Free A Week From Sunday by Dorothy Garlock

and night, tirelessly trying to improve his lot, even if it meant neglecting his family. Such dedication had won him a heart attack and an early grave.
    Quinn had marched to a different drummer. He’d chafed at going to school, but gone anyway and given it his best effort. He had attended church for his mother’s sake but was not interested in the piano lessons she had pushed upon him . . . although they might have come in handy, given the current circumstances! His father had wanted him to follow in the family business, but instead, Quinn had left home to go to the mill, promising himself that he would never be a tavern operator. He’d held that promise for nearly eight years. His father’s death had forced him to go back on his word.
    Running the tavern had proven to be far more of a challenge than he had thought it would be. The responsibilities weighed heavily on his shoulders. He was determined to make the Whipsaw a success for Jesse’s sake. Jesse would need a way to make a living after he finished school. Luckily, he’d made one very good decision: hiring Gabe LeBlanc to tend the bar. Together, the two men had somehow managed to keep things running smoothly.
    As he rounded a corner and moved onto Main Street, Quinn could see people milling about. After many long, hard hours of work, followed by the quiet of a family meal, quite a few of Lee’s Point’s residents longed to get out and relax. For many, relaxation meant nothing more than visiting friends for a game of cards. Others found church socials more to their taste. But for a large number, a night of singing and dancing, fueled by a touch of liquor, did the trick. To that end, there was the Whipsaw.
    He waved a few greetings, shouted a “hello,” turned another couple of corners and minutes later was standing in front of the tavern. The Whipsaw was a squat one-story building that was only half as wide as it was long. A pair of rectangular windows looked out onto the street, spilling scant light from inside. Above the front door, a weather-beaten sign in desperate need of a new coat of paint spelled out the bar’s name.
    Suddenly, Quinn thought of Adrianna. He’d been hard on her today, certainly harder than he’d needed to be, but he couldn’t deny that the accident had made him irritable . . . for a number of different reasons. The way she’d entered his life had been abrupt, much like the accident itself, but she now was a part of it . . . for a while anyway. Still, she was different from any woman he’d ever met. She was educated, well-mannered, and even a tad delicate, a far cry from the women he’d known. When she spoke, people listened; what she said, as well as the simple sound of her voice, seemed to grab hold of him, refusing to let go.
What am I thinking, bringing her to this place?
    Shaking his head, he pushed open the door and entered the bar.
    The first thing that struck him was the sound: pieces of conversation mixed with bursts of laughter and the clinking of glasses. Occasionally, the scrape of a chair leg against the hardwood floor carried across the din. Men and women sat in groups at the mismatched tables and chairs that were set haphazardly about the long, rectangular room. Some of the tables had cloth covers draped over their scarred tops, but most were bare. The light was much gloomier than the tavern’s mood; a dull glow came from the fixtures that were stuck to the walls and the naked bulbs that hung from the ceiling. Smoke from cigars and cigarettes floated above the tables. The Whipsaw wasn’t the fanciest place, but it was clean. Although it was still early in the evening, the tavern had begun to fill up. Even on a weeknight, there was a good chance that the Whipsaw would have a decent crowd.
    “Well, if it ain’t Quinn Baxter, I done do swear!”
    Quinn turned at the sound of the voice to see a disheveled mess of a man ambling toward him, a drink in one gnarled hand. Roy Long had been a fixture in the town for as long