Chapter Text
Elliott
Elliott gazed at the whirlpool of merlot swirling in his glass, hoping rather than believing that letting the wine breathe before his next sip would make it more palatable. Elbows resting on the saloon table, he twirled the stem between his fingers, held the rim to his nose, sniffed, then sipped again. Elliot set down his glass and sighed. No change.
Elliot enjoyed everything about wine. Well, everything but the taste, that is. A clumsy palette was Elliott’s secret shame, but he hid it expertly, his aficionado pretense undetectable to even the most critical connoisseur. Elliott loved wine’s aesthetic. He fancied himself mysterious, thoughtful, refined; and he wanted others to think he wasn’t just an author, but an artiste. A glass of wine was one of the accessories needed to achieve the look. It paired well with his threadbare pomegranate blazer, his long strawberry gold hair, and his roguish good looks.
Even more than the wine’s aesthetic, Elliott loved the endless daydream fodder that wine offered; eons of mythology, history, religion, all aging in dusty casks and bottles in cellars across the world. There’s power and weakness in wine; it turns gods into fools and fools into poets, he mused. Good line. Maybe one for the novel?
He swirled and sniffed again. No, it’s mawkish. Well, maybe not. I should’ve brought a pen.
Elliott was among Friday night’s first arrivals at the Stardrop Saloon, which he preferred; people-watching inspired his pen. Well, people-watching would inspire his pen if he hadn’t been watching the same people for two years now. At the Stardrop tonight were the regular sots, Pam and Shane, two loners seated at opposite ends of the bar, sharing the bond of insobriety, but not friendship.
Pam slurred her woes to Gus, the Stardrop’s owner, as he tended bar. Gus hadn’t listened to Pam for years, his “Hmms” and “You don’t says” the absent-minded beat to Pam’s perennial song and dance. Gus delegated Shane’s care to Emily, the Stardrop’s part-time bartender. Shane said little (if anything) to anyone, and Emily returned the favor by never letting his mug go empty. Watching Gus and Emily ping-pong between Pam and Shane depressed Elliott, but it was still early, and more patrons would trickle in as the daylight died.
The bell above the saloon door chimed, calling Elliott’s glance away from his drink. Marnie, a rancher who lived near Cindersap Forest outside of town, hurried in, escaping a downpour. She shook off the cold spring rain like a robin in a bird bath and scanned the room. Elliott met her eyes and raised his glass in greeting, receiving a nod and a smile in return. Marnie claimed her usual table nearby to wait for Pelican Town’s mayor, Lewis, her companion and not-so-secret secret lover.
Marnie and Lewis had long been the subject of town gossip, and not without good reason; they’d been caught trysting in dark corners and public parks throughout Pelican Town. If that weren’t enough, Lewis was casual about leaving his calling card (purple polka dot drawers) all over the hamlet. Elliott chuckled remembering an incident a few months prior when some civic-minded hooligan strung up a pair on a flagpole with a sign: “Pelican Town is Not a Laundromat.” Lewis had tried to rally a posse to hunt down the perpetrator, but quickly abandoned the cause when he realized the public favored the vigilante.
Could I work that tale into the novel without giving Mayor Lewis an aneurysm? Elliot thought. Is it funny, or is it only funny because I know the man?
Elliott adored Pelican Town and its characters nestled in Stardew Valley. He was drawn to the area’s natural beauty, with low mountains cascading into dense forests and a sparkling beach where his cabin stood. More pragmatically, and as a typical starving artist, he also appreciated the cost of living: Pelican Town was not an up-and-coming place, and its remoteness was a deterrent to most would-be transplants.
More than anything else, Elliott loved the histories and antics of Pelican Town’s people. He longed to be a part of it, a character in the town’s storybook. But like so many small-town migrants before him, he had trouble breaking through the well-woven web of society that the natives maintained. For two years, Elliott dwelled in a bystander’s limbo, observing, but not participating.
Elliott heard the bell again, but his thoughts governed his attention, and he paid the ringing no mind until he heard footsteps approaching him.
“Well, if it isn’t my good friend Hemingway.”
Elliott glanced up from his glass to see Harvey, the town doctor, shedding his soaked green jacket and waving a hand to Gus for his usual merlot. A fellow urban defector, Harvey was one of Elliott’s only friends in town.
"Sawbones!” boomed Elliott, clapping a hand on Harvey’s shoulder. “Take a load off. Maim anyone this week?”
Harvey snorted. “Not yet, but the night’s young, and the kids aren’t here yet.” Elliott and Harvey, two bachelors on the downward slope to forty, referred to anyone in the town younger than them as The Kids.
