Claire caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.Her eyes were somewhat puffy, which might have been emotion, too much sun, or a combination of the two.Luckily, her oversized tortoise shell frames concealed the worst of it.She stared in awe at the dozens of female patrons scattered around the bar, all dressed as though they were about to walk a tropical but very fashionable runway.She looked down at her loose linen sundress and shiny silver Birkenstocks.Beach hippie casual and boring, she decided after a moment's inspection.She continued to size herself up as the bartender placed a cocktail on a napkin in front of her.
“A little something I invented—it’s called Jefton Juice.”His eyes sparkled with pride.
She eyed his nametag.Jefton.
“Am I gonna regret this, Jefton?”
“Yet to be seen, miss.My momma always says good things bring happiness, bad things bring experience.Either way, there’s value.”
Claire took a sip, her eyes wary and still watching him.
“It’s a good thing, yes?”he asked.
“It’s fabulous.”She took another sip.“Fruity but not overly sweet.”
"Would you care to start a tab then?"he asked.
"I don't think so.It’s a little crowded in here for me, so just the one drink tonight."
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it’s like this every night.”He laughed and pushed a receipt in front of her.“If you sign here, I’ll charge it to your room.”
“Perfect, thank you.”
She took a couple more sips then moved her eyes back up to the mirror, locking on a man sitting at the piano.She'd heard his song earlier but couldn't recall where.His arrangement of the tune was slower, jazzier, and much more sensual than the original—definitely not what you’d expect to hear at a festive, beachside bar.A few more sips into the cocktail, her chest grew heavy and heated.For the first time in months, she truly disappeared, forgetting her past and her pain as the soft notes fell over her.She watched a server deliver a Red Stripe to a handsome man sitting alone at a tiny table near the piano.He nodded with humble thanks, taking a small sip before signing his receipt.Claire kept her eyes on the man until she finished her drink.She motioned to the bartender, indicating her desire for a refill by raising her empty glass.
“Just the one drink, eh?”he asked playfully.
“Last one, I promise.”Claire smiled back.
“Oh, the promises I’ve heard standing behind this bar, miss,” he said with a smirk.
A couple seated near the man stood to leave.Claire tracked them, watching closely until they were out the door.No one else in the crowd seemed to be aware of the vacant table, and Claire quickly snagged it for herself.Once seated, she focused on the musician—a man of slight build, probably close to seventy, with a carefree expression.His wrinkled hands danced across the keys.After a minute or two, the gentleman stopped playing and offered Claire a welcoming smile.
"Any requests, miss?A favorite song, perhaps?"he asked.
"Oh, I don't know.I have so many favorites."
"Anything you like, just name it."
"What song were you playing just a moment ago?"She hummed a few bars of the tune."I think it’s from a movie."
"The Way You Look Tonight, fromSwing Time, with Fred Astaire," the man at the neighboring table said.
"You are correct, sir.An oldie but a goodie by the great Jerome Kern."The piano player nodded.
"It was playing on one of the movie channels earlier," the man added.
"That's it!"Claire snapped her fingers."I was going crazy trying to remember where I'd heard it."
Their conversation quieted and the musician played another song, one with more Jamaican flair.Claire’s eyes fell closed, allowing the music to wash over her.When the closing bars played out, she opened her eyes to find the man at the next table looking directly at her.Her cheeks burst into flames of embarrassment, fueled in part by her second drink.He didn't seem to notice though, responding only with a friendly smile.The pianist spoke, much to Claire’s relief, breaking the uncomfortable moment.
“Come on, miss, gimme a song.Surely there's something special you'd like to hear?”he asked again.
In truth, she had no special song.Not the kind he alluded to anyway.She and Calvin never shared anything of that depth—certainly nothing that would qualify astheir song.And even if they had, she didn’t care to hear it now.Between the alcohol and the prying eyes of the man at the next table, she couldn’t conjure a single song title.Not one.
"Maybe you'd like to make the next pick," she asked the man, finding she’d judged him too sharply.His brown eyes were anything but prying.They were honest, rimmed with thick lashes that women pay big bucks for.He couldn’t hide them behind his glasses—classic tortoise shell that hinted at academia, just like her own.
"Oh, no… he asked you first, Ms…" he said.
