I like bars. Or rather, I like the restful and yet convivial atmosphere some bars seem to have, and Clouds, despite its sleek mahogany and stainless-steel exterior and trendy track lighting, had a good and friendly feel.
The bartender approached with an inquiring smile. "What'll you have?"
I ordered a vodka tonic; Clay chose a beer.
She made my drink; I watched the deft, competent motions, no action wasted. When she placed the drink in front of me she gave me a friendly grin. I smiled back, thinking that maybe I would have been better off as a bartender. A lot less stress than being a veterinarian.
The woman poured and brought Clay's beer. "How's it going?" she said as she set it down. Judging by her tone, she knew him.
"Real well," Clay said. Looking at me, he added, "Gail, this is Caroline. Caroline, Gail McCarthy."
"Nice to meet you." The bartender and I got the words out at about the same time.
"Caroline's the best bartender in town," Clay said.
The woman grinned; she was instantly likable. Though I was sure that a certain outwardly friendly stance was an integral part of her job, she had a sparkle that seemed genuine.
"So how do you like this job?" I asked her curiously.
She smiled again; she'd learned to smile.
"Well ..." I watched her think, fingering a charm hung around her neck. She was about my age and had wavy brown-blond hair that fell to her waist, confined in a simple ponytail. No makeup, eyeglasses, her one concession to the dressy style of the restaurant being an all-black outfit. But while the waitresses wore skimpy tube tops and tight low-waisted pants, she wore a simple fitted black shell and black jeans. Plain, professional, somehow elegant.
"It's a job," she said at last. "I've been doing it for ten years. I like this place," she added. "They're good people to work for." Then she grinned again. "But I'm not exactly using my education." Her hand moved; I saw that the charm she'd been fingering was a Phi Beta Kappa symbol. She was educated enough, then.
"What do you do for a living?" she asked me.
"I'm a horse vet."
I saw her eyes widen slightly; the mobile face became even more friendly. "Really?" Her eyes moved to Clay. "And you have horses, right? Is that how you met?"
Clay smiled, a quiet, self-deprecating smile, mostly in the eyes. "Yeah. Gail's my vet."
Another man sat down at the bar; Caroline moved in his direction.
I watched her go, thinking that her animated, fair-skinned face had an unusual quality. She wasn't exactly pretty-her features were a little too strong for that-but she had a lightness and a vivacity that were unique and perhaps more attractive than mere physical beauty.
"She's nice," I said to Clay. "Do you know her well?"
"Not really." Clay gave me that quiet smile. "Just from coming in here. She's friendly."
I nodded, picturing this handsome man sitting in the bar alone. Naturally Caroline would chat with him. Which is what you ought to be doing, I reminded myself. Good manners demanded it. Yet I found it difficult to make conversation with Clay. He responded easily and was always polite and friendly; still, I had a sense of a deep inner reserve.
"So, how are things going at the boarding stable?" I asked.
"Pretty much the same as usual. Bart's always got some new problem." Clay began to recount his brother's latest horse-training saga; I listened with half my brain. The other half was roaming around the restaurant, watching Caroline tend bar, checking out the various patrons.
Several women dressed in glamorous, big-city clothes sat together, laughing and talking. A blond girl in a white blouse and a silver-haired man, obviously a couple, leaned toward each other at the bar. A good sprinkling of single men, most of whom looked like young stockbroker types-a few of these were chatting in a desultory way.
As usual, and despite my overall mood, I found myself intrigued by watching people. The little details of face, hair, and clothing, the small nuances of how each
The bartender approached with an inquiring smile. "What'll you have?"
I ordered a vodka tonic; Clay chose a beer.
She made my drink; I watched the deft, competent motions, no action wasted. When she placed the drink in front of me she gave me a friendly grin. I smiled back, thinking that maybe I would have been better off as a bartender. A lot less stress than being a veterinarian.
The woman poured and brought Clay's beer. "How's it going?" she said as she set it down. Judging by her tone, she knew him.
"Real well," Clay said. Looking at me, he added, "Gail, this is Caroline. Caroline, Gail McCarthy."
"Nice to meet you." The bartender and I got the words out at about the same time.
"Caroline's the best bartender in town," Clay said.
The woman grinned; she was instantly likable. Though I was sure that a certain outwardly friendly stance was an integral part of her job, she had a sparkle that seemed genuine.
"So how do you like this job?" I asked her curiously.
She smiled again; she'd learned to smile.
"Well ..." I watched her think, fingering a charm hung around her neck. She was about my age and had wavy brown-blond hair that fell to her waist, confined in a simple ponytail. No makeup, eyeglasses, her one concession to the dressy style of the restaurant being an all-black outfit. But while the waitresses wore skimpy tube tops and tight low-waisted pants, she wore a simple fitted black shell and black jeans. Plain, professional, somehow elegant.
"It's a job," she said at last. "I've been doing it for ten years. I like this place," she added. "They're good people to work for." Then she grinned again. "But I'm not exactly using my education." Her hand moved; I saw that the charm she'd been fingering was a Phi Beta Kappa symbol. She was educated enough, then.
"What do you do for a living?" she asked me.
"I'm a horse vet."
I saw her eyes widen slightly; the mobile face became even more friendly. "Really?" Her eyes moved to Clay. "And you have horses, right? Is that how you met?"
Clay smiled, a quiet, self-deprecating smile, mostly in the eyes. "Yeah. Gail's my vet."
Another man sat down at the bar; Caroline moved in his direction.
I watched her go, thinking that her animated, fair-skinned face had an unusual quality. She wasn't exactly pretty-her features were a little too strong for that-but she had a lightness and a vivacity that were unique and perhaps more attractive than mere physical beauty.
"She's nice," I said to Clay. "Do you know her well?"
"Not really." Clay gave me that quiet smile. "Just from coming in here. She's friendly."
I nodded, picturing this handsome man sitting in the bar alone. Naturally Caroline would chat with him. Which is what you ought to be doing, I reminded myself. Good manners demanded it. Yet I found it difficult to make conversation with Clay. He responded easily and was always polite and friendly; still, I had a sense of a deep inner reserve.
"So, how are things going at the boarding stable?" I asked.
"Pretty much the same as usual. Bart's always got some new problem." Clay began to recount his brother's latest horse-training saga; I listened with half my brain. The other half was roaming around the restaurant, watching Caroline tend bar, checking out the various patrons.
Several women dressed in glamorous, big-city clothes sat together, laughing and talking. A blond girl in a white blouse and a silver-haired man, obviously a couple, leaned toward each other at the bar. A good sprinkling of single men, most of whom looked like young stockbroker types-a few of these were chatting in a desultory way.
As usual, and despite my overall mood, I found myself intrigued by watching people. The little details of face, hair, and clothing, the small nuances of how each
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