Gus delivered Harvey’s wine with an “Evenin’, Doc,” using the break from Pam to make rounds to the other tables. The Stardrop was starting to look like the beginning of a modern Canterbury Tale, Elliott thought; a fisherman, a carpenter, a scientist, a blacksmith, two lushes, a rancher, a mayor, a doctor, and a writer all shared the roof now.
Elliott and Harvey’s standing Friday night drink was the highlight of the week for Elliott, and had been for far too many weeks. And months. And years, now. An aging boredom gnawed at his mind, and its teeth only sharpened with time. Routine was the opiate of Elliott’s inspiration, and his months-long struggle with writer’s block was proof. Elliott once cherished the beauty of the coastal town and found delight in the multi-faceted townspeople. Lately, however, familiarity dimmed the appeal of both.
Harvey
Dr. Harvey Lambert, MD relished in routine.
He knew the steps of conversation with Elliott like an old recipe. The ingredients were always the same: discussion of books they’d read and movies they’d seen. Debates on well-trod controversies like whether the moon landing was real. Rehashed stories of the antics of their youth before migrating to Pelican Town. Personal details were not part of the recipe–neither Harvey nor Elliott asked about the other’s day, no inquiries were made on career or family, and they certainly did not discuss future plans. Every Friday, they had a drink, recited their conversation, parted ways, and were not troubled with it again until the next Friday. The recipe worked, yielded consistent results, and Harvey liked it.
He had the same coffee (one sugar, no cream) and the same breakfast (two eggs over medium on sourdough toast) every morning at 7:00. He had one shirt, one tie, and one pair of slacks for each day of the week, laundry completed on Sundays. His clinic opened at 8:00 each morning, closed at 3:00 each afternoon, and he spent two hours after closing completing paperwork and professional development courses. Friday nights he socialized at the Stardrop, though calling it “socializing” was generous, as he only ever spoke with Elliott. Any energy he had for the unexpected was spent on the odd emergency call after hours.
As Harvey listened to Elliott rant about the decline of real literature (another well-worn topic), he combed the room. The Stardrop and all its usuals were exactly where they always were, in the same condition they always were in. The hardwood floors and wall panels shone softly in the warm light from the antler chandelier and fire roaring in the rock hearth. Strummy old folk songs crackled out of the jukebox, and the local carpenter Robin and her husband Demetrius swayed together in the corner, keeping clumsy time to the tune. Footsteps, clacking billiard balls, and the rainfall’s rooftop pitter-patter percussed the music of the evening.
Harvey could feel his shoulders releasing tension, the predictability of his surroundings soothing as a hot bath. He relaxed his posture, leaned back in his chair, and retuned his ear to Elliott.
“...All popular ‘literature,’ if one could even deign to call it that, is trope-laden and caters solely to the prurient interest,” Elliott continued. “It’s a shame. Has the muse abandoned us? Are we to forever wallow in mundanity?” The writer wasn’t expecting an answer from the doctor, and the doctor had none but a shrug to give.
“And you know,” Elliot added, “that’s why film is dying, too. If a good novelist is elusive, just think of locating a script writer or a playwright. Not to mention art’s ever-losing battle to commerce. There’s no script involved because no studio wants to pay a writer. They just set up a camera, the actors improvise a thousand hours of footage, and editors cobble it all together like fairytale elves in a sweatshop. They slap that slop on our beloved silver screen, and we’re expected to pay twenty dollars a ticket for the privilege.”
Harvey scoffed. “Twenty dollars? No way movie tickets cost that much–who would pay that?”
“Twenty dollars for the ticket, then more for the popcorn and drinks, Sawbones. Gone are the days of the cheap date,” Elliott sighed. “How long has it been since you’ve been to the cinema?”
“You know,” Harvey started, stroking his mustache, “I think the last movie I saw in theaters was Fellowship of the Ring.”
Elliott gave Harvey a pitying look. “That is bleak. Well, in your defense, that might have been the last movie worth paying to see.”
“I took a girl to see it,” Harvey reminisced, the wine softening his usually guarded edges. “Amber Taylor. It took me a good two months to work up the nerve to ask her out. We went to see Fellowship of the Ring, and God help me, when Gandalf fell off that bridge, I wept. Actually cried tears. Amber was appalled and never called me back.”
Elliott was in stitches. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in weeks, doc,” he wheezed. Harvey chuckled, too, but a kernel of embarrassment lodged in his throat. He couldn’t believe he’d shared so much. I should lay off the wine, he thought.
When Elliott caught his breath, he continued, “You dodged a bullet. Amber was a moral degenerate if Gandalf’s fall didn’t move her.”
“Clearly. She’s probably in prison now.”
Elliott laughed again and raised his glass. “To dismal dates and girlfriends past, both inside and outside the penitentiary system.”
