New York Nights: Shaken and Stirred. Kathleen O'Reilly
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work. Her decision made, she went back to studying because, yes, she had a real career to prepare for.
When her watch said five, she knew it was time to go earn a living, so she tugged on her T-shirt and jeans and took the subway in to work.
Tuesday nights were traditionally slow, a mix of old-time regulars and the spring-fever crowds who showed up early and clocked out early, as well.
Gabe was behind the bar, pulling a beer for Charlie, who had worked as a union boss since before the Eisenhower administration. Next to Charlie was Lloyd, who had worked as an ironworker for nearly sixty years before retiring five years ago. Next to Lloyd was EC, a tall stick of a man who had worked as an engineer for MTA for sixty years in order to keep his two ex-wives in blue fox furs. And finally there was Syd, a retired police detective who, at fifty-one, was the young one in the bunch. They all had been coming to Prime for longer than Tessa had worked there, longer than even Gabe.
Gabe.
He shouldn’t look any different from yesterday, because men don’t suddenly morph overnight, but everything about him was sharper, bigger, harder, possibly because she remembered in minute detail exactly what he felt like when he was on top of her.
Determined to act as if she wasn’t puddling giddiness on the inside, Tessa smoothed out her perpetually wrinkled T-shirt. Then casually she smiled and waved at them all, and Charlie patted the empty bar stool next to him.
“Tessa, come around and keep an old man company for a while. You know this ticker is going to give out any minute, and I want to die happy with a beautiful woman at my side.”
Tessa was used to Charlie’s banter and settled next to him. “Your eyesight is going bad, Charlie. Nobody’s called me beautiful since—actually, never.”
“We take a vote,” he announced. “Democracy in action. All who think Tessa is beautiful raise your hand.”
“Will it get me a whiskey on the house?” asked Lloyd, but he raised his hand anyway. Three other hands rose, and EC glared at Gabe, who eventually raised his hand, too, carefully not looking in Tessa’s direction and—jeez, was he blushing?
Lloyd laughed, a loud burst of noise that was half joy and half bronchitis. “See there. Never argue with a man who wants to pay you a compliment.”
“Well, thank you then. I think you’re only warming up for tonight. Who’s the lucky lady, gents?”
Charlie coughed, pushing at creaky silver spectacles. “There is one.”
Tessa looked at him because it was easier to flirt with the regulars than to do casual conversation with Gabe. She could feel his eyes on her, careful, watching, and she didn’t dare look at him. Charlie was the perfect diversion. She balanced her chin on her palm. “Tell me all about it.”
He took a long drink of beer, gathering his courage before speaking. “There was a woman in here Tuesday last. Sure enough, she looked familiar to me, but when you’re pushing eighty, a man has a lot of women in his past. She was my age and walked like the queen, but I felt this stirring, an old song playing in my head. She came in with what must have been her granddaughter. Young blonde with wide blue eyes. Either one of you remember their names? Driving me crazy trying to recall. Damned Alzheimer’s.
“Carrie tells me I’m starting to lose my memory, but I keep denying it. I mean, how many seniors do you know that can remember the last home game of the Brooklyn Dodgers or MacArthur’s ticker-tape parade in ’51? That was when New York meant something. That was history. Like the days when Paddy O’Sullivan refused to sell a whiskey to Spiro T. because Paddy didn’t like his politics.” Charlie sighed, lifting his beer to his mouth. “Those were the days.”
Gabe smiled, shook his head. “Sorry, Charlie. Wish I could help you out.”
“Well, buy me another beer to help me forget your transgression. Maybe they’ll come in tonight. I wore my best tie.” He looked down at the open-collar shirt. “Oops. Guess I forgot that, too.”
Tessa laughed. “You look mighty handsome, Charlie. Was the girl in a yellow sundress?”
Charlie snapped his fingers. “There you go! Remember her name?”
Tessa gave him an easy grin. “No, but I really liked the dress.” She looked up at the clock, casually dodging Gabe’s eye. “Gotta start busting my butt, Charlie. Boss is a real nutjob about punching the clock.”
Then Tessa shot said boss a sweet smile and went about her job as if nothing had ever happened at all.
5
GABE CHATTED WITH THE codgers who had been regulars when Uncle Patrick was alive and would probably be regulars until they died. Considering how much Gabe had learned about old NewYork, he hoped that wasn’t anytime soon, because he had yet to hear the long-promised story about the night EC saw the Blue Shirts lose to the Canadiens in Madison Square Garden in, as EC so poignantly described it, “the heartbreaker of the century.”
However, tonight he kept a careful eye on Tessa, making sure that the status quo had been restored. Everything seemed right, but as the night wore on, he found himself less concerned with the status quo and more concerned with the eye-candy job of watching her.
At first it was big, general things that he’d overlooked about her before. Her long fingers twisting the cap off a beer in one graceful slide. The way her body moved so easily in soft, faded jeans. The sound of her laugh when Lloyd tossed out a bad joke. Over time, his focus narrowed and the smaller details began to emerge. The way she curled her lower lip in when she was shaking a martini, the way she brushed the hair from her face, the way her green eyes worked the customers, always friendly, capable, always the best friend behind the bar.
One thing about Tessa—she was an original. And people knew it when they talked to her. She never said much about herself, only listening. Always listening.
At half past seven a college baseball team pounded in fresh from a hard-won victory—judging by the dirt-stained jerseys. Tessa didn’t blink an eye. Instead she filled twenty-seven orders, including nine Long Island Iced Teas. As she worked, she twirled the glasses in the air, flirted with them all, easy and friendly, but they sucked it up like flies to honey. Gabe shook his head in amazement, still watching, though, if only to make sure everybody stayed in line.
Underneath the shell there was something fragile. Last night Gabe had broken something inside her and he wasn’t sure what. That sort of responsibility didn’t sit well with an Irish Catholic who prided himself on doing the right thing.
The time flew until it was nearly nine and Daniel came in to prepare the night deposit. Daniel was the antithesis of Sean, quiet, reserved and always alone. Although only four years older than Gabe, Daniel had lived through nightmares that Gabe could never imagine.
Daniel had been married for only five months when his new wife had been killed in the North Tower. She and Daniel both worked for an accounting firm there, and Daniel had been getting coffee for her from the Starbucks that was a few blocks north. He had been running late. Michelle had been at work precisely on time.
The aftershocks of 9/11 had been hard on the family—their mother had been alive then—but Daniel never fell apart. His whole life he had never said much, but he did change. Now he watched the world with grave eyes, never missing the details. While Gabe could joke with Sean, Gabe was always nervous about Daniel, never knowing exactly what to say or not to say. It was a bad feeling for a bartender. It was hell for a brother.
“No winner on the pool?” he asked Gabe, his gaze resting on Tessa. Gabe drew in a tense breath because he’d been hoping to avoid the subject of the bet. Actually, he was hoping that everyone would forget about it, but with such a large pot that seemed doubtful.
“What pool?” asked Lloyd.
“Never mind,” said Tessa quickly, a little too quickly—noticed Gabe, not daring to look in her direction.
Daniel