Turn Up the Heat. Isabel Sharpe
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encountering mutual friends with their tsk-tsk sympathy. This part of the city had come to feel like hers.
“Hey, Marie, how are you doing this evening? What’ll it be today?”
“I’m fine, Joe.” She sat in a tall chair at the long wooden bar set under a dimly lit canopy of tangled brown metal, evoking roots, for obvious reasons, and grinned at the handsome young bartender with the eyes of a doe, the mouth of a young girl and the body of an Olympic swimmer. “Let me see. How about a Prufrock tonight?”
“You got it.” He grabbed the bottle of pear vodka which he’d mix with gin, chartreuse and a splash of sour mix at lightning speed. Cellar cocktails were inventive and changed with the seasons. Never a dull moment.
Marie looked around the room, white lights strung in a scattered pattern from the bar overhang, early patrons sitting at some of the tables already, many more to come soon she knew.
“Here you go, one Prufrock.”
“Thanks, Joe.” She unfolded the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel, dreading the world’s depressing news, and took a sip of the icy liquid, fruity and not too sweet. Mmm. Her favorite way to unwind at the end of a long day, especially at the end of a long week. Sometimes a lonely person came in, a close or distant neighbor, or someone needing escape to a place with delicious food, great service and a restful view over the Milwaukee River to the city skyline. If that person was in the mood to chat, Marie would have company. Sometimes during the week Joe wasn’t too busy and she’d talk to him—or listen more like it—but most of the time she enjoyed sitting in the bustle of a thriving business within walking distance of her house, indulging in a pleasant buffer between the hectic work day and the emptiness of her home.
She’d adjusted pretty quickly to not being married, but going home to an empty house—even an empty house she adored—still felt hollow and unsatisfying, though after the trauma of her divorce, and the initial joy of her subsequent freedom, she wasn’t looking for a replacement husband yet. If she weren’t violently allergic, she’d get a pet. Pets loved you no matter what, didn’t criticize, were always supportive, and never left you for a younger version.
Halfway through her drink, while Marie skimmed articles in the business section, a dark suit sat down three chairs away.
That guy. He was here often when she was, more predictably on Fridays. She peeked around her paper for the enjoyment of a surreptitious eyeful. He was delicious. Mid-forties, classically handsome, solidly built, with short salt-and-pepper hair and dark brown eyes, very George Clooney-esque. Sometimes he came alone, sometimes with a woman—seldom the same one twice. Many times he didn’t leave alone, even if he came in that way. Women fell with such regularity that Marie found herself tempted to interview him and find out how he worked. She imagined he lived somewhere in Brewers Hill, though she’d never bumped into him anywhere but here.
She’d love to sign the guy up for her site, put his picture on the home page, Look what you can find here, but clearly he didn’t need help finding company. And if his behavior was anything to go by, he was more into quantity than quality, which wasn’t the type of man she’d foist on anyone looking to date seriously. Like Candy, who insisted she was out there for fun, but wasn’t, not really. Marie hoped she was having fun with Ralph tonight.
Another sip of her drink and she sat, considering. How about matching this man with someone who wasn’t looking to date seriously? Like Darcy? He could be the lure Marie needed to get Darcy to take a first step toward admitting she wanted a serious relationship, too. She was much more firmly in denial than Candy. One way or another Marie would wear down her defenses. After all, the urge to merge was basic human nature, no matter what the level of commitment. Though clearly this clone of George Clooney—George Cloney?—was more about urge than long-term merge. At least until he met the right woman.
He glanced her way, glanced again. Marie hid back behind her paper. He was so fun to observe, she didn’t want to speak to him. Especially because they were often here at the same time; if they started now, one or the other would always feel obligated to make conversation in the future. Sooner or later on any particular day, some sweet young ‘un would walk in on them chatting, and he’d excuse himself and move on to those greener pastures. Marie could do without that humiliation, thanks very much. Once with Grant was plenty.
But one of these days she wanted to be close enough that she could at least hear his pitch. Though his targets didn’t always leave with him, Marie had never seen a woman respond with anything but smiles and a readiness to talk, even briefly. Was he able to read body language with uncanny accuracy or did he have some deep instinct for who would match him, even for a few hours? How did he know which women to approach and which to leave alone? When to move in and when to move on? When to sit tight and wait until the prey approached him?
The guy was a master, and as someone for whom matching people was an obsession, Marie was shamelessly fascinated.
Maybe there was something more to her interest. Something personal. He did remind her of Grant: his confidence, his certainty in what he wanted and that he would get it. Grant had swept Marie off her feet the same way. He’d walked into the hotel bar where she was waitressing her senior year, having returned to UW–Madison after four years of active duty in the navy, to have a drink with the director of the ROTC program, with whom he’d kept in touch.
One glance at Marie and he’d turned on the charm, overwhelming her with his interest, insisting he take her out, then taking every opportunity to visit until she graduated. When she got a job in Milwaukee, where he’d also settled, it had seemed like fate. Now she thought any woman would have done for him at that stage. That was how Grant operated. Back from duty, time to get a wife, here’s one, good, check that off, next task on the to-do list …
And then, somehow, ten years later, his checklist included having an affair with a girl young enough to be their daughter. Ironic since they hadn’t been able to have children, and Grant hadn’t wanted to adopt. In retrospect, just as well. Who wanted to put a kid through an unpleasant divorce? Not that there was any other kind.
Fifteen minutes later, whaddya know, two women walked in, late twenties, dressed to be noticed. A casual observer wouldn’t have picked up on the way Mr. Cloney minutely adjusted himself on his chair for the best view. Marie wasn’t a casual observer. She waited, with all the patience and concentration of a naturalist studying animal behavior in the wild.
The women ordered drinks, spoke in loud voices, squealed with laughter. One glanced behind her friend at George, glanced again, then a third time. He appeared not to register her interest, taking a leisurely sip of his martini, of which he never had more than two in an evening, at least that Marie had seen.
He was implacably cool, yet, when he chatted up his prey there had to be warmth, or he wouldn’t do so well. You could fool some of the women some of the time …
The girl with her back to Mr. Cloney gave him a shy smile over her shoulder.
“Hello.” His deep voice carried. No stupid line, nothing suggestive in his tone, just a friendly greeting, acknowledging her smile.
“Hi.” The blonde’s blush was visible even in the low, warm light. “I’m Jill.”
The brunette swivelled to face him, giggling silently. “I’m Maura.”
“Hi, Maura. Hi, Jill. I’m Quinn.”
Quinn. Marie nodded. She loved that name.
The girls put their heads together; the blonde nodded.
“What are you drinking, Quinn?” Tipping her head coyly, the brunette extended her arm toward him, let her hand rest on the bar.
“Gin martini. Extra dry with a twist.”
“Join us? We’ll buy your next one.”
“Only if I can buy both of yours.”
Marie had to stifle laughter. Nothing scintillating in that conversation. Nothing cute, nothing enticing, no showmanship, and yet … Quinn was in once again.
He