Whenever You Call by Anna King Page A

“Yes!”
    I took a bite of salad and chewed. I said, “Your confidence worries me.”
    “I’ve been an out-of-work actor for almost 20 years. It’s either confidence or suicide.”
    “What made you decide to write a mystery?”
    “I’m addicted to them. I read them constantly and it got to the point where I figured I could do just as well.”
    My hopes for his book went up, but I didn’t let on. I hadn’t kept track, but I’d recommended only about five writers to my agent over the years. She’d signed three of them, and one had made it big. Much bigger than I’d ever been.
    I waved my fork at him. “Listen, I don’t think much of our class of bartenders.”
    He shook his head. “You have no idea.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “It’s always this way.”
    “That must be depressing.”
    “I get paid no matter what. They’ll drop out as the week goes along—” He chewed on his sandwich and then waved his hand around to get my attention. As if I could possibly look anywhere but at him. “I have a great job for you, if you decide you really want to work as a bartender.”
    “I know I want a job, no question about it.”
    “The Harvest is losing one of their regular bartenders. They called me about the job, but it’s not my style and I’m burned out, anyway, just want to concentrate on the teaching and writing the next mystery. You’d be perfect. Elegant, smart, a real novelist. I think they’d hire you in a millisecond.”
    The Harvest, one of the premiere restaurants in Cambridge established thirty years ago, wasn’t what I’d had in mind when I imagined working as a bartender. I’d been thinking more along the lines of the Oxford Ale House, where I’d hung out dancing and drinking in my twenties, though I could understand that the Oxford Ale House would be looking for hot young women, not middle-aged novelists. Judging from Al’s attitude, I ought to be thrilled.
    Al said, “I don’t know what your financial situation is, but it’s great money at a place like the Harvest. They’re talking about starting someone during the lunch shift, which isn’t as lucrative, but if you’re good, you’ll get a shot at nights.”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    It was time to get back and, not surprisingly, Al said he had the manuscript for Tie Me to the Bedpost in the classroom.
    We started to walk quickly, in that awkward dance along a sidewalk when you really don’t know someone well, but you might like to know them very well, so that you somehow manage to keep bumping into them. To draw attention away from one too many of those bumps, for which I was probably responsible, I said, “I’m not going to get a chance to read your novel until after this class is over, okay? I don’t want you eagerly searching my face every morning and somehow thinking that because I don’t say anything that means I hated it.”
    “Gotcha.” He grinned at me and I bumped into him again.
    The guy was like a magnet. It reminded me of how I’d been when I’d met Isaac. In true Cambridge fashion, we’d been circling around the Harvard Coop bookstore for almost an hour. I only slowly became aware of him when our circles overlapped for about the fifth time, at which point I laughed and said, “If this keeps up, we’re going to find ourselves in bed by tonight.”
    So, yeah, we were in bed together that night. The next day, when I called Jen and told her I’d fallen in love with Isaac, a guy I’d picked up and slept with the same night, she called me shameless. I’d thought she was joking, especially since I’d actually married Isaac, but probably she’d meant it. I was shameless. Two years since my divorce and I was no longer shameless. Instead, I was lonely and confused. I couldn’t really see how I was gaining ground here.
    “Mind if I make a quick phone call?” I said to Al.
    “I’ll start without you.” He patted my arm.
    I whipped out my cell phone and hit the code for Jen’s office. “What happened?”