Farmer Joe finds himself forced to live with his daughter and her boyfriend, Blake, for the entire Fall. The redneck hates being stuck in a small apartment in the city, but he has a secret. Joe and Blake have begun a relationship last Summer... Living once again in such close proximity, things could get steamy... and complicated.
This book is a sequel to A Summer at the Farm, told through Joe's perspective. All characters featured are above 18 years-old and this story is meant to be read by adults only.
A FALL IN THE CITY
Chapter 6: Lova Lova
I think I met Fran at the right time in my life.
As we were settling down in our new routine, things got more complicated between Blake and I.
We were both definitely feeling bad about what we were doing behind Liv's back, and I was starting to resent him for sleeping with her every damn night.
No need to lecture me, I am fully aware that I had no right to feel that way.
I am just being real here.
Every time they showed the slightest display of affection, I had to leave the room, and soon, the apartment.
To be fair, it was the same thing anytime they started arguing, I felt responsible for anything wrong going on between them, and all I wanted was to flee the scene.
This is how I found myself searching for a bar where I could get away from them on Sunday night.
That was the good thing living in a large city, I was not lacking of options when it came to places to go out.
The problem was: how the hell was I supposed to know where to go?
Back at the farm, if I wanted to have an evening out, there was this sleazy pub at a half-hour drive away from home and that was it. Easy, no need to wreck my brain around it.
In Sacramento, every place seemed crowded and filled with 20-something getting ready to party.
Karaoke bar, girls' night, quiz and board games...
I just wanted to drink my whiskey in peace God damn it!
Eventually, at about fifteen minutes of walking from the building where we lived with Blake and Liv, I found a place which looked somewhat decent.
A sort of jazz club where people above 40 felt like they belonged and where you could go by yourself without feeling weird about it. Not that I cared much about what others might think about me.
There was a guy playing the saxophone live, I sat on a stool near the bar and I ordered a scotch, neat.
Finally, I could breathe.
The place was not empty but it was not crowded either.
A couple in their thirties were making out in a corner, a group of black older men were seemingly very into the music, another group of friends was chatting all throughout the performance, and there was this one woman sitting by herself on the other side of the bar.
I could barely see anyone's face given the dark blueish atmosphere of the jazz club.
I liked it better that way.
Something odd happened when I tried to pay my drink to the bartender. The man, a rather tall and quite handsome guy with very dark hair and a neatly-trimmed beard, refused my money.
"Someone's already taken care of that for you." He told me with a wink.
"What?"
The bartender looked at the older woman, the only one sitting at the bar.
She had offered me my drink?
That was a first! Men were usually the ones pulling that move. Again, city life was full of surprises...
What was I supposed to do? Thank her?
Now that I was taking a closer look, it was obvious that she was way older than me.
She was wearing a fancy black dress, and had gone heavy with the make-up, - especially the red lipstick -, but she could not fool anyone, she was certainly deep in her sixties, or even more likely, in her seventies.
She smiled at me while slurping on her margarita, leaving a red mark on her straw.
Did she think I was a gigolo of some sort? Her over-the-top jewellery indicated that she had money. I was not expert but the gems around her neck did not look fake.
I nodded at her politely but I left it at that.
I mean, I had not asked for a damn thing, I could buy my own drinks.
I ordered a second scotch and I made sure to pay right away. No funny business.
The saxophone playing and the alcohol relaxed me; I did not notice the woman moving and sitting right next to me.
She was persistent.
"Did that hurt your ego, an independent woman buying you a drink?"
She spoke in a smooth, slightly hoarse voice.
As I suspected, up-close and personal, she certainly looked like she was over 70 years old.
"My ego is fine."
She had a small laugh.
"I'm glad. You don't look like you belong here." She commented when the saxophonist had stopped playing.
"I don't care about belonging." I replied.
"I just meant; this is why I offered you a drink. I wanted to show you that you were welcomed anyway. It's nice to see new faces in here, even gloomy ones."
"I don't know what kind of people you usually deal with, Madam, but I'm not one to seek approval or reinsurance."
"I can see that now."
She did not seem bothered by my tone.
I did feel like I had been harsh with her. Maybe I was in a bad mood because I had left Blake and Olivia all intertwined with each other, watching a movie.
"Thanks for the drink anyway."
"Clearly, you didn't appreciate the gesture but that's fine. You'll buy me my next drink and we'll be even."
"Nicely done. Now, I don't really have the choice. Interesting flirting technique." I told her with a smile.
"Oh, don't worry, I'm not hitting on you. As you may have noted, I am way past my time of hooking up with men in bars."
"I'm not worried on bit."
"I know everyone here; I had never seen you around... I thought I could offer you some company, not that I'm too busy myself. But if you'd prefer to spend the evening alone, I won't get offended. We all need to be by ourselves sometimes."
"Nah... That's fine. I'll get you that drink, what would you like? Was that a margarita you were drinking earlier?"
"Yes, but I think I can move on to the Chardonnay."
"Fine. One Chardonnay for the lady, Sir." I told the bartender.
I wondered if he was used to see that woman preying on men in his bar or if this was not ordinary.
In any case, he did not show any kind of reactions. He was a professional.
"I'm Fran." She told me once she had her glass of wine.
"Joe."
I had never been a man of many words but thankfully, Fran did not seem too eager to talk either.
We listened to the musician playing another tune in silence. He was good at this, although, I did not have much comparison.
When he took a recess, I decided to order a third scotch and Fran engaged the conversation once again.
"I don't see a wedding ring on this finger."
"You really are hitting on me, aren't you?"
"Not at all. I'm afraid you're too old for my taste." She teased.
That made me smile.
"I'm a widow." I explained laconically.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"It's been more than ten years ago, I'm okay with it. You don't have a wedding ring either." I pointed out.
