Timothy O’Toole’s was a popular Chicago sports bar, but
it was relatively quiet at four o’clock on a Thursday afternoon. Other
than him, the only patrons in the compact establishment were a couple of
younger guys on bar stools at the far end of the room. Not even
Jesse was here, because Jon left him to handle today’s meetings solo. He’d already done his share of business
building by making an appearance at that party last night.
O’Toole’s limited clientele might be a problem for someone
here to earn tips, but it worked in Jon’s favor. An underwhelmed
bartender ensured that he would receive personalized attention and the opportunity
to get acquainted with her.
“What’ll it be?” The young woman with luminous gray eyes slid
a coaster in front of him and waited expectantly.
Poppy Gardener was a pretty girl who strongly resembled
her mother in both eye color and mannerism. The way she tucked a
chin-length wave behind one ear, the ready – although undimpled – smile, and
the inquisitive tilt to her head were all reminiscent of Delaney. Jon
liked to think he would’ve recognized her without the nametag, but the printed
“ZOI” provided assurance that he was stalking the right girl.
Funny how someone who was avoiding her half-Irish,
half-Greek family was using a pointedly Greek name while working in an Irish
bar.
“What’s on tap?”
“What’s not on tap?” she returned with a chuckle that he
imagined as familiar. “Name your poison.”
“When in an Irish pub, go Irish, I guess. How about a Guinness?”
“Sure thing.”
He watched the heavy mug tilt under the spigot and flood with a dark brew. The efficiency
of her pour was probably the most notable thing about Delaney’s daughter. Her
work uniform of black slacks, blouse and bar apron were all patently
nondescript. The only distinguishing markers on this young woman
were the six-inch sienna roots on her auburn hair, tiny silver earrings, a
necklace whose pendant he couldn’t see, and half a dozen rings on otherwise
unadorned fingers.
Unlike Delaney’s, these rings weren’t all silver. There was only one that he could see, and it
was a thin band that hit her right pinky at the first knuckle. Jon
thought it looked like the one Delaney wore on her little finger but couldn’t
say for sure.
A thicker band of black titanium and diamonds encircled
her thumb. One middle finger bore yellow gold, but the other and
each forefinger displayed rose gold. The ring fingers were both
bare, so he assumed she was unmarried and unengaged.
At least Delaney hadn’t missed out on that.
Don’t just stare at
the girl, Bongiovi.
“Quiet in here.”
“You caught us on an off afternoon,” she explained,
expertly parking his dark ale on the coaster and wiping her hands free of the
runoff. “Cubs are out of town and the Sox are off today. Bulls
and Blackhawks are out of the playoffs and the Bears aren’t in season. That
means I get to dust the bottles between customers.”
“You could always keep a lonely out-of-towner company
instead.” Jon took his first swallow and grimaced at the mental
replay of his chosen words. “And that wasn’t a come-on. I’m
not a dirty old letch looking to hook up with a girl who could be my daughter. In
fact, today’s my daughter’s birthday. She’s twenty-five.”
“Mine, too. I’m twenty-four.”
Delaney had mentioned that her girls’ birthday was at the
end of the month but not that it was the same day as Stephanie’s. He
wondered why and made a mental note to ask.
“Happy birthday, Zoi.” Offering a salute with
his drink, he casually tacked on, “Pretty name, by the way.”
Sliding a basket of pretzels his way, she dropped a damp
rag on the bar and began to wipe the already gleaming surface. “Thanks. It’s
Greek for ‘life’.”
“You’re Greek.” Knowing that he already had an
unfair advantage in this meeting, Jon purposely phrased it as a statement
instead of a question. If she shared her mother’s temperament – and
five years of discord indicated that she did – she’d be pissed if he played completely
ignorant.
“Partly.”
He tossed a miniature pretzel in his mouth, letting the
salt chase the yeastiness of the beer as he chewed thoughtfully. There
was a possibility that he didn’t have an unfair advantage. The
photos of him and Delaney had been making the rounds this week, so there was
plenty of opportunity for Poppy to know whom her mother was dating.
“You follow much celebrity news?”
Knowing eyes lit on his before returning to the spotless
bar with a twitch of her lips. “I’ve been working on my thesis for
the last year. That and work have been my life, so I’m clueless
about current events outside of sports. I do know who you are,
though, if that’s the question.”
Thesis. I
wonder if Mou knows how smart her girl is?
“You’re a fan?”
“Grew up listening to your music.” Poppy folded the wet
towel over the sink and picked up a dry one without looking Jon’s way. “No
offense, but it wasn’t by choice.”
“None taken.” he assured with a chuckle, choosing to ask
something legitimately benign. “How long has your mom been a fan?”