Harvey grinned, returned the cheers, and drained the last swallow. Elliott headed to the bar for another pour, leaving Harvey a moment alone. Heat bloomed in Harvey’s face as the wine settled in him. The old ego bruise throbbed, but seeing the Stardrop’s patrons all in their assigned places, ticking along like the hands of a clock, was a balm for the doctor.
Elliott returned with two merlots. “I know you usually don’t go for two,” Elliott said, “but it’s raining.” Harvey didn’t question Elliott’s reasoning, but nodded a thanks and indulged. A second serving was another departure from Harvey’s routine, but only a small one.
Halfway through the glass, Elliott abandoned conversation in favor of humming along with the jukebox and drumming on the table while Harvey’s finger and foot tapped the beat.
A glass-shattering shriek split the air.
Elliott startled out of his chair, and Harvey leapt to his feet, scanning the barroom for an injured patient. His eyes landed on Shane, drenched in beer and holding an empty mug, cursing.
“Dammit, Em!” Shane growled. “You tryin’ to give me a heart attack?”
Emily was nearby, squealing and jumping in an embrace with a stranger. The newcomer, laden with duffle bags and a suitcase, nearly toppled under Emily’s hug.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Shane!” Emily cried, tossing him her bar cloth. “But look! Lucy’s here!”
Harvey exhaled when he realized there was no danger. He shuffled back to his table and drained the rest of his glass, tension gripping his shoulders. Elliott regained his chair and watched Emily and the Stardrop’s newest arrival with a languid interest. Harvey spectated, too, but with what he hoped was more subtlety than Elliott, who was already a couple of sheets to the wind.
Shane toweled his shirt and grumbled. “I don’t give a rat’s ass who’s here, Em, you gotta watch where you’re goin’.”
“Good to see you too, Shane,” said the newcomer who must be Lucy as she set down her bags by an empty barstool.
Shane squinted through the beerfog, and recognition broke a crooked grin across his face.
“No way…Lucy Ballinger? Oh, for crying out loud, how ya doin’, kiddo?” Shane threw a sloppy arm around Lucy’s shoulders and pulled her to his side. “Em, you didn’t tell me this weirdo was comin’ to town!”
Harvey and Elliott shared a look; neither of them had ever heard Shane speak more than two consecutive words, let alone smile. And he hugged someone?
“It was a surprise!” chirped Emily. “I thought it might cheer you up, seeing your old neighbor.”
Shane’s smile sunk, and he withdrew his arm from Lucy. Plopping back on the barstool, he mumbled, “Good to see ya, Luce.” He held up his mug to Emily, who rolled her eyes and stepped back behind the bar to refill his drink. Lucy grabbed a stool nearby and caught up with Emily while she tended bar.
Harvey gave up his eavesdropping and turned his attention back to Elliott, who traced a finger on the rim of his glass, his eyes pinned on Lucy.
“Ballinger,” muttered Elliott. “Where have I heard that name?”
Lucy
Lucy perched on a barstool a few feet from Shane, side-eying the man with concern nesting in her chest. She remembered Shane McCall as the handsome captain of the gridball team, energetic and funny, the object of Lucy and Emily’s shared adolescent crush so many years ago. She would have never known that the beer-bellied barfly in the stained hoodie and day-old stubble was the same Shane.
Well, not the same Shane, she thought. Lord, he looks bad. What on Earth happened to him? She glanced at Emily, who shook her head at Lucy. “I’ll tell you later,” she mouthed.
Lucy nodded and took a steadying breath. She felt like she hadn’t breathed all day. She rooted in her purse for her notepad, where she had planned her migration to Stardew Valley down to the minute in a series of schedules and checklists. She flipped to the page with today’s checklist; the page was stiff and crunchy from her mottled last-minute amendments and dried raindrops. The cosmos conspired against me today, she thought. Well, joke’s on them. I made it here.
Twelve hours ago, she walked out of her cramped ZuZu City apartment for the last time, and the day only spiraled from there. Her car broke down an hour into her journey, and the mechanic said it wouldn’t be ready to drive again for at least a week. She couldn’t find a cab willing to shlep her and her luggage all the way out to Stardew Valley, so she had to wait four hours at a bus stop in a cold downpour. The bus arrived, sure enough, but was filthy and fetid, as any last bus bound for nowhere is sure to be.
Lucy rolled her shoulders, sloughing off the trials of the day. All she wanted was a soft pillow and solitude. That would have to wait, though; Lucy was spending her first night in the valley on Emily’s sofa, so she was at the mercy of her best friend's shift.
