Street Smart

“You said your father owned this place, past tense. He doesn’t anymore?” she asked when he was once again standing in front of her. He did seem to be stopping there more often than anywhere else. She’d noticed a while ago that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

“He died a couple of years ago.”

Death. Caskets. With lids that slowly closed, choking out any hope that there’d been a mistake. Funerals. Raw earth, freshly shoveled…

“I’m…sorry.” He didn’t know her, or anything about her. The anonymity was protection.

“It’s okay.” He shrugged, called out to some other customers, asking if they were ready, and excused himself as he moved down to pour beer into frosted mugs from one of the six or eight taps across from the cash register.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Thirty. Carl had been right when he’d told her no one would bother her. Besides an occasional smile sent her way, she was left completely alone. People came. And went. And every single time the door opened, Francesca’s heart skipped a beat. And then settled into the familiar plod of disappointment. She was thinking more and more about showing Carl Autumn’s picture.

But why would she be asking questions about the friend she’d supposedly come there to meet? This was different from a street corner.

There was no way she was getting this close only to have someone tip off Autumn and have her run again. The setback would be too much. She’d become obsessed with finding Autumn. Her sister’s unexpected phone call to Sacramento had pulled Francesca out of a dark and dangerous place. Autumn had become a reason to live.

Second margarita in hand, she was glad she’d come. It felt good to be around people. To be no one in no man’s land, with nothing to do but let the alcohol numb what little was left of her ability to feel.

“So is this bar still in your family?” she asked the only person she knew in Las Vegas, if she didn’t count José at the front desk at the Lucky Seven. Or the head of security at the Bonaparte.

Carl, filling some bowls with snack mix, nodded. “Technically my brothers and I own it together, but they all had different interests, so I run it.”

She liked his shrug. And his grin.

“How many brothers do you have?”

“Three.”

“And you all share the profits?”

“Nah.” He grinned. “There wouldn’t be enough to go around. They’ve got pretty expensive tastes. I take a manager’s salary. The rest goes to Mom for as long as she’s alive.”

“Does she work here?” It didn’t matter. None of this mattered, Italian family or not.

He waved toward a side door leading to a back room. “Try taking a step into the kitchen and you’ll find out.”

A strong woman. Francesca liked that. And thought, for the brief moment before the pain descended, about Sancia. Loving, brokenhearted Sancia. Francesca would never have looked up the elderly woman, introduced herself, if she’d had any idea of the agony she’d bring with her.

She’d called her once since returning to the States, but neither of them had been able to speak through their tears, and she hadn’t repeated the experience. Later, when she was better, she’d visit Sancia again. Maybe.

“Looks like your friend’s a no-show,” Carl said after she’d been there for more than an hour.

“Yeah.”

It was an opening. She just wasn’t sure she wanted to take it yet. Didn’t want to risk blowing her cover. Not many people handed around pictures of their friends, asking if anyone had seen them or knew anything about them.

She wanted to be able to come back to Guido’s. Waiting was much more pleasant there.

“So…” He hesitated, looking a little sheepish. “Is this the first time you’ve been stood up?”

His assumption was kind of nice. But then, he couldn’t know what life was like for a woman who’d loved a man who was married to someone else.

“I wasn’t stood up,” she said now. “I was meeting a girlfriend….”

His obvious pleasure in that news was gratifying. To her ego at least. The rest of her couldn’t care less.

There were a lot of young girls hanging around. Dressed-for-dates young women. They were a friendly bunch. Autumn wasn’t among them.

She had a third margarita. Might have gone for a fourth if her car hadn’t been in the parking lot. While the trade-off—a possible night in a jail cell for DUI—would in some ways be worth the numb and almost peaceful oblivion she was finding, she couldn’t let herself lose even a day on the hunt for Autumn. It would just make the trail that much longer. Provide that much more opportunity for the rains to pour down and wash away Autumn’s tracks. Because come they would. They always did.

“You sure you’re okay to drive?” Carl asked her just before midnight as he walked her to the door.

Most of the crowd had disappeared, although there were still a couple of twenty-something guys shooting pool, a few friends sitting at the bar, and a table or two occupied in the corners of the room. All these people were younger than the real Francesca Witting.

“Positive. Three’s my limit.”

“So, you think the margaritas might be good enough to bring you back for seconds?”

Was the next night too soon? “Is that an invitation?”

“Well…” He shrugged again, though not with any lack of confidence. “I’d probably have taken my chances on a dinner date, but it’s a little tough for a guy in my position to date much, since I work almost every night of the week.”

She tried hard—harder than she’d known she could—to overcome her immediate defensiveness. “I’m sorry,” she told him, wishing she could feel the sentiment. “I don’t date.”

“Not at all?”

“No.” Unequivocally.

He studied her for several seconds. “Well, then,” he started slowly. “Are friends out of the question, too?”

“Um, I don’t think I’ll be in town long,” she said.

“So, you aren’t coming back?”

Yes! She had to. “I’m not leaving yet.”

“How about tomorrow, then?”

The invitation played right into her hands. Francesca nodded.

His grin made her wonder if she’d made a big mistake. But she had to be back tomorrow night. And every night after that until she found her sister. Or got another lead that took her to the next waiting place.

The street corner by day.

Guido’s by night.

Life could be worse.

The woman was beautiful. Tall. Slender. Wavy blond hair. And compassionate. It was that last quality that captivated Luke. Sure, he liked his women gorgeous, but in this town of tinsel and illusion, what attracted him most was real softness. Inside softness.