Chapter 23: Too Bad

Philbrick's Landing reopened on a Saturday in June, with new paint on the sign and Susie's name on it in gold.

Her sister stood behind the bar in an apron that didn't belong to her yet.

Every stool was taken.

Every chair was turned the right way.

The pot of chowder on the back counter had a card on it that said SUSIE'S, and this time it was empty by seven.

I stood by the cash register, where I had once put a ring on the wood.

Beside me, a man in a clean white shirt was pulling a pint.

He did it badly, with too much foam, and Susie's sister took it from his hand and shook her head.

"Four years you worked here," she said. "I'd have thought you'd learned."

"I was a very bad bartender."

"I know. She told everyone."

The room laughed, softly, and Declan laughed with it.

He had been out of the hospital for three weeks.

He had been home for two of them, in his own place, with his own key, because I had said so.

The Bureau had put him on leave for breaking cover in a ballroom, and had not yet decided whether to take his badge.

He had sat in a hearing for two days and said, to a table of men, that he would do it again.

He had driven to Millbrook on every one of his free Saturdays, and scraped the old paint off the sign himself.

I had watched him do all of it, from a distance, and not once told him it was enough.

That night, when the last pint was poured, he found me by the door.

"Hallie."

"Declan."

"I'm standing up."

I looked at him.

He was.

He had his hands at his sides and the band on its chain at his throat, and a red mark on his thumb from the paint scraper.

"I'm in clothes," he said. "My head is clear."

"I see that."

"I love you."

The bar went quiet.