She slipped her hand into her raincoat pocket, brushing her fingers against an envelope soft and smooth from years of handling. She carried her late grandfather’s letter with her always, but had long since stopped opening it. Lucy knew its contents like a favorite song. She closed her eyes and pictured her grandfather’s scratchy handwriting, his signature, his words that bequeathed to her his life’s work: Eureka Farm in Stardew Valley. Even though five years had passed from when she’d first opened Pop’s letter to now, Lucy still had trouble believing the gift was real.
A sweet, aching gratitude curled in her chest, kneading her heart like a cat with a cushion. When a strong hand squeezed her arm, the scar of Lucy’s grief nearly split open again. She turned to see Gus standing beside her, his face crinkled in a broad smile.
“Glad you’re finally back with us, darlin’.” Gus’s voice, low and gruff, was a tonic for Lucy’s rumpled spirit. She stood from her seat and embraced him before emotion got the best of her.
“Oh, Gus,” she murmured into his shoulder. “It’s been too long.”
He patted her back and shushed gently. “Nevermind that, now, nevermind that.” Gus released the hug, but kept an arm on hers, appraising her. He tsked and shook his head. “Rough journey?”
She looked down at herself. Her navy blue raincoat was wrinkled and damp, her brown leather boots muddy and scuffed. Her silky green scarf fell frowsy around her neck. No telling what her hair and makeup looked like after the day’s ordeals.
Lucy ribbed the old barkeep. “I get all dressed up just for you, and this is how I’m treated? I should take my business elsewhere!"
Gus’s chuckle rumbled in his throat. “All right, all right, no need for that. First drink’s on the house, how ‘bout that? Bourbon’s still your poison?”
Lucy knit her brows together in a plea. “Make it a double?”
Gus soughed. “Here all of five minutes, and the girl’s already drinking me out of house and home. Comin’ right up, but you mind yourself, now, you hear?”
Lucy crossed her heart in a scout’s honor, and Gus waved her back to her barstool before plodding behind the bar to fix her drink. After a moment, he delivered her heavy pour with a wink.
The whiskey seared on Lucy’s tongue and down her throat, stoking a flame in her lips and cheeks. She could already feel the day’s worries softening, melting like snow in the sun.
Emily returned from her rounds and leaned on the bar beside Lucy, her excitement fluttering like a bird. “I’m inexpressibly jazzed about our sleepover tonight, and so is Haley, though she would never let on,” Emily bubbled. “I can fill you in on what little news there is, and then I can show you the new designs I’ve been sketching, and oh, we could maybe do an aura cleanse? I say this with all love and concern, but your aura is looking dim, and I can’t have your light burdened with dark energy, or else how are we supposed to enjoy ourselves at all?”
Emily’s dizzying enthusiasm poured onto Lucy, warming the weary traveler every bit as much as the whiskey had. Lucy took in the sight of her oldest friend. She was a whirl of color; her bright blue bob framed her fay face. Her broad smile set her hazel eyes alight. Tonight she wore a matching red blouse and skirt of her own design. Seeing Emily made Lucy feel at home for the first time in ages. “Em, I missed you so much, I could weep. Weep. But my aura’s going to have to stay dim at least for tonight. I am bone-tired.”
Emily pivoted her plan like a pirouette. “Oh my goodness, of course you’re exhausted, you’ve had the longest, longest day. Sleepover is still happening, of course, but we’ll save the funtivities for after you’ve gotten some decent rest; maybe next week? No commitment, we’ll keep it open.” Lucy could practically see the ideas flitting in and out of Emily’s vision like fairies.
“In the meantime,” she continued, “You gotta socialize, and no, you can’t take a rain check on that. I won’t have you holed up at that farm like a hobbit.”
Lucy puffed. “Fine, yes, I’ll mingle. Point out a stranger and watch me glitter.”
Emily flicked her head towards a table in the corner where two men sat in low conversation. “How about I introduce you to that writer I was telling you about? He’s a total kook, you’ll love it.”
“It’s the pot calling the kettle black for either of us to call anyone kooky, Em,” Lucy chided. “But I’m game.”
Lucy grabbed her drink and hopped off the barstool to follow her friend to the writer’s table.
Harvey
Lucy Ballinger. Harvey pondered for a moment before it came to him. “You know Eureka Farm outside of town?”
Elliott replied, “That I do. It’s haunted, you know.”
Harvey ignored Elliott’s bait to discuss the paranormal, one of the writer’s favorite topics after a few drinks. “The farmer who ran it was named Ballinger.”
Walt Ballinger solidified slowly in Harvey’s wine-dulled memory. Harvey only knew Walt briefly, as the old man died shortly after the doctor took charge of Pelican Town’s clinic. But Walt left a kindly impression on the doctor, Walt’s pride in his work and his affection for Stardew Valley evident in every conversation with the old farmer.
