He was standing almost before he was aware of it. They were shaking hands, hers wet and powdery. She brushed his cheek with her lips, then wiped the slight moisture from the side of his mouth. ‘Sorry. Thank you for coming down.’
Hardy stood, wanting to rub the spot on his cheek. Fire burns.
‘I feel a little funny here,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t my natural environment, especially dressed like this.’
She took him in. ‘You look fine.’
‘Is there someplace to talk?’
Celine told him there was a juice bar on the second floor. Would that be all right? Hardy followed her up a wide banistered granite staircase to the upstairs lobby, the entire space bordered by hi-tech metallic instruments of torture – exercycles, Climb-Masters, rowing machines, treadmills. Each was in use. You couldn’t avoid the panting, the noise of thirty sets of whirring gears, occasionally a moan or a grunt. Beyond the machines, the glass wall to the outside showed off another of the city’s famous views – Alcatraz, Angel Island, Marin County. You could see where the fog abruptly ended a mile or so inside the Golden Gate.
The juice bar was about as intimate as a railroad station, but at least the noise level was lower. The aerobic music wasn’t pumped in here, although it did leak from the lobby. Celine ordered some type of a shake that the perfect specimen behind the bar poured a bunch of powders into. Hardy thought he’d stick with some bottled water; he paid $4.75 for the two drinks.
They sat at a low table in the corner of the room where the glass wall met brick. ‘Do you come here a lot?’ Hardy asked.
‘Sometimes it’s like I live here. Then since Daddy…’ She sipped her shake. ‘It works it off. I don’t know what else to do to fill up the time.’
‘What did you do before?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Before your father died. Sometimes the best thing you can do is go back to your routines, what you were used to.’
A tanker that appeared through the fog bank on the Bay seemed to take her attention for a minute. ‘But I didn’t really do anything routinely,’ she said. ‘I mean, I don’t work or anything. I just lived. Now…’ She let it trail off, went back to staring.
‘Did you see your father every day?’
‘Well, not every. When he wanted to see me, I had to be there. I mean, I know that sounds weird, but he’d get hurt.’
‘He’d get hurt if you didn’t drop everything to see him?’
‘Well, not everything. I had my own life too.’
‘That’s what I was talking about. Getting back to your own life.’
She was shaking her head. ‘But it’s like there’s no point to it now. Don’t you see? It’s like the center’s fallen out.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘that’s how it feels, but it hasn’t really. You’ve got your own center. You do. You just have to find it again.’
But he seemed to keep losing her. Again, her eyes were out toward the evening sky. ‘Celine?’ He brought his hand up and laid it over hers, exerting a little pressure. She came back to him. ‘You mind if I ask you how old you are?’
‘No, I don’t mind. You can ask anything you want.’ She met his eyes, solemn, then suddenly broke into a smile. Thirty-nine,‘ she said. ’Almost got you, didn’t I?‘
Hardy nodded, smiling himself. ‘Almost.’
‘So what about thirty-nine?’
‘I’m just thinking that’s not too young to stop being dependent on your father.’
He felt the shift in her tension just before she pulled her hand out from under his. ‘I wasn’t dependent on my father. I loved my father.’
‘Of course, I’m not saying anything else. But, well, isn’t thirty-nine a little old to be at his beck and call?’
‘I wasn’t at his beck and call.’
‘But he made you feel guilty if you weren’t there when he wanted to see you. That’s pretty classic parental control.’
‘It just hurt his feelings. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, that’s all.’
Hardy knew he was digging a hole, but thought he might get all the way through to China and see some light. ‘Remember when we were talking the other day, what you said about being so mad at him? Maybe that’s why.’
‘I’m not mad at him! Ken’s the same way.’
Hardy leaned back, slowing down, wanting to make the point and not get in a fight over it. ‘Your father controlled people, Celine. Ken too. Maybe that’s why he was so successful.’
‘My father did not control me.’
She clearly didn’t want to hear it. Time to back off. ‘Okay, okay.’
‘And who are you to talk? What makes you such an expert?’
Hardy help up a hand, trying to slow her down. ‘Whoa, I didn’t say -’
‘I know what you were saying. That my daddy was this control freak who was ruining my life because he loved his daughter and wanted to see her. Well, that’s all it was. We loved each other. We had the best times. You didn’t know him. We loved each other!’
She was starting to cry now, punctuating her speech by punching her glass into the table. Other people were looking over at the commotion.
‘Celine…’
‘Just go away. I don’t need your help. Go away. Leave me alone.’
Hardy leaned forward in the chair, put his hand again on the table. ‘Celine.’
She slammed her glass down onto the table, the drink spilling out over her hands, over the glass. ‘Get out of here! Now! Get out of here!’
‘I think she’s nuts.’
‘She’s bereaved, Diz. The girl’s father dies, you don’t pick that moment to point out to her he was a prick.’
‘I didn’t say he was a prick. I was trying to give her something to help her break away, give her a little insight -’
‘Insight comes in its own sweet time.’
‘That’s beautiful, Mose. I’ll remember that. Give me another hit, would you?’
Hardy was drinking Bushmills at the Shamrock. It was Wednesday, date night, and he was meeting Frannie at seven, in another half hour. There weren’t more than twenty patrons in the place and only two others at the bar, nursing beers.
The Little Shamrock had been in existence since 1893. Moses McGuire had bought it in 1977 and pretty much left it the way it had been. The place was only fifteen feet wide, wall to wall, and about forty-five feet deep. The bar itself – mahogany – extended halfway to the back along the left side. Twelve tables, with four chairs each, filled the area in front of the bar on the linoleum floor. Over that area hung an assortment of bric-a-brac – bicycles, antique fishing rods, an upside-down sailfish and the pièce de résistance, a clock that had stopped ticking during the Great Earthquake of 1906.
The back of the place had an old wall-to-wall maroon Berber carpet and several couches, armchairs, coffee tables, a fireplace. It wasn’t designed to seat the maximum amount of bodies, but to make it comfortable for what bodies there were. The bathrooms had stained glass in the doors. There were two dart boards against the side wall in the back by an old-fashioned jukebox.
The entire front of the bar was comprised of two picture windows and a set of swinging doors. Out the windows was Lincoln Boulevard. Across the street was Golden Gate Park, evergreen and eucalyptus. Three years ago, after working as a bartender there for nearly a decade, Hardy had acquired a quarter-interest in the place. It was almost as much his home as his house was.
McGuire walked down to the taps and came back with a pint of stout. ‘And what I am supposed to do with this? I see you come through the door, I start a Guinness. It’s automatic. So now I got a Guinness poured and tonight you’re drinking Irish.’