with the trait herself. She’s too afraid of missing the nail head altogether, of creating a huge and ugly hole in the wall next to her intention.
“What can I get for you?” he asks.
“What do you recommend?” asks Petra.
“What are you in the mood for, beer, wine?”
“Something stronger. Something you make,” says Petra.
He pours off some of the drink he’s just mixed into a small glass and places it down in front of Petra, who takes a sip.
“That’s good. Espresso martini?”
He nods.
“I’ll have that,” says Petra.
“Me, too,” says Jill.
“Try some?” asks Petra, offering what’s left in her glass to Beth.
“No, no, I—” says Beth.
“Can’t have caffeine after four,” says Jimmy, knowing her answer. “She’ll be up all night.”
Beth shifts in her seat.
“How about something sweeter?” he says, already pulling bottles.
It’s strange to see him mixing all these fancy drinks. Jimmy’s a beer-in-the-bottle kind of guy. And not the new kindsof beers infused with nutmeg or pumpkin or blueberries. He likes “real” beer. Budweiser and Coors. He reluctantly admits to liking Cisco’s Whale’s Tale, but only because the brewery is down the road from their house.
And this isn’t Jimmy’s kind of bar. He likes a guys’ place, not necessarily a sports pub, although the Red Sox, Patriots, Bruins, or Celtics had better be playing on the flatscreen. He likes a bar that’s dark and dirty, a glass jar of hard-boiled eggs and bowls of peanuts on the counter, wooden floors warped from years of soaking in spilled beer, Def Leppard playing on the jukebox. The menu might have mozzarella sticks and buffalo wings but certainly not anything with foie gras or truffle oil. There’s a pool table and a dartboard and a bouncer because at least one sloppy drunk is going to throw a punch at somebody before closing.
Salt is the opposite of Jimmy’s kind of bar. The coppery-orange globe pendants glow against the tin ceiling, giving off a romantic light. The mixed crowd here—some locals, most not—is more women than men, and everyone is dressed well, refined looking, out for a civilized evening. Beth reads the list of cocktails on the drinks menu and gasps at the prices. At $20 a pop, everyone here is out for a civilized and expensive evening. She looks down the length of the bar, at the men and women seated next to them, trying to get a sense for who comes here. She notices nothing worth mentioning until she sees the large Nantucket basket purse perched on the bar, owned by the blond woman next to the bald man in the seersucker suit jacket. Too expensive for anyone actually from Nantucket to own; Beth has seen Nantucket baskets much smaller than that sell for over $1,000.
The bar itself is a honed, rugged stone slab embedded with amber-colored pieces of sea glass. Beth slides her hand over the cool surface. It’s beautiful, a piece of art. The music is techno and loud. No one will be singing “Pour Some Sugar on Me” here.
“Here you go,” says Jimmy, presenting Beth with a martini glass brimming with pink liquid. “The best drink on the menu.”
Beth takes a sip. It’s sweet and spicy with a strong but not unpleasant kick, the kind of drink she could easily get drunk on.
“It’s good. What is it?” asks Beth.
“Vodka, rum, chili, lime, and ginger. It’s called a Hot Passion martini.”
Hot Passion? What is he doing? Beth feels embarrassed, indignant, and then strangely flattered.
“What’s with the beard?” asks Petra.
“Just trying it out,” says Jimmy, scratching the hollows of his newly hairy cheeks with his fingers. “You like it?”
“No,” says Petra.
He’s been growing the beard for about a month now, and Beth thinks it looks good on him, rugged, masculine. It makes up for his weak chin. And she knows him, that he’s not just trying it out. Jimmy stops shaving whenever he’s going through a hard time—when his dad died, when scalloping dried up and
“What can I get for you?” he asks.
“What do you recommend?” asks Petra.
“What are you in the mood for, beer, wine?”
“Something stronger. Something you make,” says Petra.
He pours off some of the drink he’s just mixed into a small glass and places it down in front of Petra, who takes a sip.
“That’s good. Espresso martini?”
He nods.
“I’ll have that,” says Petra.
“Me, too,” says Jill.
“Try some?” asks Petra, offering what’s left in her glass to Beth.
“No, no, I—” says Beth.
“Can’t have caffeine after four,” says Jimmy, knowing her answer. “She’ll be up all night.”
Beth shifts in her seat.
“How about something sweeter?” he says, already pulling bottles.
It’s strange to see him mixing all these fancy drinks. Jimmy’s a beer-in-the-bottle kind of guy. And not the new kindsof beers infused with nutmeg or pumpkin or blueberries. He likes “real” beer. Budweiser and Coors. He reluctantly admits to liking Cisco’s Whale’s Tale, but only because the brewery is down the road from their house.
And this isn’t Jimmy’s kind of bar. He likes a guys’ place, not necessarily a sports pub, although the Red Sox, Patriots, Bruins, or Celtics had better be playing on the flatscreen. He likes a bar that’s dark and dirty, a glass jar of hard-boiled eggs and bowls of peanuts on the counter, wooden floors warped from years of soaking in spilled beer, Def Leppard playing on the jukebox. The menu might have mozzarella sticks and buffalo wings but certainly not anything with foie gras or truffle oil. There’s a pool table and a dartboard and a bouncer because at least one sloppy drunk is going to throw a punch at somebody before closing.
Salt is the opposite of Jimmy’s kind of bar. The coppery-orange globe pendants glow against the tin ceiling, giving off a romantic light. The mixed crowd here—some locals, most not—is more women than men, and everyone is dressed well, refined looking, out for a civilized evening. Beth reads the list of cocktails on the drinks menu and gasps at the prices. At $20 a pop, everyone here is out for a civilized and expensive evening. She looks down the length of the bar, at the men and women seated next to them, trying to get a sense for who comes here. She notices nothing worth mentioning until she sees the large Nantucket basket purse perched on the bar, owned by the blond woman next to the bald man in the seersucker suit jacket. Too expensive for anyone actually from Nantucket to own; Beth has seen Nantucket baskets much smaller than that sell for over $1,000.
The bar itself is a honed, rugged stone slab embedded with amber-colored pieces of sea glass. Beth slides her hand over the cool surface. It’s beautiful, a piece of art. The music is techno and loud. No one will be singing “Pour Some Sugar on Me” here.
“Here you go,” says Jimmy, presenting Beth with a martini glass brimming with pink liquid. “The best drink on the menu.”
Beth takes a sip. It’s sweet and spicy with a strong but not unpleasant kick, the kind of drink she could easily get drunk on.
“It’s good. What is it?” asks Beth.
“Vodka, rum, chili, lime, and ginger. It’s called a Hot Passion martini.”
Hot Passion? What is he doing? Beth feels embarrassed, indignant, and then strangely flattered.
“What’s with the beard?” asks Petra.
“Just trying it out,” says Jimmy, scratching the hollows of his newly hairy cheeks with his fingers. “You like it?”
“No,” says Petra.
He’s been growing the beard for about a month now, and Beth thinks it looks good on him, rugged, masculine. It makes up for his weak chin. And she knows him, that he’s not just trying it out. Jimmy stops shaving whenever he’s going through a hard time—when his dad died, when scalloping dried up and
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