Free Riverside Park by Laura van Wormer Page B

made a gesture of futility.
    No, there wasn’t much there, Howard had to agree. But Celia did have terrific legs and that great swing to her ass.
    â€œMy wife thinks I’m lying about the Australian publisher,” the writer announced upon his return. “She thinks I’m saying it so I can stay out and drink and not have to deal with her parents. The busboy says he knows you, by the way. That one, over there. Joey or something.”
    Howard smiled. “Hey! Jason!”
    The teenager untangled himself from a tray of dirty dishes and came over, smiling and wiping his hands on his apron before shaking Howard’s hand. “Hey, Mr. Stewart.”
    â€œLong time no see,” Howard joked. Jason was a great kid, but really shy. Of course, with a mother like Rosanne, Howard imagined it would be hard to get a word in edgewise. “Was that turkey gross or what?”
    â€œIt wasn’t that bad,” the boy said nicely. “At least it didn’t have any buckshot in it this year.”
    They laughed.
    â€œMy novel’s getting published,” the writer told Jason.
    â€œCongratulations. Is Mr. Stewart your agent?”
    â€œBest agent in the world,” the writer declared, but Jason’s eyes had moved to something behind them. Howard turned to see what he was looking at. Celia. Jason was looking at Celia. When Howard turned back around he could see a rash of scarlet spreading across Jason’s neck.
    Jason had a crush on her.
    â€œIf you want, Jason,” he heard Celia say, “you can have a second break.”
    Jason’s eyes lit up. “Yeah. Yeah! That’d be great,” he stammered.
    â€œThen you better go and take it before she changes her mind,” Howard said.
    â€œYeah. I guess.” Jason stuck his hand out. “Thanks again for dinner, Mr. Stewart.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.”
    â€œCongratulations again on your book,” Jason said politely as he backed away.
    They turned back around on their stools to lean on the bar. “Seems like a good kid,” the writer said.
    â€œHe is. I think he’s going to do very well.” For some reason this reminded him of the financial mess he was in and it made him feel sick inside. “I think I need a real drink,” Howard announced. “What are you drinking?”
    â€œIrish Mist.”
    â€œSounds good to me.” He looked around. “Where’s Celia?”
    The bartender servicing the other end of the bar came down to Howard. “Can I get you fellas something?”
    â€œWhere’s Celia?”
    â€œOn break. What can I get you?”
    Howard ordered two Irish Mists. The writer drank his pretty fast while Howard nursed his. Celia reappeared behind the bar about ten minutes later.
    â€œYou’re a little young for hot flashes,” the writer told her when Celia came over to see how they were doing. He had started slurring his words.
    Celia blew the hair off her face. She did look hot. “Say that again?”
    The writer repeated it.
    â€œI think you’ve hit your limit,” Celia said, smoothly swiping his empty glass from the bar. “So what can I get you? On me. Water, soda or coffee?” She put a dish of pretzels in front of him.
    â€œFuck that, I wanna real drink,” he said, swatting the dish of pretzels off the bar. The pretzels went flying and the saucer clattered down on the floor behind the bar.
    Celia looked at Howard. “Tell him I won’t hold it against him tomorrow.” And then she walked down to the other end of the bar.
    â€œFuck her,” the writer growled, trying to get off the bar stool. Howard held his arm to steady him and the writer threw his hand off.
    â€œOkay, okay,” Howard said, backing off.
    Without another word the writer staggered out of the bar.
    â€œHe left his coat,” the woman with lots of makeup on said.
    Celia came to wipe down the bar again and Howard apologized.