What was that about?
âSomething you need?â Tye asked, unexpectedly in front of him despite the crowd around the bar. He lingered as Pierce gazed at him mutely, wondering at his attention amid the clamor. âAnything?â
Pierce shook his head abruptly. He was on his way south. No mysteriously crippled fisher, no amount of goodwill andfellowship, no hints of lost glory would strand him there with the Formica tables and the chandelier that didnât work anymore. âIâm fine,â he said. âThanks.â He raised the beer with an appreciative smile, and Tye moved away.
The girl with the purple hair came soon after to take his order. He sat there at the bar and ate the seafood stew, trying to identify its tantalizing backwashes of seasoning, then the crab cakes with their outrageous sweet-fiery sauce, and, when he could positively eat no more, a few bites of deep-fried salmon, which seemed a disgraceful end for such a noble fish until he tasted it.
âGod,â he said reverently, and Tye, rattling a martini shaker, smiled.
âNope. Carrie.â
He found himself with yet another beer in his hand and smiling mistily at the memory of the meal. The room around him was quieting. Most of the diners had left; there were rumbles and clangs of cleanup from the invisible kitchen. The homely tables within the next room had been tidied, set for the next day. Through the swinging doors, propped open now, Pierce could see the ghost of the hotel in the high, shadowed ceiling too far above the modest restaurant area, and the hint, behind three makeshift walls around the tables, of the long, wide, empty husk of the older room enclosing them.
Someone loomed into his dreamy stupor. He started, found the disquieting Carrie in front of him, holding sheets and a towel now instead of a cauldron.
âMy dad told Ella youâre staying the night,â she said briskly. âShe asked me to take you upstairs.â She raised her chin slightly, catching Tyeâs eye. âNumber three okay?â
âFar as I know, nothing leaks in there.â
âHow much do I oweâ?â
Tye shook his head. âDonât worry about it. Weâll settle up in the morning.â
âThanks.â He drained his glass and stood up. Nothing fell over; the floor didnât rise to meet him. He laughed a little. âI lost track of how long Iâve been sitting here.â
âYouâre not the first,â Tye answered. âSweet dreams.â
Carrie led him to the far side of the room, where the old reception desk with slots behind it for mail and keys emerged bulkily out of the shadows. She had begun to climb the stairs when he remembered his manners.
âHere. Let me carry that stuff.â
âIâve got it, thanks.â
He trailed after her around the elegant curve, trying not to gaze at the taut figure on the step above, sure she would read his mind and dump the linens on his head. He thought of food instead.
âThat salmon was unbelievable. Howâ What did you do to it?â
âThe salmon?â She sounded incredulous.
âYeah. I would never in a million years have let it anywhere near a deep fryer. My mother would have fired me. But youââ
âYouâre asking me about the salmon?â
âWell. Yes.â
She flashed him one of her wide-eyed glances, a bewildering mix of amazement and exasperation. She made a noise indicating something major wrong with his head, and opened the door at the top of the stairs.
âElla, Hal, and Tye all sleep on this floor; you wonât be alone up here.â She dropped her armload on a tapestry-covered chair and flicked on a lamp. âBathroomâs in there. Donât worry. Itâs not a chamber pot, and there is hot water.â
âWhat did I say?â he asked softly, genuinely wanting to know. To his surprise her expression became complex, bittersweet, and strangely sad.