fact was that there was too much Jones in him for it not to have come down naturally.
Yeah, he thought, and lifted his glass, old Charles and Elizabeth had tangoed one night thirty-three years ago and conceived the next generation of assholes.
But he’d tried, Andrew told himself, letting the whiskey slide down his throat in a hot caress. He’d done his best to make his marriage work, to make Elise happy, to be the kind of husband she wanted and break the Jones curse.
And had failed all around.
“I’ll take another, Annie.”
“No, you won’t.”
Andrew shifted on his stool, sighed gustily. He’d known Annie McLean most of his life, and knew how to get around her.
In the sweet summer when they were seventeen, they’d tumbled together onto a rough blanket over rougher sand and had made love by the crashing waves of the Atlantic.
He supposed the stumbling sex—which had turned out to be a first for both of them—had as much to do with the beer they’d consumed, the night itself, and the foolishness of youth as the licks of heat they’d sparked off each other.
And neither of them could have known what that one night, those few hot hours by the sea, would do to both of them.
“Come on, Annie, let me have another drink.”
“You’ve already had two.”
“So one more won’t hurt.”
Annie finished drawing a beer, slid the mug gracefully down the length of the cherry wood bar toward the waiting customer. Briskly, she wiped her narrow hands on her bar apron.
At five-six and a hundred thirty well-toned pounds, Annie McLean gave the impression of no-nonsense competence.
A select few—including a two-timing cheat of an ex-husband—knew there was a delicate-winged blue butterfly on her butt.
Her wheat-colored hair was worn short and spiky to frame a face more interesting than pretty. Her chin was pointed, her nose listed slightly to the left and was splattered with freckles. Her voice was pure Down East and tended to flatten vowels.
She could, and had, tossed grown men out of her bar with her own work-roughened hands.
Annie’s Place was hers because she’d made it hers. She’d sunk every penny of her savings from her days of cocktail waitressing into the bar—every penny her slick-talking ex hadn’t run off with—and had begged and borrowed the rest. She’d worked day and night transforming what had been little more than a cellar into a comfortable neighborhood bar.
She ran a clean place, knew her regulars, their families, their troubles. She knew when to draw another draft, when to switch to coffee, and when to demand car keys and call cabs.
She looked at Andrew and shook her head. He’d drink himself blind if she let him.
“Andrew, go home. Make yourself a meal.”
“I’m not hungry.” He smiled, knowing how to put his dimples to work. “It’s cold and rainy out, Annie. I just want a little something to warm the blood.”
“Fine.” She turned to the coffee station and filled a mug from the pot. “This is hot and fresh.”
“Christ. I can go right down the street and get a goddamn drink without the hassle.”
She merely lifted her eyebrows. “Drink your coffee and stop whining.” With this, she began to work her way down the bar.
The rain was keeping most of her customers home. But those who had braved the storm were glued to their seats, sipping beer, watching the sports channel on TV, huddled in conversations.
There was a pretty fire burning in the little stone hearth and someone had plugged in quarters and Ella Fitzgerald on the juke.
It was her kind of night. Warm, friendly, easy. This was the reason she’d been willing to risk every dime, to work her hands raw and lie awake in bed worrying night after night. Not many had believed she could succeed, a twenty-six-year-old woman whose only business experience had come from serving mugs of beer and counting tips.
Seven years later, and Annie’s Place was a Jones Point standard.
Andrew had believed, she remembered
Yeah, he thought, and lifted his glass, old Charles and Elizabeth had tangoed one night thirty-three years ago and conceived the next generation of assholes.
But he’d tried, Andrew told himself, letting the whiskey slide down his throat in a hot caress. He’d done his best to make his marriage work, to make Elise happy, to be the kind of husband she wanted and break the Jones curse.
And had failed all around.
“I’ll take another, Annie.”
“No, you won’t.”
Andrew shifted on his stool, sighed gustily. He’d known Annie McLean most of his life, and knew how to get around her.
In the sweet summer when they were seventeen, they’d tumbled together onto a rough blanket over rougher sand and had made love by the crashing waves of the Atlantic.
He supposed the stumbling sex—which had turned out to be a first for both of them—had as much to do with the beer they’d consumed, the night itself, and the foolishness of youth as the licks of heat they’d sparked off each other.
And neither of them could have known what that one night, those few hot hours by the sea, would do to both of them.
“Come on, Annie, let me have another drink.”
“You’ve already had two.”
“So one more won’t hurt.”
Annie finished drawing a beer, slid the mug gracefully down the length of the cherry wood bar toward the waiting customer. Briskly, she wiped her narrow hands on her bar apron.
At five-six and a hundred thirty well-toned pounds, Annie McLean gave the impression of no-nonsense competence.
A select few—including a two-timing cheat of an ex-husband—knew there was a delicate-winged blue butterfly on her butt.
Her wheat-colored hair was worn short and spiky to frame a face more interesting than pretty. Her chin was pointed, her nose listed slightly to the left and was splattered with freckles. Her voice was pure Down East and tended to flatten vowels.
She could, and had, tossed grown men out of her bar with her own work-roughened hands.
Annie’s Place was hers because she’d made it hers. She’d sunk every penny of her savings from her days of cocktail waitressing into the bar—every penny her slick-talking ex hadn’t run off with—and had begged and borrowed the rest. She’d worked day and night transforming what had been little more than a cellar into a comfortable neighborhood bar.
She ran a clean place, knew her regulars, their families, their troubles. She knew when to draw another draft, when to switch to coffee, and when to demand car keys and call cabs.
She looked at Andrew and shook her head. He’d drink himself blind if she let him.
“Andrew, go home. Make yourself a meal.”
“I’m not hungry.” He smiled, knowing how to put his dimples to work. “It’s cold and rainy out, Annie. I just want a little something to warm the blood.”
“Fine.” She turned to the coffee station and filled a mug from the pot. “This is hot and fresh.”
“Christ. I can go right down the street and get a goddamn drink without the hassle.”
She merely lifted her eyebrows. “Drink your coffee and stop whining.” With this, she began to work her way down the bar.
The rain was keeping most of her customers home. But those who had braved the storm were glued to their seats, sipping beer, watching the sports channel on TV, huddled in conversations.
There was a pretty fire burning in the little stone hearth and someone had plugged in quarters and Ella Fitzgerald on the juke.
It was her kind of night. Warm, friendly, easy. This was the reason she’d been willing to risk every dime, to work her hands raw and lie awake in bed worrying night after night. Not many had believed she could succeed, a twenty-six-year-old woman whose only business experience had come from serving mugs of beer and counting tips.
Seven years later, and Annie’s Place was a Jones Point standard.
Andrew had believed, she remembered
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