Her Winning Ways by J.M. Bronston (11)

 

The tables at A. J. Keenan’s were thick wood slabs, rough-hewn, and varnished to a high gloss, and the seats, too, in the booths, were solid and comfy. The lighting was gentle—a large antique chandelier above all and a small candle at each table—and the bar was far enough from the diners that the soccer on the TV was not intrusive. The decor was Irish and friendly—masses of old photos on the walls, and posters including notices of age-old political rallies and theatrical performances of plays by Synge and O’Casey; small cabinets and shelves on all the walls all full of knick-knacks and figurines, wood carvings and homey teacups and teapots, an arched brick fireplace at one wall and an antique pendulum clock mounted on another. And against the wall of their booth, a few fresh flowers in a glass.

The waitress, too, was Irish and friendly. She put a basket of soda bread between them and handed them each a menu. Before she could even look at it, Bart took it from Annie’s hand.

“We’ll have the shepherd’s pie,” he told the waitress. “And a Guinness.”

Annie’s mouth fell open, but no word came out.

“And a green salad on the side.” He handed the menus to the waitress. “And how are you doing, Katie? And the kids?”

“We’re good. And how’s yourself? And your mom?”

“All good.”

“And that noble horse of yours?” She smiled at Annie, including her in the talk. “When am I going to see him around here? You’re always keeping him across town at Times Square.”

“I go where they send me. But we were just here yesterday—that demonstration over by the UN.”

“Oh, the kids saw that on the TV. Was that you?”

“Were we on the news? I didn’t see. But then, maybe they saw Annie here. She got herself caught up in it. Needed a bit of rescuing from those bozos.”

“Ooh.” She turned a kind eye on Annie. “Not hurt, I hope?”

“I don’t—”

But again, before she could answer, Bart was speaking for her.

“Oh, she’s all right. Just shaken up a bit.”

Annie’s indignation was beginning to show.

But this time it was Katie’s turn to break in. She turned sharply on Bart.

“The girl does have a mouth, Bart. She doesn’t need you to speak for her.” She turned again to Annie. “You can speak, can’t you, dear?”

“Of course I can speak. I do just fine on my own.”

“Sorry about that,” Bart said briefly, not at all sorry. “Katie, this is Annie, visiting from Wyoming and new to the city.”

“And obviously in need of some big lummox to do her talking for her.” Katie smiled affectionately at him and then, to Annie, said, “Don’t mind this big ox. He gets so used to being in charge, he forgets his manners.” She tapped Bart’s arm with the menus. “Shame on you, Bart Hardin. If I tell your mother on you, you know what she’ll say.”

“Katie’s a neighbor from way back,” Bart explained. “Three houses down from us in Windsor Terrace in Brooklyn. She’s known me since I was a little tad and she gets to scold me when I’m out of line. I wasn’t out of line, was I?” He expected no answer and turned to Katie. “I’m just seeing to it that she gets a better impression of our city than she had yesterday.”

And who appointed you? Annie thought, but she kept her mouth shut. He was among friends and she wouldn’t embarrass him by arguing with him here.

“Well, Annie. Bart’s a good one to show you around, so long as he behaves.” And to Bart, she added, “You see you behave, you hear me. No getting all bossy, like you do. Let the girl enjoy herself, you hear,” and she gave him another parting tap on the shoulder with the menus. “Glad to meet you, Annie. You two have a good evening, now.” And she was off.

“I really could have ordered for myself, you know,” Annie said quietly, glad that it was now just the two of them. “We do have restaurants in Laramie and I’ve been reading from menus ever since I became a big girl.”

“Ah, but you wouldn’t have known about the shepherd’s pie. The best in town, here at Keenan’s. I couldn’t let you go back to Laramie without ever trying the shepherd’s pie at Keenan’s.”

Bossy is right, she thought. Look at him. Sitting there, like all’s right with his world. Just so full of himself.

It was true; Bart was sitting back in the booth, expansive, self-satisfied, the king of the hill.

But before she could decide what she ought to do, Bart interrupted her thought.

“So tell me, Annie Cornell. Shouldn’t you be wearing glasses and have your hair in a bun?”

“Just kidding,” he added, laughing. “But you are an innocent librarian from Laramie, aren’t you? And I worry about you wandering around this city without a proper escort. Look at what happened to you yesterday. You don’t know your way around here. You could have been really hurt. And not only from crazy street protesters; there are plenty of bad guys around just waiting to take advantage. You need a man like me to keep an eye on you, see that you’re safe—”

“Now wait a minute, Mr. Big-City Policeman! I’m sure I could get around perfectly safely without needing a special police patrol to take care of me. And what’s more, whatever you think of librarians, I promise you, you got it wrong. You think we’re prissy old maids with horn-rimmed glasses, saying ‘Shhh!’ all the time. That’s so old!” She could feel her hackles rising. “That’s so wrong! It’s such a stupid stereotype!”

“But I was just—” he tried to break in.

“And furthermore—”

“Whoa, there! Hold your horses! I didn’t mean to get you all ruffled.” He’d come forward in his seat, leaning toward her. “I don’t see what I said that was so awful. I wasn’t trying to put down librarians. I’ve got nothing against librarians. I think librarians are just swell. A bad joke, I guess. But really, I was serious about—I mean, I just meant that you don’t know your way around here, being new to the city and all, and I didn’t want you to get yourself into another bad situation. And I’d kind of like to be the one who—the one to—I mean—”

Now he was getting tangled up in his apology.

She was still rankled about the librarian thing but was calming down.

Well, so what. Not my business to educate the world.

She told herself to ease up—to remember that he actually had come to her rescue (was it only yesterday?) and after all, he was being generous with his time and attention. Obviously, he liked her, and there was no need for her to be ungracious. And he looked so earnest, with the light from the little candle on the table adding a cherub-like glow to his face, and the light sandiness of his hair darkened a couple of tones in the pub’s soft lighting, he seemed to have an air of almost little-boy innocence. Not quite little boy, of course, but if she looked closely, she could see the younger version of him. Maybe the one Katie could see. Not the uniformed mounted rescuer he’d been yesterday, and not the one across the table from her with the holstered sidearm she’d spotted under his jacket, but the boy who would one day grow into that man.

Enough of snap judgments, she decided. And, with a sly little smile deep down inside herself, she remembered the warm buzz she’d felt on the ride across town. The feelings she’d had then certainly earned him a few more points.

Maybe she ought to get to know him better.

She broke off a bit of the soda bread, put a bit of butter on it and nibbled at it thoughtfully.

“Okay,” she said, taking off on a new tack. “I guess we could start over.” She leaned back in the booth, letting herself relax.

And as though on cue, Katie arrived just at that moment with their beers.

“Glad to see you two getting along so well,” she said, putting their glasses on the table. “Enjoy your Guinness,” she said cheerily. “I’ll be back with your dinner in a few.” And she was gone.

“So,” Annie restarted the conversation, “tell me more about that wonderful horse of yours. Why is he so wonderful? And how did he get his name? Was he named for the Lindy Hop?”

Bart leaned back, too, glad to see that the storm clouds had passed and that the subject had been changed to one he really loved to talk about.

“No, it was nothing like that. Though I guess he could have been, come to think of it. The choice of his name does kind of go back to the swing era.”

He raised his glass toward Annie in a gesture that acknowledged her—and his subject—and he began.