Harvey attended Walt’s funeral only a year after arriving in Pelican Town himself. It was an uncommonly sad affair, and Harvey recalled feeling a morbid envy that he didn’t have the chance to better know Mr. Ballinger.
“She’s likely a relative,” he continued, nodding his head in Lucy’s direction. “Kinda strange, though; it’s been half a decade since Walt died, and his place has just been sitting there, empty.”
“Ah, there it is,” said Elliott. “Probate’s done, and the relations descend like vultures. Executors and executioners.” He tipped back his glass for the last swallow before continuing. “I bet this enterprising lady’s here to sell the property and abscond with the proceeds.”
“An ungenerous assumption, wouldn’t you say?” imposed a cool voice.
Harvey and Elliott startled at the interruption like it was gunfire. Emily and Lucy had approached the gentlemen’s table, but in their scandalmongering, neither man had noticed. Emily planted a hand on her hip and glared an unspoken reproach at Elliott. Lucy stood there with her highball glass, one dark eyebrow cocked, her mouth tugged in a smirk. She murmured to Emily from the corner of her mouth. “Looks like the gossip mill is alive and well.”
Emily sighed and shook her head. “I’ll say,” she admitted. “You haven’t been here ten minutes, and you’re already the most interesting thing to happen around here in months.”
Elliott paled and his eyes widened. Harvey’s mouth clamped shut under his mustache. He felt redness creeping up his neck and ears, stinging his cheeks like a sunburn. On some invisible cue, both men remembered their manners and rose from their chairs with a clatter to greet Emily and Lucy.
The writer and the doctor stammered overlapping apologies, their words stumbling over each other to find footing. Between Elliott’s frantic chatter and Harvey’s tight-lipped mumbling, nothing coherent could be gleaned.
They must have looked ridiculous, as Emily and Lucy couldn’t maintain indignation in the sight of such bumbling remorse. Both women exchanged glances, grinned, then dissolved into laughter. Elliott’s color returned in relief, and Harvey’s face cooled from an alarming burn to a warm flush.
Emily exhaled another chuckle and took up the reins of the introduction. “Elliott, Dr. Harvey,” she started through her giggles, “Meet my dearest friend, Lucy Ballinger. She’s taking over old Walt’s farm.”
Harvey raised his eyes to meet Lucy’s, and what little nerve he had withered. He recognized her.
Harvey remembered her at Walt’s funeral. She stood by Emily then, too. The service was held on a sweltering summer day, but Lucy’s face was colorless, icy stone. Grief frozen over her like an arctic lake. Her glacial stillness and silence amidst the heat and murmuring mourners struck Harvey at the time; but seeing Lucy now thawed his first impression.
She was disheveled: clothes damp and creased, her brunette hair wild from the weather, the dark circles under her eyes standing stark against her winter pale skin. But she was smiling, and the heat from the room flushed her cheeks pink.
Lucy held out her hand to Elliott first. “I’m one of the vultures,” she gibed. “Walt Ballinger’s granddaughter.”
The writer recovered his composure expertly and took her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ballinger,” Elliott said. “I’m Elliott Kingsley. Please forgive me for my remarks earlier–-I’m a gossiper and a speculator, as well as a hack writer, and I’ve just finished my fourth glass of the evening, which has eroded both my chivalry and my better nature.” Elliott raised both hands in supplication, a sheepish grin cracking his face. “Are those enough excuses to earn your pardon?”
Smooth. He should teach a class, Harvey thought.
Lucy’s easy laugh drained any remaining tension to the dregs. “Pardon granted, Mr. Kingsley, and your speculation wasn’t far off the mark-–the estate has been tied up in probate, and I do have some buzzard relatives.”
Elliott beamed and raised his glass to Lucy. “Slow to anger and quick to forgive, a woman after my own heart.”
A whistle from behind the bar pierced the air, and the four glanced to see Gus beckoning Emily back to her shift.
“Oh, right, I’m on the clock!” Emily said. “Gotta split for a bit.” Emily flew away.
Lucy blew a kiss to Gus across the room, and the old barkeep grinned and caught it in his weathered hand. Harvey reddened as Lucy turned toward him.
“It’s good to meet you, Dr. Harvey.”
Harvey was unready for interaction with a stranger, and he was grateful that his mannerly autopilot took over for him. He shook her hand and returned her smile. “The pleasure’s mine,” he managed.
Elliott pulled out an empty chair for Lucy. “Please, won’t you join us?” Harvey’s jaw tightened; this was not part of his routine, and after two glasses of wine, he didn’t trust his ability to adapt to new people on the fly like this.
