good night, nothing more. She leaned against the wall for a minute, her lips feeling large on her face. Then she collected herself and stepped back onto the stoop. Sleep seemed impossible now. She thought about going down to the pub; she wished everyone hadn’t already gone to bed. She even half wished she’d run into Peg and Jeremy, persuade them to come along. She could go alone. And maybe would, she thought.
She started back down the hill she’d just climbed and entered the Lodge through the back kitchen entrance, headed toward the dining room. She’d cross the porch, down the steps to the beach, which she’d follow to Morey’s, have a pint, sit on the back deck by herself if it came to that. She wanted that moment back, to do it again and prolong it, extend it, change it somehow so it would come out different. She felt cheated, and sore, as if she had reached for her wallet and realized it was missing, unsure whether she had lost it or someone had fleeced it from her. Just as she reached to slide open one of the glass dining room doors, her eye caught a tiny orange glow, which for a split second relieved her. There’s a bonfire down on the beach, she thought. Someplace to go! Then the image rearranged itself and she stopped and turned quickly. In the armchair in the dark back corner of the room, Lance was smoking a cigarette.
“Hey, gorgeous,” she heard him say. His tone was predatory but not menacing.
“Mr. Squire?” Brigid said to the dark corner.
Lance laughed, his head thrown back for a second in exaggeration. “Mr. Squire,” he repeated, mocking.
“Sorry,” Brigid said.
Lance shook his head. He waved her toward him, but she stood where she was. “No, no, honey,” he said. “That’s all right.” And they both stayed there, not saying anything for a minute.
“I was just on my way . . .” Brigid began.
“Rough night?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Yeah, me too, baby,” he said.
“I’m about gumming for another drink . . .” she said, her voice drifting as she spoke.
“Go-min?” he mocked.
“Oh bleedin’ ”—she took on a dreadful American accent—“I want a drink,” she drawled.
“Yeah?” he said. “Yeah, I almost think I could use a drink myself,” he said softly, so sadly she almost felt sorry for him.
“I’ve some whiskey,” she offered.
“Oh . . .” he said, as though relishing the thought, knowing its power, knowing he shouldn’t, feeling how much he wanted it. “Oh . . .” he said again.
“Come, have a whiskey with me on the porch, won’t you?” she said.
“Oh, honey,” he said. “Could I do that?” His voice was different, the harsh tones gone, sadness overtaking.
“Come on,” she said. “I’ll fetch it. Find us some jars—glasses— find us some glasses, why don’t you? And meet me on the porch.” She felt compelled to give him some direction, as if he were sitting there asking her, Please, tell me what to do.
He seemed grateful, and he struggled to his feet to make his way toward the bar at the far end of the dining room. “A hot redheaded angel,” he said, more to himself than to her. “A hot little angel.” Brigid went to the office, to Gavin’s staff cubby, where they’d stashed the whiskey.
On the deck, Lance took over Gavin’s chair from earlier that evening; Brigid reclaimed her own. She tipped whiskey into their glasses. He lifted his gingerly. “Cheers,” she suggested. “To better evenings.”
“Shit,” he said, and clinked her glass. He was a practiced drinker— downed his shot and lifted the bottle, his eyes on her: OK if I take another? She gestured: Be my guest. He poured and drank again.
“I thought you didn’t drink,” she said.
“Fuck you.” His tone mocked hers. Then he said, “It’s been a bad night.”
“Cheers,” she agreed.
“So what fucked you up tonight, pretty girl?” he asked.
“Whiskey,” she said, “and men.” She drank.
The night was quiet. Across the sound, pier lights from the mainland wharves and docks reflected on the water. A radio tower blinked. In the water, red and white lighted buoys bounced as the tide lapped and strummed against Sand Beach. A seagull flew in, landed on the porch railing nearby, and pecked at a fallen corn chip.
“And what’s it been that fucked with you this evening, Mr. Squire?” Brigid said.
Lance laughed again. “Mrs. Squire.” He took another long drink.
“I expect that’s as it’s meant to be,” Brigid said.