Free A Catered Birthday Party by Isis Crawford

Richard said, “and since Sam’s departed, I wonder if I could possibly impose on you to serve some tea.”
    “Not at all,” Bernie said, thinking that that would allow her a little time for a quick examination of the house.
    But that didn’t happen. For all intents and purposes, Richard never let them out of his sight all the time they were there.
    And neither did Trudy, who followed the girls around as if she were glued to them.
    Maybe Sam was right, Bernie thought. Maybe she shouldn’t have fed her the piece of bread after all, but not for the reasons that Sam thought.

Chapter 9
    L ibby took a sip of her Guinness and settled in on her bar stool. She didn’t know why she was drinking this—she really didn’t like beer, and she wasn’t keen on being here either. She’d rather be home baking bread and watching television. It had been a long day and she wanted to go to bed early, an unlikely possibility the way things were turning out.
    It was nine o’clock on a Wednesday night at R.J.’s and she, Bernie, Brandon, and Kevin O’Malley, the person they’d come to talk to, were the only souls in the place. Usually the place was packed, even during the week, but a winter storm advisory had kept anyone with any sense snugged up in his or her house. She and Bernie would be at home watching TV with their dad if Brandon hadn’t alerted them to Kevin O’Malley’s presence.
    Kevin O’Malley was a man of regular habits. Even the promise of a nor’easter wasn’t enough to interrupt his midweek stint at R.J.’s. At first Libby hadn’t minded going because Marvin was going to meet up with them. She hadn’t seen him in three days. Unfortunately, on the way over he’d called, said he had an emergency, and would be there later if he could. Which, in a word, sucked. Libby took another sip of beer and pondered how a funeral director could have an emergency, but then she decided she didn’t want to think about that and ate a peanut instead.
    For the life of her she could never understand how people, specifically Brandon, could say stout had a chocolate undertaste. Beer tasted like beer, and chocolate had nothing, absolutely nothing in common with beer whatsoever.
    “Try it,” Brandon said for the third time as he pushed a bottle of the stout across the bar with the tips of his fingers. “If you like chocolate you’ll like this.”
    “I already told you I won’t.”
    “How do you know if you don’t try it?”
    “I just know,” Libby snapped.
    Brandon shrugged and left the bottle where it was. “In case you change your mind,” he said.
    “God, you’re persistent,” Bernie told him.
    Brandon smiled. “That’s how I got where I am.”
    “Which is?” Bernie prompted.
    “Being the sexy red-haired bartender every girl wants, but you are lucky enough to have.”
    Bernie laughed. “I believe sexy men are described as tall, dark, and handsome, not tall, redheaded, freckled, and handsome.”
    Brandon pounded his chest with his fist. “You have cut me to the quick.”
    “I figured.”
    “Fortunately, I have a robust ego.”
    “That’s one way of putting it.”
    Brandon leaned over and gave Bernie a quick kiss. “I can get off early tonight. Mick’s coming in to close. Unless the storm gets here first. Then I get to close early.”
    “He would actually close because of a storm. He’s getting soft in his old age.”
    Brandon patted his gut. “It happens to all of us.”
    “What time were you thinking?” Bernie asked.
    “Eleven o’clock.”
    Bernie checked her watch. That was a little under two hours from now. “That’s the veritable shank of the evening.”
    Brandon picked up a glass and started wiping it. “What does that mean?”
    “Haven’t got a clue,” Bernie admitted. “I just like the way it sounds.”
    Brandon put the glass down and picked up another one. “So eleven is good?”
    “Eleven is perfect,” Bernie allowed. “Unless the storm blows in.”
    “Where’s your sense of