught of the usual afterwork crowd. He finished drawing an ale for the second of two salesmen at the bar before he turned to check on the new customer. When he did, the glass slipped from his hand. He blinked hard, trying to erase the too-real apparition of a woman he’d thought dead for the past seven years. He’d assumed Colleen Drake lay buried in some East-Coast cemetery, along with her father, Joe. And with her, a secret the two of them had never told a soul.

      Unable to tear his eyes from the mirage, he whispered a shaky “Colleen? My God, come closer. Let me look at you.” Garret’s brain said he should fill another glass for the waiting salesman. At the very least he needed to clean up the mess. But his boots seemed welded to the worn plank floor as his eyes drank in Colleen’s beautiful features.

      She stared at him, her eyebrows drawn together.

      “You’re the second person in this town to call me Colleen. Who are you? Do you know me?”

      No. She couldn’t be serious. Garret would know Colleen anywhere in spite of the inevitable changes in her appearance—such as the salon-tamed hair that used to curl wildly around his hands each time he tilted her face up for a kiss. This classy woman who gazed at him from several feet away had a degree of sophistication Colleen had lacked. But it could be no one else. Dammit, half his life had been entwined with hers. He’d loved her even longer than that. Loved her with all his heart. And for seven years he’d grieved over her death. It was only in the past year that he’d been able to consider going on without her. It didn’t matter that his large, loving family and host of friends urged him to get on with his life almost daily. Garret’s pain at losing Colleen had been too great. They’d planned to be married as soon as he returned from Ireland.

      From deep inside a fog of shock, he watched her come closer. In the same smoky voice he’d never forgotten, she murmured, “May I call someone? Did you cut yourself on the glass?”

      The formality of her query shook Garret out of his paralysis. The paralysis was replaced by unreasonable anger. He planted both hands on the bar to steady himself. “Where did you run off to? Why are you back now? What do you want from me?”

      A dozen questions swirled in her head, but what came out surprised Jo. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take a sarsaparilla.” Truthfully, she had no idea what she had just requested, other than she thought it was some type of soft drink. She hadn’t ever tasted sarsaparilla. Had she?

      Garret didn’t smile but said through clenched teeth, “Why don’t you and I step outside?”

      “Why?” Jo’s voice wobbled.

      “Because we have an old score to settle.”

      “What old score?”

      “As if you don’t know. Give СКАЧАТЬ