One Spring Night

Chapter Eight

The familiar faces grew increasingly illustrated throughout the evening. The louder the thunder banged on the bar, the more the people drank and the louder the stories became. It was the way of the storms in small town, Stonebridge—to hunker down together, to ooo and ahh when the lights dimmed and threatened to flicker out.

In loud blusters, the black sky boomed and rain pelleted against the window. It was like a firm punch to the gut followed by a series of jabs, then another knockout blow. And by the time you made it back up to your feet, the next round began and the same routine happened all over again.

Even still, laughter chimed in the Plumber's Pub, the merry patrons pausing only to blithely mock the rage outside when it was so loud it interrupted a tall tale or two.

Kara sat perched at the bar, chatted with the regulars she'd seen—some daily, some more sparsely—since she'd moved from Boston. Though she, too, was a regular, her usual routine at the pub was that of the outsider—working from her favorite corner table in the window, overhearing occasional conversations when she paused in her work. Rarely participating, always observing with half an ear. But now she enjoyed listening to the ins and outs of the feud over who would run the town's trivia night, or what constituted an important enough artifact worthy of inclusion in the official Stonebridge time capsule. And she enjoyed being asked her opinion on such matters.

It meant that she was included.

And while she was relishing the colorful camaraderie, part of her mind worked to figure out how to respond to Ben in the discussion about...them. Funny, she thought, she hadn't been part of a "them" in so long, it was at once frothy in feeling, and weighted with expectations she wasn't sure she was ready to deliver on.

"And, get this," Old Barley Bill started, leaning closer to Kara, attempting to speak in a hush but missing the mark by a long shot. "They voted Hazel Farnsworth to be a timer at this year's soapbox derby." He raised his graying eyebrows in expectant pause.

"Mm hmm." Kara nodded in solidarity. "Hazel Farnsworth, huh? Interesting choice." She had no idea who Hazel Farnsworth was.

"The woman makes a damn fine strawberry rhubarb pie, don't get me wrong. And she serves a glass of chocolate milk with it. Odd choice but somehow it works. Ends up being like a chocolate dipped strawberry in your mouth. She invited me over for pie last summer," he clarified. "Nice woman, but I'm not looking to be on anyone's dance card if you get what I'm saying."

"I believe I do."

"A free piece of pie is great and all, hard to turn down, but I wasn't there for sex," he explained loudly, while Kara coughed out a laugh.

"But I'm telling you, she can't be the official soapbox derby timer."

Kara eyed Old Barley Bill as he emptied his glass of light beer. "No?"

"The woman's legally blind for Christ's sake! How's she supposed to see when the little soapbox racers leave the starting line? When they cross it? And don't get me started on seeing the times on the stopwatch! Last year we bought one with a larger screen so we all could see it, but still. Hazel Farnsworth cannot be the official timer. I'm telling you..." He let out a sound of disgust.

As Kara laughed, loving every second of the small town antics, Old Barley Bill climbed off his stool, then tilted his hat and departed for the door. His final words announced that the possibly unwise combination of bourbon and beer would keep him from feeling the wind pound fists in his face, so therefore, it had indeed been a wise choice.

"We'll see if his wife agrees," Ben said to Kara, making his way toward where she sat at the bar.

"I didn't know Old Barley Bill was married."