Lucy nodded and shed her raincoat and scarf, revealing a robin-egg blue dress that stopped just above her knee. Lucy smoothed her hands across her skirt and took her seat. With Lucy settled, Elliott and Harvey reclaimed their chairs.
“So Dr. Harvey,” Lucy started, “Are you a GP?”
Harvey wasn’t prepared for any question, no matter how innocuous. “Oh! Yes…um, I have a clinic up by Pierre’s, the, uh, the general store. And you can just call me Harvey, no need for the doctor business,” he sputtered. “Last name’s Lambert. Everyone just calls me Dr. Harvey, though, since I’m the only doctor in town. Well, everyone but Elliott here, who calls me Sawbones.” He cringed at his rapid-fire over-explanation.
“I like ‘Dr. Harvey,’” said Lucy. “It’s like the doctors on the radio and TV–they always go by their first names. Dr. Laura, Dr. Phil, Dr. Harvey.” Harvey barked a too-loud laugh, and he saw Elliott roll his eyes. But Lucy just twinkled, looking pleased that her mildly-amusing remark hit its target.
“So, Sawbones, will you remember us poor folk when you’re a famous TV doctor?” Elliott taunted over his empty glass. Harvey was too flustered to articulate a reply. Blessedly, Lucy opened her mouth to volley the banter before she noticed the round of drained drinks on the table.
“Next round’s on me,” she offered.
Elliott, a free drink enthusiast, looked like he could kiss her. “Lovely and generous! You’re a most welcome addition to our town, Ms. Ballinger. I’ll do the fetching–what’s your order?”
Lucy handed her glass to Elliott. “Double bourbon on the rocks, thanks.” She glanced at Harvey. “For medicinal purposes only, doctor.”
Elliott guffawed. “And she drinks like a vagabond! We’re keeping her, Sawbones!” The writer gathered the empty vessels and sauntered to the bar, leaving Harvey alone with Lucy. She watched Elliott with some secret amusement that Harvey couldn’t make out.
“Emily said you’re taking over Walt’s farm,” he said. “Does that mean you’ll be farming it?”
Lucy turned her eyes back to Harvey. “That’s the idea,” she answered, “but it’ll be quite an undertaking. I’ve spent my career hovering over a desk at Joja corporate, so I’m looking forward to spending some time in the fresh air and sunshine like the good old days.”
“I’m sure you’ll turn the place around,” he encouraged. “If you sprinkle a few seeds, what’s to keep them from growing?”
Lucy laughed, “Exactly! How hard could it possibly be?”
She laughed, okay, this is good, I’m doing good, Harvey thought.
“So, Joja corporate, huh? You’re a captain of industry.” That earned Harvey another smile from Lucy, emboldening him to inquire further. “What did you do over there?”
Lucy’s smile didn’t falter, but a wince touched her eyes. Harvey saw it.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted, “It’s none of my business, especially if you’d, uh, rather not share.” Regret ricocheted through him. Elliott better hurry up, he’s better at this.
Lucy shook her head. “Nothing to apologize for, you’re good,” she assured him. “I’ve been at Joja for the past eight years…”
Elliott interrupted with his return and passed out the drinks. “Merlot for the gentlemen, and the hard stuff for the lady.”
They clinked their glasses before Lucy said, “I was telling Harvey that I just quit Joja after an eight-year stint. I was an attorney for their real estate division.”
Harvey’s eyebrows rose over his hornrimmed glasses while Elliott teased. “You’re a lawyer? You do not strike me as the shark type,” Elliott scoffed. “Where’s your power suit?”
Lucy waved a dismissive hand. “Joja doesn’t hire sharks. They want piranhas. Death by a thousand nibbles.”
Elliot laughed, but Lucy didn’t. Harvey noticed.
“Anyway,” she resumed, “I had my fill of Joja, and I decided to recuperate with a new career. I worked on Pop’s farm in the summers my whole childhood until I went to university, so I’ve got experience on my side.” She sipped her bourbon again. “As for the power suits, most of them are in plastic bags at the Salvation Army.”
Elliott slapped a hand on the table. “Well, I, for one, am ecstatic about your new venture, Miss Piranha. What say you, Sawbones?”
He swallowed. “You’ll do great, no doubt about it.”
Lucy beamed bright at Harvey and Elliott. “Thanks for the confidence, gentlemen.”
"The confidence is merely a byproduct of the wine, Piranha, but we're happy to oblige."
"You're living up to the sterotype, Elliott—write drunk and edit sober and all that," Lucy teased.
Elliott slapped his knee. "Indeed I am, and enthusiasically—nothing's better for writer's block than good drinks and reparte."
"Writer's block, hmm? I hope it's not a stubborn case."
