WREN

A pretty woman, maybe in her sixties, takes a seat by herself at the mahogany bar, deep red wallpaper on the high-ceilinged walls behind her enhancing the rich tones in her dark brown hair and blue eyes. Like everyone who comes to St. Regis’ hotel bar she’s dressed well, a black pencil skirt and lavender blouse. I can’t see the heels from here but I’m sure they’re three inches or lower. A diamond winks at me from her ring finger as she absently adjusts the hair.

Setting a cocktail napkin down, I smile, “Good evening, can I get you a wine list and a menu?”

“I’d love the wine list but I’ve already eaten,” she explains, voice a smooth southern drawl.

I reach for one, black button-up shirt pulling at my forearm since I rolled the sleeves. Didn’t want them getting wet while I work. “Please let me know if you have any questions.”

“I will,” she quietly says, opening the leather-bound list. “Slow night?”

“Yes, but we have a birthday party coming in soon, so it’ll pick up.”

“You want it busy?”

I pick up a wine glass and place its dainty stem on the napkin between us. “Definitely! Much rather be making drinks than standing around. I’m not the lazy type. Resting makes me anxious. Although…” I trail off, not sure how much I should say.

It’s so different bartending at a fancy place like this over an Irish sports bar like O’Neal’s. There’s a greater distance between the customers and I, figuratively speaking. So many come here on business trips with important meetings, with people they hope to impress, or already do.

I’ve been warned not to be too chatty.

I’m just the help.

But the woman’s smile is welcoming as she angles her head and pries, “Although?”

Biting my lips a moment I reach for the stack of napkins hidden under the counter, covered in my cursive scrawl. “When it’s slow I’m not bored, because I’m writing my songs.”

Her eyebrows lift with interest. “You’re a musician?”

“Yep, but I don’t perform. I’m more behind the scenes.”

“You don’t like the stage?”

“Hate it,” I sheepishly smile. “Much to my mother’s chagrin.”

“Chagrin! I love that word,” she laughs, clapping her hands. “Been so long since I’ve used it.” Holding my look a moment she glances to the list and chooses. “Pinot Gris, please.”

Dipping down gracefully I snatch it from the cooler and remove the cork. “I just opened this earlier tonight.”

“Oh good.”

“They said it was delicious, but I haven’t tried it yet so I’ll give you a taste and see what you think. I’m new here.”

Folding her hands on the counter she waits while I pour into the spotless crystal. Taking a sip her lips curve with an approving nod. “Delicious.” I fill her glass to the dignified standard of half full while she explains, “I always find artists fascinating. I’m not one, nor is my husband. His talents are all with his hands.” Gently touching her forehead she smiles and nearly blushes. “That came out wrong. He’s in construction.”

Laughing I grin, “I assumed as much.”

“You’re just being polite.”

“I was raised in the South, like you.”

Her eyes narrow a little as she takes this in. “Atlanta, though, right? Since I don’t hear an accent.”

“Yes, I was raised near Midtown. You?”

“Dublin, Georgia, hence the drawl I can’t get rid of despite my moving here just over thirty years ago.”

“Don’t get rid of it! I like it,” I reassure her, genuinely. Returning the bottle to its home I admit, “I always wished I had one, so please keep talking.”

She laughs, a happy sound that brightens her eyes. They’re keen though, alert to everything I’m doing. If she weren’t so nice I’d feel self-conscious. Instead I’m just glad for the company.

“So you’re new you say?”

“Month and a half.”

“Do you like it?”

“Sure,” I smile.

An eyebrow lifts slightly and she sets the glass on the counter, twisting on the barstool to scan the empty bar before returning to me with a sneaky smile. “Nobody’s here. You can tell me the truth.”

I wag an amused finger at her. “How do you know I’m not?”

“Because I have three very tricky children,” she winks.

Sighing I concede, shoulders releasing the professional tension they’d held. “I miss the noise of my old job, if I’m honest. And…the people,” I murmur with Eric’s smile on my mind. Taking a deep breath I try to forget him, telling her with a wistful smile, “Also the jeans and tank tops. I really miss those. I’m not used to slacks and a tie. Should a woman wear ties? Maybe, but not by force, you know? Then again, I’m a rebel at my core so maybe I need this structure. But I’d fight anyone who says so. I don’t like being forced to do anything.”

“Mmm,” she hums from behind her glass before sipping. “How interesting.”

My eyebrows rise. “Makes life harder to be like me. I don’t know how ‘interesting’ it is.” A frown settles into me. “Oh no, don’t tell me you’re a spy for the Regis. Are they spying on me? I shouldn’t have told you that. Please don’t report it back to them. I thought we were just being honest. I do like it here, I just miss my old place—my friends worked there. It’s totally normal to miss it!”

