Why did Lise think she had a headache?
“I’m fine. Unless...” She paused. “Do you expect me to sing?”
She enjoyed performing for crowds, but karaoke wasn’t something she’d ever done before, and she’d have to know more about how it worked and have a song in mind before she committed herself.
“No.” Lise’s shoulders curved inward. “Hell, no. I’ve never participated, and I never intend to, so I certainly wouldn’t pressure you to do it. But the whole event is hilarious to watch, and the drinks are half price all night.”
Molly lifted a hand. “Say no more. You had me at cheap booze.”
A laughing group of tourists came toward them on the sidewalk, their souvenir tricorne and straw hats still on and tipped at a jaunty angle, despite the late hour.
“Perfect.” Lise stepped to the side for them, then slanted an alert glance at Molly. “So you don’t have a headache. What else is wrong, then?”
If her friend could read it on her face, Molly must be more conflicted about that encounter with Karl than she’d even realized. Schooling her expression into placidity, she shook her head. “I’m good, Lise. Stop worrying about me, and start worrying about whether your coworkers will drag you up on stage for an eighteenth-century version of ‘Sweet Caroline.’”
It was only a playful attempt to distract her too-observant friend, but Lise immediately recoiled and executed a full-body cringe. “Don’t even joke about that song.”
“Your colleagues actuallydoperform a colonial version of ‘Sweet Caroline,’” Molly concluded. “Wow.”
There were nerds, and then there were freakingnerds. HistoricHarlot’s Bay apparently abounded with the latter, and good for them.
Lise shuddered slightly. “They call it ‘Queen Caroline.’”
“Of course they do,” Molly said blandly, then hooked her elbow through Lise’s before her friend could change her mind and sprint away from the imminent social outing. And together, they wandered off into the historic night, arm in arm.
Two hours later, tipsy from entirely too many delicious eighteenth-century-inspired drinks—the Termagant Tavern’s rhubarb shrub cocktail was tart, sweet, addictive, and absolutely loaded with alcohol—Molly leaned across the sticky wooden table and raised her voice to be heard over the musical cacophony created by drunk, suspiciously young-looking members of the fife and drum corps, a talented harpsichordist with an askew bonnet, the helplessly giggling viola player, and a trio of twerking women in petticoats singing at full, enthusiastic volume about whores.
“This one sounds familiar!” Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t shout like this, since babying her throat meant she could narrate two books a week instead of one. But since she was off for the entire month, who gave a shit? “Is that—no, don’t tell me—”
“‘WAP.’” Lise had been drinking the tavern’s famous ginger ale all night, probably so she could stay alert enough to ward off any attempts to haul her onstage. After another sip from her brown glass bottle, she grinned at Molly. “‘Weird-Ass Pianoforte.’”
“Because it’s a harpsichord!” Molly snickered. “Ha!”
Even close to midnight, the tavern was packed with people. Mostly interpreters still in costume, but also a few obvious tourists, who were equally soused and loud and cheerful. So far, there appeared to be an endless stream of willing volunteers for the stage from both groups.
Lise shook her head, watching her coworkers belt out their song. “Couldn’t pay me enough to get up there.”
“Which reminds me.” When Molly slapped the table for emphasis, her palm stung. “Why theheckdid you agree to attend the reunion if you don’t want to go?”
“Janel’s my supervisor, Mol. I don’t have any travel planned, and she knows it. I couldn’t think of a good reason to refuse, other than my intense desire to avoid socializing among near strangers for hours at a time while they silently evaluate how gracefully I have or haven’t aged and whether my accomplishments are sufficient to indicate two decades well spent.” Lise sighed. “Even though I can’t actually tell anyone what I do for a living.”
Molly blinked. “That seems like a good enough reason to me.”
“Well, it’s not.” As Lise picked at her bottle label’s edge with her thumbnail, the paper began peeling off. “At least not for Janel, who is the sweetest, most enthusiastic steamroller who ever donned a pair of buckled shoes and an apron. I swear to goodness, if that woman had chosen a different career path, she’d be in charge of all of us by now. America’s benevolent dictator, complete with presidential pompoms. And we’d probably be glad for it.”
Ah, peer pressure. Very effective at all ages, despite what public service announcements during her teen years had implied. “So you’re going.”
“I’m definitely going.” Lise lurched forward in her chair, and it creaked in protest. “And you should definitely come with me.”
Speaking of Molly’s long-ago youth: As if.
“Hahahaha. No.”
If she stayed, she’d get entirely too attached to the town’s hottest and most cantankerous baker, whose shirtless chest had nearly poleaxed her the previous day. And the hotel bills! She shouldn’t forget the hotel bills! Which she might be able to afford, but...
She shouldn’t stay. She really shouldn’t.
Her elbows planted on the table, Lise propped her chin on her clasped hands and batted her eyelashes. “What can I do to convince you to go?”
