Free Carousel Seas by Sharon Lee Page B

“They’ll be back, after they’ve gathered their courage again. What say we go up to Jay’s, get a beer, listen to some music?”
    “Sounds like fun.”
    “Then let’s do it.”
    * * *
    Neptune’s, on the Pier, is the big tourist bar, and you bet there’d be standing room only at ten-thirty on the night after the Fourth. Jay’s is a smaller place, a restaurant with a bar; tables for maybe forty, and another dozen at the bar. The music was on the verandah, so said the bartender, and I almost opted out in order to stay in the lovely air conditioning.
    “Music?” Borgan said in my ear.
    “Music sounds good; hot, not so much.”
    “Who’s playin’?” Borgan asked the ’tender.
    “Andy LaPierre,” she said with a smile. “He’s local. You folks’ll really like what he does. Goes the whole range from folk, blues, rock, classical.”
    “Wanna try it, Kate? I’m betting it won’t be so hot on the porch.”
    “Bound to be cooling off by now,” the bartender put in.
    I doubted it, myself. On the other hand, live music is one of my more benign vices, and Andy’s mix sounded interesting. Plus, I wanted another look at the man, in what you’d call ordinary circumstances . Curiosity, that was all. What I’d told my mother was true—if he made her happy, I was a fan.
    “Sure; let’s give it a try,” I said, and nodded at the ’tender. “Can we get something to drink?”
    “Whatcha like?”
    “I’d like a Shipyard Brown Ale, and my friend would like . . . ?” I lifted an eyebrow at Borgan, who shook his head ruefully.
    “Make it two.”
    * * *
    The verandah was comfortably full, most of the floor space taken up by insecure little wrought-iron tables; the wall on the restaurant side was lined with booths; the outside with somewhat less insecure-looking tables; the whole area roofed in blue canvas. Strings of patio lights in the shape of dragonflies outlined the canvas and hung from the black iron fence that marked the verandah’s outside boundary.
    Borgan and I claimed one of the outside tables for our own, sitting side by side so we could see the tiny stage area, which was vacant at the moment, save for a stool, a microphone and a couple guitars on stands.
    No sooner had we gotten our chairs situated, than a waitress materialized—blonde hair in a ponytail, white polo shirt with Jay’s Eatery embroidered over the pocket, black shorts, white crew socks and white tennis shoes showing off a tan so deep I suspected she’d started it in January, at one of the tanning salons up on Route 1.
    She was not a greenie, but a genuine Maine girl, as we heard when she asked what she could get for us.
    I lifted my bottle to show her we were taken care of, drinkwise. Borgan threw her a grin.
    “Order o’onion rings for my lady and me to share?”
    Her face lit like he’d given her a present.
    “Comin’ right up!”
    “I hope I like onion rings,” I said, settling my back more closely against the chair.
    “I’m thinking you will. ’Specially if you put ketchup on ’em.”
    “ Ketchup on onion rings? You’re a barbarian.”
    “Could be. What d’you put on?”
    “Nothing,” I said loftily. “The breading and the hot grease need no further enhancement.”
    “Well, now, if I’d known you was a connoisseur . . .”
    I laughed, and raised my bottle. Borgan did the same, and we tapped them, carefully.
    It was, I thought, definitely cooler now; a breeze had come up, smelling of salt and ozone, cavorting under the canvas like a puppy dog. Just the sort of breeze you might expect to come in on the rising tide, I thought, raising my bottle for another sip of ale.
    I lowered the bottle and looked at Borgan. He looked back, face innocent.
    “Nice breeze,” I said.
    “Is,” he agreed.
    “Tide’s going out.”
    He pursed his lips and looked up toward the blue ceiling, like he was trying to remember the tide chart, damn him.
    “Now, I believe you’re right there, Kate,” he said, after taking longish