A Letter for Annie by Laura Abbot Page B

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    K YLE STRADDLED the bar stool, shoved the ball cap back on his head and ordered a lager. After work, he hadn’t wanted to go home to his empty house. The Yacht Club, comforting in its familiarity, was at the same time vaguely depressing. The changes to the place since he and Pete had drunk their first legal beer here were that Ollie, the owner, now had gray hair, and a new flat-screen TV, tuned to a soccer rematch, dominated the area above the bar. The dimly lit interior, stale smells and loud music blaring from the small dance floor made him wonder why he’d sought this particular refuge. The truth was…he was in a rut.
    “Here ya go.” Ollie placed the pilsner glass in front of Kyle. “How’s it hanging?”
    By a thread, he wanted to say. “Great.”
    “Don’t usually see you in here on a weeknight.” Ollie made a show of wiping down the counter. “Problems?”
    Nothing I’m going to share with you. “Nah. Just thirsty.”
    He could hardly tell Ollie about nightmares and betrayal. About the way soft hazel eyes avoided his or the lump in his throat whenever he thought about Pete and Annie. Or about the way he couldn’t stop thinking about her, no matter how hard he tried. For years anger at the way she’d treated Pete had kept him sane, butevery time he saw her now, it was harder to use resentment as a barrier.
    He drained his beer and ordered another. People came and went, slapping him on the back and giving him high fives, but he declined their invitations to join them. When Shellie Austin, a bleached blonde he’d known since high school, settled at the adjacent bar stool, he knew he was supposed to be interested. Might have been even a few short weeks ago.
    Suddenly everything—the woman, the bar, his life—seemed tedious beyond bearing. He stood, then laid several bills on the counter. “Hey, Shellie, your next drink’s on me.”
    Outside, he leaned against the truck, pulling in deep breaths of fresh air. Was this what his life had come to?
    Everything he’d ever wanted had always remained beyond his reach. A stable home with a mother and father who loved him. A lifelong friendship with his best buddy. And, difficult as it was to admit, a girl with hair like silk who loved another.
    Climbing into his truck, he paused, taking in the garish, flashing neon sign—The Yacht Club—symbol of all that was shallow and meaningless in his life. Not even Bubba’s enthusiastic greeting elevated his mood.
     

    T WO MORE DAYS PASSED and still no Kyle. Two days during which Geneva struggled to complete the family history—filling in the blanks with anecdotes and more photographs.
    By Thursday, Annie was increasingly concerned. Auntie G.’s feet were swollen, and she was eating like abird and spending more time in bed. Most alarming were her spells of fighting for the next breath. Although her eyes were still bright with intelligence, now Annie noticed in them something she had never seen before—fear. After conferring on the phone with Carmen, Annie called the doctor, who scheduled a late-afternoon appointment.
    Cajoling Geneva to eat the tiny portion of chicken salad she’d prepared for lunch, Annie heard a loud thump outside. She went out on the porch. There stood Kyle, fastening a tool belt around his waist. A tall ladder was propped against the side of the house. Annie momentarily closed her eyes against the relief she felt. Even if he hated her, his presence was oddly comforting. Familiar.
    He lifted the Mariners ball cap and scratched his head. “Something I can do for you?”
    “I, uh, I didn’t know you were here, and when we heard the noise—”
    “Oh. The ladder. Sorry about the racket. I should’ve knocked. There will be more commotion, I’m afraid. I’m fixing your roof today.”
    It was then she noticed the pile of shingles beneath her bedroom window.
    Kyle’s gray eyes bored into her. “Will that be a problem? I need to complete the work on the roof before I start tearing