Thankless.
That is how people in this town are – thankless.
No one will ever admit that I was right, that bringing in Theodora and her therapy crew was the smartest thing for a town trying to rebuild and regroup after such horrific events.
You have to break down the problem – identify it – before you can solve it.
“You’re right,” Cassie says, refilling my wine glass. “That is what they did, they broke it down, person by person. Now Silas – a professional investigator, I might add – is here to solve it.”
I shake my head.
“He’s here to steal my thunder.”
Cassie wipes off the bar in front of me and pulls a bowl of pretzels to within my reach.
“No one is here to – quote – steal your thunder – end quote,” she says. “They are here to put this nonsense to bed, figure out who these body parts belong to, and figure out what to do about Paul.”
“There are no statues for the most virtuous among us,” I say. “Just drug-addled rock stars, Confederate soldiers, and baseball players. Nothing for those of us who give freely, without expectations or …”
The woman laughs at me.
“Well, it sure sounds from here like you had some expectations,” Cassie says. “I know you love this town, but you know who all you’re dealing with around here – Bitsy … Mayor Charlotte … the historical society. They’re all in it for themselves. You can’t tell me you expected anything from any of them.”
“Yes, soon-to-not-be-Mayor Charlotte … thank God she’s not running again,” I say. “Send her back from whence she came. New York can keep her. … You know she’s going around taking credit for everything – for the statue, for the ‘listening tour,’ for bringing Theodora et al to town …”
Cassie smiles.
“Not surprising in the least, but I’m glad she’s leaving, too. Nothing for her to do here.”
I’ve never seen Cassie sit behind the bar – it’s usually too busy – but at this moment, she grabs a stool and perches across from me, quietly drying a wine glass with a dishtowel. She looks out over the restaurant – couples talking quietly over their steaks and candles, sipping wine, a family in the corner booth.
“You know,” she says. “For a town that has been through so much, it all looks pretty normal to me, and you are a big reason for that. … You know what? I just had an idea …”
She stands up and rings the bell behind the bar. The patrons startle, and I am already embarrassed.
“Evening everyone! Just a quick announcement … bartender’s special for tonight is Wanda’s White Russian, named, of course, after Middle Valley’s First Lady of Tourism, Ms. Wanda Moreno! Give it up!”
The applause is deafening, thunderous even – all for me. Several people stand at their tables. I wave as tears fill my eyes. Cassie brings the first drink to me. Four patrons at the bar order it as a nightcap.
It’s not a statue, of course, and it’s probably only for one night. But it is … something.