The bartender, a young man in his late twenties with a deep tan and an attractive, all-American face, nodded in acquiescence. After serving Laurel a Manhattan, Gabe poured a generous amount of Chivas Regal over a few asymmetrical blocks of hand-chiseled ice and set the tumbler down in front of his employer.
Originally positioned at the far end of the bar, Millay slid away from Harris and jumped up onto the stool next to Olivia. “I didn’t expect this place to be so hip,” she commented, taking a slurp of beer.
Olivia bristled. “Why not? Because I’m so advanced in years?”
“Huh?” Millay missed the note of sarcasm. “It’s just that my parents love coming here. It’s where they go for their special occasions, you know?” She gestured around the wood paneled bar. “They both teach at the community college and can only afford a place like this once in a while. After seeing what you charge for beer, I can see why. The year-rounders in Oyster Bay aren’t exactly loaded. How do you stay in business?”
Pleased to note that the restaurant was nearly full, Olivia took Millay’s question seriously. “There are quite a few tourists here tonight. We’re always busy from May to October, especially since that famous article about Oyster Bay’s appeal appeared in Time. In the winter, things will slow down, but as you said, people come here for birthdays and anniversaries and such. We also host Christmas parties for many local businesses. And we cater.”
She looked around at the glazed ochre walls, which were covered by enormous paintings of wine bottles, at the pristine white cloths, and the terra-cotta hued napkin fans on the few unoccupied tables. Votive candles shone through cylinders of dark amber cut glass made in Indonesia. The same shade of amber formed a thick stripe of paint on the walls and seemed to subtly box in the diners, creating an atmosphere of warm elegance with a hint of exclusivity.
“Interesting,” Millay replied and Olivia couldn’t tell whether she was sincere. “But don’t you think you should consider some cooler music? This soft jazz stuff reminds me of the dentist. I do like the name though. Boot Top. I dig boots.” She lifted both her ankles so that Olivia could admire her lace-up, stiletto-heeled, leather footwear, but Olivia was distracted by the arrival of an unfamiliar middle-aged man.
“Two fingers of Glenfiddich. No ice, please,” he told Gabe in a pleasant baritone.
Millay noticed the newcomer in the mirror behind the bar and pivoted in her seat. “What about you?” She grinned flirtatiously. “Do you like my boot tops?”
The stranger smiled at her but didn’t take his lead gray eyes from her face. “I believe the boot top in this case refers to the russet line on the walls.”
Looking perplexed, Millay didn’t respond, but Olivia locked eyes with the man and said, “Are you familiar with nautical terms Mr.... ?”
“McNulty. Flynn McNulty.” Flynn stood in order to shake hands with Olivia. “My knowledge of maritime matters is limited, but I believe that a boot top is the painted line just above the waterline on a seafaring vessel. Am I at least near the mark?”
“You’re spot-on, Mr. McNulty.” Olivia examined him over the lip of her tumbler.
Flynn assessed her simultaneously. “Another whiskey drinker?” He raised his glass in a salute. “I may actually be able to live in this town after all.”
Millay snorted, a noise that seemed incongruent with her beauty. “It’ll take more than booze to make Oyster Bay look good. Where did you live before?”
“Just outside of Raleigh in the Research Triangle Park area. I’m retiring from cubicle land in order to open a book-shop here. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do and an aunt of mine was kind enough to leave me a small inheritance. I read about the town’s building boom, and since the closest Barnes and Noble is over fifty miles away, I figured this was as fine a place as any to risk it all.”
Olivia tried to ignore the quickening of her blood. A bookstore was her idea of paradise, but she’d preferred to browse in other people’s shops in place of opening one of her own. She turned to tell Camden the news but saw that he was too engaged in flirting with the bartender to be diverted by anything she could say.
“Did you say something about books?” Harris inquired, seeking to join their conversation.
“Shelves of them. I’m out tonight to celebrate. My shop, Through the Wardrobe, will open its doors this Saturday. I was planning on a hugely publicized grand opening in about two weeks, but my stock arrived sooner than expected.” He shrugged. “Now I’ll just hang up some balloons and count on word-of-mouth advertising.”
Millay pulled a face. “In this town, you’ll get more word-of-mouth than you can stand, believe me.”
“It’s so awesome that you named your place after a C.S. Lewis novel!” Delighted, Harris finally tore his eyes from Millay’s shapely legs and gave the newcomer his full attention. The two men launched into a discourse on the multifaceted subject matter tackled within The Chronicles of Narnia.
Clearly displeased over being ignored in favor of C.S. Lewis, Millay poked Flynn in the fleshy part of his thigh. “You might be stocking our books someday, you know. We’re all writers.”
“In that case, I’d better learn everyone’s names,” Flynn replied gallantly.
By the time the assembly had consumed three rounds of drinks, they were thoroughly convinced their fellow writers would completely devote themselves to their upcoming editorial responsibilities, giving each of them the forward push needed to complete a saleable novel. Even Olivia, who thus far had only warmed to Camden, found herself believing that joining the writer’s group might be a step in the right direction toward becoming a social human being.
“I’m feeling so inspired by this meeting!” Laurel squealed excitedly as she bid everyone farewell. “But Steve will be waiting up for me. It’s bad enough he had to babysit while I hung out at a posh restaurant drinking Manhattans.” She hiccupped and quickly covered her mouth with her hand. “I hope he lets me come to our next meeting at Olivia’s cottage,” she said from behind her palm. “I’ll have to detail his truck in exchange for being able to go out four nights in one month!”
“Don’t forget to critique my chapter!” Camden called after her and then stroked his smooth chin thoughtfully. “Do you think she’s serious about not being allowed to attend?”
“Or having to detail her husband’s truck?” Olivia glanced at Laurel’s vacant stool and frowned. “I’m greatly relieved to have no one telling me what to do.”
Shortly following Laurel’s departure, Flynn also left and the exuberant fellowship among the remaining writers seemed to deflate. Soon afterward, Harris and Millay drained the remains of their glasses and headed for home—or in Millay’s case, the beginning of her nine to two o’clock shift at Fish Nets.
Camden kissed everyone on both cheeks, chiding them about being punctual and fulfilling their homework assignment by critiquing his chapter, and then turned back to Olivia.
“I think things went well, don’t you?” And then, before she could answer, “Good God, it’s Blake Talbot! And hanging onto his ropy arm is his latest conquest, Heidi St. Claire. Oh, am I ever at the right place at the right time!” He rubbed his hands together with relish. “Miss St. Claire is quite lovely in person, most unlike the freshly scrubbed, severely dressed character she plays on television.”
“She’s only a girl!” Olivia declared. “Really, Camden, she can’t be more than sixteen.”
“Just eighteen, but this girl, this rising star from Iowa, is about to burst onto the Hollywood scene like a supernova! By this time next year, there’ll be Heidi St. Claire dolls, a Heidi St. Claire clothing line, and a Heidi St. Claire fragrance. I am clairvoyant about these things!” He wiggled his eyebrows. “I saw the trailers for her upcoming movie releases. She’s going to win armloads of awards for her role opposite Russell Crowe. Remember this conversation come Oscar night!” Camden eyed the young woman discreetly using the mirror behind the bar. “Oh! Olivia, darling! They’re here to have dinner. Can we please sit down at that little two-seater behind them? We can have coffee and dessert and I can eavesdrop to my heart’s content? Pul-lease!”