changed her outfit. More stylish jeans and a warm autumn sweater, nails freshly done, a little purple flower in her hair instead of the pencils. But more than just herclothes had changed. The difference was subtle but striking and it probably boiled down to one thing: she gave a damn how she might come across to these people, in contrast to her obvious disdain for those at the office. That’s what it was; she seemed like she was right where she belonged, and the effect was very easy on the eyes.
“Well,” Molly said, allowing him only a conditional hint of a smile, “look what the cat dragged in.” For the first time he noticed a light Southern lilt in her words.
“Yeah, I made it. I said I would.”
She pulled aside the lapel of his overcoat, tsked, and shook her head. “What did you do, walk all the way down here in the rain?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Hold still.” With a disapproving sigh she helped him off with his overcoat, then folded it over her arm. “Come on, I’ve got a table over there by the jukebox. I’ll go look around—somebody here’s got to have an extra shirt you can wear.”
“No, really, don’t bother—”
But she’d already turned, offering her hand so he wouldn’t lose her. He took it, following as she worked their way through the thick of the crowd.
Soon they arrived at a little round pub table for two near the stage, with high stools on either side. In a higher-class joint, seats this close would have been reserved for the VIPs.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, and then she disappeared into the noisy multitude.
After one more all-American number the singer finished his set to spirited applause and loud bar-thumping. As the ovation subsided a passing waitress asked Noah what she could get for him.
“For some reason,” Noah said, “I’ve suddenly got a craving for a Samuel Adams.” She took the order down on her pad, but his not-so-subtle dig at the goings-on in the bar seemed completely lost on her.
Molly came back with two cups of coffee, a choice of three dry shirts,and an enormous bearded man in jumpsuit coveralls and a Beech-Nut baseball cap. The clothes she’d apparently foraged from the luggage of some out-of-towners in attendance. It wasn’t clear where she’d picked up the big guy, but he looked like he might have hiked here straight from a hayride.
The big man ticked his chin in Noah’s direction. “Who’s your boyfriend?” he asked.
“Not my boyfriend,” Molly said, in a tone meant to emphasize what a far-fetched idea that really was. “This is Noah Gardner, from where I work, and Noah, this is my friend Hollis.”
A beefy right hand the size of a fielder’s mitt came toward him, and Noah put out his own. “Good to know you, Hollis,” he said, with a clasp only firm enough to transmit sincerity without throwing down a challenge for that iron-grip competition some men love to engage in upon first meeting.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” the big man said. Good etiquette had obviously been drilled into him from childhood; by his manner it seemed that shaking hands with a total stranger was an event to be treated with great respect. In contrast to his physical size his voice was unexpectedly high and reedy. The overall effect was something like being introduced to Winnie-the-Pooh, if Winnie-the-Pooh had been a seven-foot, mostly shaven, talking grizzly bear.
Molly had brought back a selection of men’s tops, including a faded sweatshirt from Kent State, a dark burglar’s hoodie with a torn pocket and a pattern of moth holes, and a two-tone T-shirt that said presumed ignorant on the front. He took the sweatshirt.
“Thanks,” Noah said, looking around. “Where can I go to put this on?”
“For heaven’s sake, it’s just your shirt. Go ahead and change right here if you want to.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table and her chin in her palms, with a bewitching innocence on her face that was not quite as pure as the
“Well,” Molly said, allowing him only a conditional hint of a smile, “look what the cat dragged in.” For the first time he noticed a light Southern lilt in her words.
“Yeah, I made it. I said I would.”
She pulled aside the lapel of his overcoat, tsked, and shook her head. “What did you do, walk all the way down here in the rain?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Hold still.” With a disapproving sigh she helped him off with his overcoat, then folded it over her arm. “Come on, I’ve got a table over there by the jukebox. I’ll go look around—somebody here’s got to have an extra shirt you can wear.”
“No, really, don’t bother—”
But she’d already turned, offering her hand so he wouldn’t lose her. He took it, following as she worked their way through the thick of the crowd.
Soon they arrived at a little round pub table for two near the stage, with high stools on either side. In a higher-class joint, seats this close would have been reserved for the VIPs.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, and then she disappeared into the noisy multitude.
After one more all-American number the singer finished his set to spirited applause and loud bar-thumping. As the ovation subsided a passing waitress asked Noah what she could get for him.
“For some reason,” Noah said, “I’ve suddenly got a craving for a Samuel Adams.” She took the order down on her pad, but his not-so-subtle dig at the goings-on in the bar seemed completely lost on her.
Molly came back with two cups of coffee, a choice of three dry shirts,and an enormous bearded man in jumpsuit coveralls and a Beech-Nut baseball cap. The clothes she’d apparently foraged from the luggage of some out-of-towners in attendance. It wasn’t clear where she’d picked up the big guy, but he looked like he might have hiked here straight from a hayride.
The big man ticked his chin in Noah’s direction. “Who’s your boyfriend?” he asked.
“Not my boyfriend,” Molly said, in a tone meant to emphasize what a far-fetched idea that really was. “This is Noah Gardner, from where I work, and Noah, this is my friend Hollis.”
A beefy right hand the size of a fielder’s mitt came toward him, and Noah put out his own. “Good to know you, Hollis,” he said, with a clasp only firm enough to transmit sincerity without throwing down a challenge for that iron-grip competition some men love to engage in upon first meeting.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” the big man said. Good etiquette had obviously been drilled into him from childhood; by his manner it seemed that shaking hands with a total stranger was an event to be treated with great respect. In contrast to his physical size his voice was unexpectedly high and reedy. The overall effect was something like being introduced to Winnie-the-Pooh, if Winnie-the-Pooh had been a seven-foot, mostly shaven, talking grizzly bear.
Molly had brought back a selection of men’s tops, including a faded sweatshirt from Kent State, a dark burglar’s hoodie with a torn pocket and a pattern of moth holes, and a two-tone T-shirt that said presumed ignorant on the front. He took the sweatshirt.
“Thanks,” Noah said, looking around. “Where can I go to put this on?”
“For heaven’s sake, it’s just your shirt. Go ahead and change right here if you want to.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table and her chin in her palms, with a bewitching innocence on her face that was not quite as pure as the
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