Chapter 15: The Rail Bar

Hannah closed her shop at four and went to a friend's house with the cat in a carrier.

She did not argue. She said, "If that man comes near my door, I'll hit him with a dictionary," and hung up.

At nine o'clock Miles parked the old Subaru outside the Rail Bar on Route 9.

It was a low building with a neon beer sign and eleven pickup trucks.

"You can wait in the car," Clara said.

"I won't."

"Frank will say something about you."

"Then he'll say it to my face." He turned off the engine. "I'll sit at the end of the bar. I won't say a word unless you want one."

"And if I never want one?"

"Then I'll drink a very bad ginger ale."

She laughed, and the laugh shook on the way out.

Inside, it smelled like fryer oil and wet coats. A hockey game played on a TV over the bottles.

Her father was in the back booth with four men and a pitcher.

Frank Mercer had his leather jacket on the seat beside him and his grin on his face. He lifted a hand when he saw her and waved her over.

"There she is," he said, loud enough for the bar. "My kid. Graduating next week."

Heads turned.

Clara walked down the room. The man in the gray jacket was at a table by the dartboard, alone, with a club soda. He did not smile at her.

She stopped at the booth.

"Sit down, sweetheart," Frank said.

"No."

"Don't be like that. Sit. Say hi to the guys."

"I went to a lawyer today," Clara said.

She had not planned to say it loudly. She heard it carry anyway, over the hockey and the jukebox, and a few people stopped talking.

"I know, I know." Frank spread his hands. "And I'm sure it was very educational. Where's the paper?"

She took the folded statement out of her coat and held it up so the men in the booth could see the stamp.