Sweet Forgiveness by Lori Nelson Spielman Page A

of the room. “First door.”
    The spotless bathroom smells of a lemon disinfectant. On a table behind the sink, I spy mouthwash and paper cups, hair spray, and a bowl of wrapped chocolate mints. I pop one in my mouth. Oh, that’s good. I grab a handful and stash them in my purse, something to nibble on during tomorrow’s flight.
    After splashing water on my face, I look into the mirror, horrified at what I see. I have no makeup on, and I didn’t bother straightening my hair this morning. I pull a clip from my purse and gather my wavy locks at the back of my neck. Next, I grab a tube of lip gloss. But just as I go to apply it, I stop. I’m up here in the middle of the boonies, where nobody knows or cares who I am. Do I have the guts to go au naturel? I tuck the tube back into my purse and grab another handful of mints on my way out the door.
    When I return to the bar, I find a basket of breadsticks alongside a glass of red wine.
    â€œMerlot,” he says. “Two thousand ten. My personal favorite.”
    I lift the glass by the stem and put it to my nose. It’s heady and pungent. Next I swirl it, trying to remember why I’m supposed to do this. The man watches me with a whiff of a smile on his face. Is he mocking me?
    I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you laughing at me?”
    He sobers. “No. I’m sorry. It’s just . . .”
    I crack a grin. “Of course. I’m doing exactly what every amateur wine connoisseur does when offered a glass of wine. The swirl.”
    â€œNo, it isn’t the obligatory swirl, though you’re spot-on. Everybody swirls. I’m laughing because . . . you . . .” He points to my purse. It’s open, and looks as if it’s my trick-or-treat bag, so full it is with chocolate mints.
    I feel my face heat. “Oh, geez! I’m sorry. I—”
    His laughter is hearty. “No worries. Take all you like. I can’t keep my hands off them, either.”
    I laugh, too. I like this guy’s casual manner, treating me as if we’re old friends. I kind of admire this regular Joe, trying to make a go in this northern town, with a business that operates only eight months a year. It can’t be easy.
    I skip the rituals and take a sip of the wine.
    â€œOh, wow, that’s good. Really good.” I take another sip. “And this is where I’m supposed to insert words like
oaky
and
buttery
.”
    â€œOr
musky
or
smoky
. Or my personal favorite,
This shit tastes like wet asphalt.
”
    â€œNo! Someone actually said that?” The sound of my laughter sounds foreign to me. How long has it been since I’ve truly laughed?
    â€œSadly, they did. Gotta have a thick skin in this biz.”
    â€œWell, if this is wet asphalt, you’re welcome to pave my driveway.”
Pave my driveway?
Did I actually say that? Shut me up now! I hide my face in my glass.
    â€œGlad you like it.” He stretches an arm across the bar, offering a large paw. “I’m RJ.”
    I fit my hand into his. “Nice to meet you. I’m Hannah.”
    He goes into the back room and returns with a steaming bowl of soup.
    â€œTomato basil,” he tells me, and places it on the place mat before me. “Careful, it’s hot.”
    â€œThanks.”
    He hoists himself on the edge of the back counter facing me, as if he’s settling in for a long conversation. The personal attention makes me feel special. I remind myself that I am his only patron, after all.
    We cover the basics while I sip my wine and wait for my soup to cool. Where I’m from, what brings me to this neck of the woods.
    â€œI’m a journalist. I grew up down South,” I tell him. “I’m here visiting my mother.” It might be a lie of omission, technically, but I’m not about to tell this stranger my childhood saga.
    â€œShe lives here?”
    â€œJust west, in Harbour Cove.”
    He