Historically, I’m a person who loves the holiday season – the lights, the festive atmosphere. Everyone is drinking, and that’s always a good thing for the bar. It’s a wonderful respite from the mundane. The regulars still come in and out, for sure, but for those few weeks, our world here doesn’t revolve around them. Fresh faces abound – some in for lunch during a shopping expedition, some just out for a walk in the snow. Some come back, some we never see again.
So while I’m not dreading the holidays this year by any stretch, my most fervent Christmas wish is that life simply returns to normal – no galas, no fund raisers, no discussion of my ex-husband. Back to basics.
Lord, if you can give me that, I promise never to make fun of John’s daily dinner order (the world’s most uninspiring salad – large tossed, no dressing, grilled chicken on the side that he takes home and feeds to his neighbor’s dog) or Bernie’s recurring late-night argument that the Polish vodka Luksusowa is somehow better than the Russian vodka Stolichnaya. (Note to self: A taste test for charity would be a heck of a promo idea for the bar, particularly in the dead of winter.)
All of this is to say that, when I got the call from Bitsy that she wanted to bring back the book club, a warm feeling came over me. (Not for Bitsy, mind you. There is a three-ring circus running 24/7 in that woman’s brain, of this I’m certain.) It felt like I’d returned to church after a long break and, in doing so, was actually moved by the spirit the way everyone says one should be moved by the spirit.
So moved was I that I threw in three extra bottles of wine for her people at cost, which, as it turns out, was wise as she ended up with two newcomers who’d been on the fence about attending – Shirley Scott, the gossipy realtor who inherited her wealth and her business from her father and, to my knowledge, had an ongoing family feud of some sort with the McMurtrys since way back in the day. Even more unexpected, though, was the appearance of Trish, wife of Sheriff Paul, so, for the purposes of Bitsy McMurtry, a widow.
“Poor dear,” Bitsy muttered to me behind the bar as Trish began to chat and mingle with the other guests. “I’m so glad she could come. I think of her and I think ‘what if my Mercury hadn’t met Lindy and become Lichtensteinian royalty? Where would she be?’ She could have been Trish, you know?”
I gave her my best stink eye.
“Bitsy, all due respect, and I’m thrilled to have you back here, but don’t you think Mercury has a head of her own? She’s a scientist. I hardly think she’d have ended up like Trish … to say nothing of the fact that it’s Paul that’s the stray cat in this story. He’s the one that killed …”
And then I remembered: He’d killed my ex-husband.
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” Bitsy said, scurrying around the bar. “I didn’t mean to …”
I brushed her aside. “No, it’s fine. Let’s get your people some drinks.”
Bitsy backed away and twisted the corkscrew into one of the bottles, removing it thoughtfully. “Yes, yes, I suppose … well, in any event, I’m thrilled that she’s here with us now. I’m going to take her under my wing, you know, just like I did for you and that gala! We girls … you know, we girls have to stick together!”
With a flourish, she did a little shuffle as she took two open bottles and a glass back to the table, passing one bottle to the left and one to the right.
“Oh Cassie!” she motioned back to the bar where I was standing. “Two more bottles, please. Didn’t quite make it around the table!”
—
Two hours in and the group had cleared a full case. Bitsy had requested white boards and markers so she could list book recommendations from everyone present, but that effort had devolved into a mini-Pictionary game of sorts as a passionate conversation about pets erupted, each proceeding to draw their own in red, blue, green or black ink at the head of the table.
Is this normalcy? Maybe. It seemed to be going well.
The crowd at the bar was minimal – mostly folks gearing up for the tree lighting in the courthouse square later. Bitsy collected herself and came by to pay the bill – a one at that – and I rung her up.
“How’d it go?” I asked. “What’s on the list for next month?”
Bitsy’s laugh was instant. “I have no idea … but you knew that already. I’ll come up with something! You know, that Trish is such a dear … I really think she will be just fine. I’m going to have coffee with her tomorrow, maybe help her get a plan together. I think you two would be fast friends, fast friends! She, well, she understands loss as I know you do and …”
I held up my hand as if to say “stop” and placed her credit card, the receipt and a pen in front of her.
“Sign here.”
Bitsy nodded. “Certainly … I’m sorry, I forgot again that …”
“It’s fine. Thank you, and I’m glad you’re back here at the Riverside.”
To my surprise, Bitsy’s eyes welled up. She nodded. “Me too, dear.” She shook her head to clear it. “Now where did that Shirley get to … didn’t say a word to her the whole afternoon. I wanted to be sure she was coming tonight. You’re coming tonight, right?”
I grinned. “Stand out in the cold for an hour? How could I miss that?”
Bitsy patted my hand. “I really am sorry.”
I nodded because I really believed she was.
—
A voice from a stool on the corner interrupted my evening counting.
“Excuse me. You’re Cassie?”
It was Shirley Scott, realtor and gossip queen.
I nodded. “Yes, Cassie Cunningham. I own the Riverside. You’re Shirley, right?”
“Yes.”
“Can I get you something?”
She held up her hand. “Oh no, I was … well, I was just with Mrs. McMurtry and her book club, because frankly I thought it was going to be a book club but, well, it just wasn’t really that, was it?”
I smiled. “Sometimes it is, just not tonight. I think they were all happy to be getting back together, you know, since the fire at Bitsy’s had her displaced for so long. Lots of catching up … probably not the best night for a new person to join them.”
Shirley shook her head. “No, most certainly not. I don’t really know what I got out of that whole thing, but …”
“Well, I’m not sure the goal is to get anything out of it, just visit and share conversation. Are you sure I can’t get you something? On the house, you know, for all that Bitsy drama.”
She nodded. “Okay, wine then, a red.”
I poured her a pinot noir that I had already opened and planned to polish off before heading to the courthouse. “You heading to the tree lighting? It’s about an hour from now, I think.”
Shirley rolled her eyes. “Same thing every year. You know, my father started that. For marketing. They used to call it ‘Scott’s presents Christmas on the Courtyard.’ It used to be classy … the Central New York Horns used to come and play, a little jazz … a little holiday carols. Now it’s all … cheap. That Wanda and her people see to it that it’s a circus, you know?”
“Well, I don’t know about circus,” I said. (Sidenote: Where did everyone leave their diplomacy today?) “I think it’s a small town … it’s befitting of a small town, coming together for free, everyone singing, you know … it’s nice.”
Shirley drained her glass quickly. “It’s ridiculous. People don’t think anymore. And these downstaters all coming in … they’re never going to live here. They’re flippers! Or they’re from Silicon Valley and have all the money in the world!”
“You mean Carson?”
She nodded. “Yes, I mean Carson! This guy … I mean, I have to be careful, but … this guy is not good news, for us OR for Elyse for that matter. I wish she would watch herself – first Bernie, now this. She is all over the map. Too good for anyone here, or maybe she’s just dumb. I don’t know. I just know she needs to get out.”
Shirley stood as if to leave, placing one arm into her coat. At this point, I had two choices – one, be above it all, close early, and hustle down to the tree lighting … or two, offer her another (free) drink and get the full download from someone who obviously had information she wanted to share.
I’m not sure if this qualifies as being on a path to normalcy, but gossip in a small-town bar was certainly some form of it.
“Another?” I asked. “On the house.”
She stopped, looked up at the bottle, replaced her jacket on the back of her chair, and sat back down.
“I wouldn’t be caught dead at a tree lighting, I assure you. Certainly not one that once held my father’s name. The whole thing is a disgrace. And so is that woman’s book club. I can’t imagine why she invited me.”
I smiled. “Oh I can, and it has everything to do with one Carson Sigmund.”