Past Tense by Freda Vasilopoulos Page A

little hole-in-the-wall with a gloomy pub that smelled of centuries of stale beer and old smoke.
    The owners must have been desperate for a sale. The estate agent representing the property practically twisted Tony’s arm as they were leaving. “But the location, Mr. Theopoulos,” he said. “You won’t find another like it.”
    “I’m sorry,” Tony said, the courteous regret in his tone making him rise another notch in Sam’s estimation. “It’s not what I’m looking for.”
    He shook his head as they drove away, leaving the agent gazing after them from under a dripping black umbrella. “The owners are old. They want to retire to the coast, or to Spain if they make enough on the sale. But it’s too small and out of the way, even if the condition of the building were better. I can’t use it.”
    Rolling hills stretched around them, the expanse of green dotted with grazing sheep and the occasional stone cottage. Their car’s headlights tracked a glistening path on the wet asphalt road.
    “Is he right about the location being a good one?” Sam asked.
    Tony shrugged, slowing as they entered another village, a single street lined with thatched stone houses. “It’s picturesque, but probably a little too far off the beaten track. It looks as if the owner didn’t have much money for improvements the past few years.” He downshifted as he pulled into the narrow parking lot of a pub. “This should do for lunch. Are you hungry?”
    She’d skipped breakfast that morning, her stomach tied in nervous knots as she debated the wisdom of seeing Tony. Now it growled inelegantly. She laughed. “I might as well admit it. I’m starved.”
    Tony frowned at the blue Mini parked on the street just beyond the pub. “I’m sure I saw that car in Swivington, by the hotel.”
    The familiar uneasy fluttering began in Samantha’s chest. “The estate agent’s perhaps?”
    “No, I don’t think so. It was gone when we came out. Well, no matter. It’s probably somebody like us who didn’t fancy the looks of that bar and decided to go to the next place up the road for lunch.”
    Still, Samantha entered the door in a state of prickly alertness. But the few patrons of the pub were strangers. None of them resembled anyone she’d encountered in the past week, when the routine of her life had been disturbed.
    The interior of the pub was shadowy except for the warm cheer of a fire blazing in a cavernous fireplace. Old, stained-glass windows filtered the day’s fitful light through a veil of rain.
    Tony placed their orders at the bar, then led Sam to a table in the corner near the fire.
    She sat staring at the flames, wondering what to talk about. When a person hid significant events in her past, it was difficult to think of a subject that didn’t reflect back to it.
    Tony, too, was silent, his fingertips drumming lightly on the scarred wooden table. Samantha sighed, and he stirred. “Samantha, what are you thinking?’
    She shook her head. “Nothing.” She threw him a quick smile that had a quality of sadness in it. “I’m sorry I’m such poor company.”
    “It’s the weather. It’s easy to feel down on a day like this.”
    The barman brought their food, hot vegetable soup and thick cheese sandwiches made with homemade bread. They ate quickly, as if they both thought this outing was a mistake and wanted to end it as soon as possible.
    A fresh gust of rain came in as the door opened, sending the flames in the fireplace crackling and snapping up the chimney. A burly truck driver, his felt cap angled over one ear, staggered in, burdened by a large carton that showed dark water stains at the corners.
    He set the box at the end of the bar, pulling an invoice from the inside pocket of a suede jacket that showed little of its original nap. The barman scrawled a signature, then reached under the bar and handed the trucker a white envelope, which he tucked into his pocket.
    He touched the brim of his cap. “Cheerio,