"I'm afraid it is," Elliott sighed. "I can parry words here with you and Sawbones, but when faced with the blank page, my pen flinches. 'Mightier than the sword,' they say, but my experience says otherwise."
Harvey stared at his friend. He never told me he was having trouble. A small shame sprouted between his ribs.
Lucy turned her face to the rafters, her brows furrowed like she was searching for an idea to pluck from a midair shelf. After a beat, she turned back to Elliott.
"Have you tried having an archnemesis? Someone to foil? He doesn't have to be real, but spite is a great motivator. I've done some of my best work out of imaginary spite." She thought a moment longer. "Though in my previous line of work, spite was easy to come by; I didn't have to look hard for foils." She shrugged and took another sip of her whiskey.
Elliott stared at Lucy, mouth agape, then erupted. "That is brilliant! I'm trying it tomorrow, so help me—even if it doesn't work, my word, it'll be a good time, at least." He wheezed. "Spite! Leave it to the lawyer to dabble in such sinister means of inspiration!"
Lucy smirked. "Sinister? No! Call it…unconventional productivity solutions."
Their laughter, lubricated with liquor, rolled around the table. Though Harvey was still uneasy at the detour from his typical Friday night, he had to admit to himself that he was having fun.
He saw Lucy spot someone across the room. “Hey, fellas, do you mind watching my drink and bag for a minute? I need to see a lady about some goats.”
"Is that a euphemism?" Elliott quipped.
Lucy chuckled. "If it isn't, it oughta be. I'm going to talk to Marnie for a sec."
As she walked past Harvey on the way to Marnie’s table, she patted his shoulder. “Thanks Harv, Elliott."
Harvey went rigid. She’s already nicknaming me. The title of “doctor” maintained a roomy distance between Harvey and the rest of the townsfolk. A distance to which Harvey was accustomed. A distance that Lucy eroded with a touch and a “Harv.”
Elliott watched her greet and embrace Marnie. "A breath of fresh air, and not a moment too soon." Harvey nodded from reflex rather than agreement.
She was back. “Congratulate me. You’re looking at the owner of not one, but two goats.” Lucy sat down, took a notebook from her handbag, and scribbled.
"And just like that, another goatherd is born." said Elliott.
Lucy grinned. “I’m glad I talked to Marnie tonight–-one less thing to do tomorrow.” She flipped to another page and crossed out a line with her pen. “Nothing better for clearing land than goats; they’ll eat almost anything, you know.”
“Work smarter, not harder,” Harvey said.
Lucy beamed. “Now I’ve just gotta name them. They’re a nanny and a billy, so I’m thinking Bathsheba and Farmer Oak.”
“Ah, Thomas Hardy! I do love a Victorian pastoral drama," said Elliott.
"It's one of my favorites," Lucy replied. "Fitting for my current situation, too—I'm actually rereading it now."
Harvey didn't know what Lucy and Elliott were talking about, and he fidgeted.
Lucy noticed and offered explanation. “It’s a novel called Far From the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy. It’s about a woman who inherits a farm from a relative and has to whip it into shape. I mean, there's more to it than that, but that's the gist."
“Oh, I can see why you're reading it, then,” said Harvey. “Is she successful in fixing the farm?”
Lucy smiled. "Maybe you should read it and find out."
Harvey chuckled. "Oh, well, yeah, maybe I should. I do prefer non-fiction, though, if I'm being honest…" Harvey trailed off when he saw Lucy studying his face. He reddened under the examination.
The Stardrop door chimed again. Elliott straightened in his chair when he saw Leah enter, patting the rain off her jacket and long red braid. She said nothing to anyone, but raised a finger to Gus, who nodded and poured her drink. She strode to her usual lone table in the corner and settled in.
Anxiety gripped Harvey. This same moment happened every Friday night; Leah would arrive, Elliott would desert Harvey with the bill to finish the evening at her table, and that was Harvey’s unequivocal permission to leave the Stardrop.
Dozens and dozens of Fridays ended the same way: Harvey strolling home alone to his cozy apartment where his books, his model airplanes, and his ham radio welcomed him with familiar, comfortable silence. Before Harvey arrived at the saloon this evening, he already knew the Miles Davis album he would play and the tiny propeller he would paint after Elliott understandably ditched him for fairer company.
But tonight, a disruption to his routine sat mere inches to his left, and the buffer across the table had already spotted Leah. Please don’t leave, please don’t leave, please don’t leave, was Harvey's silent plea.
Elliott did not receive Harvey’s telepathic entreaties, and likely would have ignored them if he had. He rose from his seat with a wobble, righted himself, bowed to Lucy and took her hand. “Madam counselor, it was an unmitigated delight to meet you this evening, but alas, I must depart. May I hope beyond hope to see you here often?”