She sets the glass down, eyes somber. “Why did you leave your old job?”

“I…uh…”

“Were you fired?”

“What? No! I’ve never been fired from anywhere! I’m a hard worker. I never do anything half way. And I’m very honest, which is why I was just telling you the truth.” Walking to the register and feeling helpless I groan, “Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut?”

“You and my son have that in common, leading with your emotions, trusting easily.”

Flicking a look over my shoulder I mutter a confused, “What?”

“I’m Drew Cocker, Wren.” My hand flies to my mouth, my right hand. “See that’s how I knew it was you, the tattoo of birds on a slender branch. Mike told me that’s how I’d recognize you from the other bartenders. It’s just pure luck that I caught you alone.” My heart is thundering against my ribs as we stare at each other. “I always secretly wanted a tattoo of my own. My husband has one I love, but I never found the nerve. So brave to make that kind of a lifetime commitment.”

“You’re Eric’s mom?” I gasp, struggling to understand why and how. “You came here looking for me? Is he okay? He’s not hurt is he? Please say he’s not hurt!”

Her eyes flicker with interest and warm instantly. “So you do care about him.”

My jaw sets, and despite my stubbornness I nod. I can’t lie to her, I don’t want to lie to anyone, it’s why I’ve had to stay away from him. It was the only way I could avoid his questions and keep my dignity.

“Oh good,” she sighs, “I figured as much, when my husband told me you’d quit the bar Eric goes to without telling him, and with such little notice. As you said, you’re a hard worker. I verified that with Mike, because I knew my son wouldn’t fall for a woman who didn’t have strong character. I didn’t raise my children for anything less. And as such you’d have given two weeks, maybe even a month. But you left hastily with only one. I bet that final week was torture, wasn’t it?” She tilts her head, eyes warmed by empathy, “Wondering if he’d come in and there you were, terrified you’d not be able to push him away if he were right in front of you.”

Shocked I whisper, “Yes! It was awful.”

She glances to her diamond ring, twisting it in thought. “I had a similar reaction to his father when we met. I wanted to run away or into his arms and the latter decision didn’t seem wise considering what kind of man I thought he was.” Meeting my eyes she asks, “Were you afraid my Eric couldn’t be truly serious with anyone, especially since his career brings all those women into his life?”

Pain twists as I nod, “Yes.”

“Do you miss him?”

“I can’t stop missing him, Mrs. Cocker.”

Sweetness and compassion glows from her as she reaches over and lifts my hand off the bar, holding it while she gazes at me. “Wren, you’re the first woman my son has ever loved, did you know that?”

Tears rush to my eyes as I shake my head. “But he…”

“Tut tut, I don’t need to know how he messed this up. I came here to meet you for myself, to determine whether or not I should tell you that he hasn’t been able to play since you vanished.” She lets me go, sighs, “And while I care about football for his sake, I’m much more interested in seeing his smile return to him again. Eric is my baby. My Emma is her father’s daughter, they share a special bond. Ethan has always been able to take care of himself—his mind is far above mine or Jake’s. I never worried about him. But Eric followed them around like a puppy, and then his team became his siblings, a whole group of rowdy ones. He went where they went, loyal as the day is long. The partying, the girls, they came with that package.” Pausing she fixes her determined gaze on me. “But you don’t know my son the way I do, and maybe he doesn’t know himself just yet. He needs someone to love and he’s fallen for you. The team isn’t enough anymore now that you’ve come into his life. His siblings, not enough. If you love him, and I think you might, consider the possibility that he is likely to take all that loyalty in his heart and pour it into you.” She straightens up. “Or let him go. He’ll heal but he won’t be the same. And I’m afraid a life of boozing and women will take the place of true love, and a mother can’t let that happen without a fight, can she? Do I have to worry about my boy?”

Wiping my eyes and laughing with happiness I tell her, “Not anymore.”

“Good,” she smiles, inhaling deeply and reaching for her purse. “Now I have to go listen to my husband yell at me for butting in. But it’s worth every cuss word he’ll invent. I like to rile him up.” Giving me a wink she adds, “It keeps him happy. Word of advice, woman to woman.”

I wave away her money. “It’s on me.”

“Oh bullshit!” she objects in a whisper, making me laugh on purpose as she pushes the cash toward me. Glancing over as happy people file into the bar, she asks, “The birthday party?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“I like to believe God has good timing. Wren, I hope to see you again soon.”

“Me too, Mrs. Cocker…me too.”