What a ham, thought Harvey.
Lucy assumed an air of royal dignity and antique refinement to match Elliott’s flamboyance. With her free hand to her heart, she declared, “Fare thee well, good scribe. May our parting be brief and our reunion swift.”
Elliott roared as he strode away, and Harvey snorted at the theatrical exchange. Lucy watched Elliott over the rim of her glass, a taunt playing in her eyes before she took a drink. Nerves pricked the back of Harvey’s neck like a needle, bound his tongue, and he couldn’t for the life of him pick up the reins of the conversation.
Silence slipped between them. Harvey’s mind oscillated between desire to fill the quiet and fear of breaking it. Say something, just pick it up, she’s a person, not a wolverine, she’s not going to bite. He almost startled when Lucy spoke first.
“Hey…have we met before?” she asked. “I’m sorry if we have and I’m not recalling; blame it on the drink.”
Harvey felt caught somehow. “I…yes, well, no, we didn’t meet, but, uh, you probably saw me at, um…at your grandfather’s funeral.”
Lucy softened. “Of course,” she said. “I recognize you. Forgive me for not realizing it sooner. But in my defense, the mustache is new. Well, new since last I saw you, anyway.”
Harvey was stunned. She remembers me?
"Thank you for being there, Harvey. So many people from town showed up—it made a hard day a little easier."
Harvey warmed at her frank gratitude. “Walt was one of my patients,” he said, “when I first moved here. I wish I’d gotten to know him better; people around here always say great things about him.”
Bittersweetness curved Lucy’s lips. “What a kind thing to say. He and I were close; I miss him all the time.”
Harvey knew the feeling, and an old ache settled in his chest. He searched for a reply and came up empty; no words felt adequate. A silence sunk between them, and the doctor fidgeted in his seat.
Lucy swallowed the last of her whiskey, then broke the quiet with an abrupt resumption.
“So, you said you’re more of a nonfiction man. Tell me about it–-are you reading anything interesting?”
Grateful for the pivot, Harvey answered. “Oh, uh, actually yes, I’m on a B-24 kick right now.” The sparkle of interest in Lucy’s face encouraged him to continue. “That’s a type of airplane used in World War II. The book I’m reading now is about the pilots who flew those planes–-where they were from, how they trained, you know.”
Lucy nodded, expecting more. So Harvey delivered. “Those pilots, you know, most of them were farm boys and factory workers. Some of them weren’t finished with school yet, or they never even attended school to begin with. And suddenly, they’re flying these enormous machines that changed the course of history. Imagine being sixteen years old and sitting in the cockpit of one of those things.” Harvey’s insides roiled; it felt unnatural to say this much.
Lucy affixed to her thinking spot on the ceiling again. Harvey felt like an intruder watching her, so he skimmed the barroom again.
“It’s incomprehensible,” she said. “No wonder they were the Greatest Generation. When I was sixteen, I was worried about quiz bowl and homecoming.” She turned back to Harvey. “I wasn’t even trustworthy with my parents’ station wagon, let alone a fighter plane. Tell me more.”
Harvey grinned, but swallowed his reply when he saw Emily approaching Lucy from behind. Nearby stood Shane, laden with Lucy’s luggage, a sway in his step.
“Gus is letting me go early!” Emily sang, throwing her arms around Lucy. “You ready to scurry?”
“God bless Gus,” Lucy said. She eyed Shane. “I can’t believe you let Emily rope you into being our beast of burden.”
“Yeah, yeah,” huffed Shane, “Hurry up, your stuff is heavy.”
Lucy slipped on her raincoat, then smiled at the doctor. “Harvey, thank you for a great chat; this was a good first night in town.”
Harvey stood. “Glad to be part of the, uh, the welcome committee,” he replied.
Lucy turned to go, then paused and turned back, pulling the pen and notepad from her handbag again. “What was the name of that B-24 book?”
“Oh, um, it’s called The Wild Blue, but I can’t remember the author.”
Lucy jotted in her book. “No worries, the Internet will know. Thanks again, Harvey. See you next time.”
The doctor watched her go, the saloon door chime lingering a moment in his ear. He took a deep breath and looked around the room. Harvey paid the bill to Gus, same as always. He strolled home alone, same as always. And his apartment welcomed him, same as always.
But the peace that coming home usually brought the doctor evaded him. He combed over every word of his conversation with Lucy while he brushed his teeth, washed his face, and got into bed. I can’t talk with people, he decided. I sound like a fool every time. At least the ice is broken, I guess. And it’s over. Back to normal again tomorrow.
Just before Harvey drifted off, a warm thought took residence in a cold, abandoned corner of his mind. She remembers me.