“She and her sister had your posters on the wall back in
the eighties, so I hear.”
So Mou has been
around since the early days.
He absently wondered if she was one of those who had shit
a brick when he married to Dorothea. Petra had. Jon knew
without asking that the mouthy little woman had thrown a bitch fit, probably
while Delaney laughed and told her to get over it. That’s just how
different the two of them were.
With her back now to him, Poppy used the toe of her black
sneaker to drag a footstool close. The lithe young woman put one
foot and her weight on it to reach the decorative liquor bottles on the top
shelf, choosing the closest to take down for a wipe with the towel.
“Delaney didn’t tell me she’s been a fan that long.”
The hands rubbing terrycloth over class stilled, and her
dark and auburn head pivoted with surprise. “You know my mother?”
“Quite well, in fact,” he confirmed evenly while spinning
his beer mug on the circle of cardboard that protected the bar’s surface. “What
I don’t know is why you’re estranged.”
Lighting flashed in her eyes the instant she turned to
replace the bottle, and he’d seen the look often enough to know it was also an
inherited one. “Then you really don’t know her all that well, Mr.
Bon Jovi.”
“Oh, I know what she and your family claim is the reason. I
just don’t believe it. Childish blame for your sister’s tragedy
might last a week or a month, but five years? You’re too smart for
that. What’s the real reason, Poppy?”
“Don’t call me that,” she instructed coldly without
taking her attention from the liquor-filled decanters.
“Why not? It’s your name, isn’t it?”
“It used to be my nickname, but I’m legally Zoi now. Not Poppy. Life, not death.”
“Is that what Poppy means? Death?”
“Symbolically, yes.”
That was interesting insight, although he was sure the
true significance was beyond his grasp. Women – young women in
particular – were notorious for finding and creating subliminal messages that
boggled the mind.
The glassware came methodically down, one by one, for a
cleansing wipe before returning to its original spot. Delaney had
called this girl calculating, and so far, he couldn’t disagree. She
was talking instead of telling him to go fuck himself, however. He’d take what he could get.
“I guess that makes sense.”
“Glad you approve,” came the cool sarcasm when stepping
from the stool.
She didn’t give him her eyes when scooting to dust the
section of bottles that was closer to Jon than the last. Maybe she
thought her tone and attitude would curb his persistence, but he had four kids,
David Bryan and Delaney in his life. Sarcasm and attitude were as
much a part of his day as oxygen.
“She came here once – to Chicago – to see you. She never has told anyone why it was such a
short visit. Mind if I ask what
happened?”
Poppy still didn’t spare him a glance, but she did
hesitate in stepping up to this round of dusting duties. It was
brief, but at least five seconds passed before her ringed fingers wrapped around
the next bottle.
“If it was any of your business, she would’ve told you
why.”
“Your mom doesn’t even realize I know about it. Petra told me. She’s not a fan of being in the dark.”
A little sigh found his ears, but she stayed diligent in
her task. “I’ve done things I’m not
proud of, Mr. Bon Jovi, but I don’t advertise them. It was a waste of time coming here for your
answer.”
What she’d said told him more than Poppy realized. The fact that she could admit to being wrong
meant there was still hope for reconciliation.
It also meant that responsibility for whatever happened didn’t rest
solely on Delaney’s shoulders. He’d
known that in his gut, but it was nice having confirmation.
“An answer would be nice, but it’s not the only reason I’m
here. I came to Chicago because I got
tired of watching your mom make herself sick every time she sees or talks to my
daughter. The one who shares your birthday. The one who
survived a heroin overdose.”
There was a harsh clank of bottles against one another
before they scooted across the glass ledge and into the wall. That
bobble was the most noticeable reaction the girl had given, but Jon didn’t know
if Delaney’s struggle or Stephanie’s similarity to Violet prompted it.
“Exactly how do you know my mother?”
“We’re in a relationship,” he disclosed as she righted
the booze. “And it’s serious enough that I’ll do whatever’s
necessary to see this resolved.”
Another pair of customers breezed through the door about
that time, and Poppy put on a perfunctory smile when descending the stepstool
to welcome them. He watched her accept their orders down the bar,
taking heart that there was no lightning flashing in those gray eyes. She
wasn’t angry, so maybe her tense expression meant that she would do something
to make this right.
When the two women had been given their stemmed drinks,
his bartender returned to stand before him and gesture to the half-empty beer
glass.
“Another?”
“No.”
He wasn’t here for the beer and wouldn’t spend more than
one of them trying to convince this girl to do the right thing. If
she didn’t agree now, Jon wouldn’t waste his breath trying to sway her. She’d
already proven herself stubborn. The best he could do was overload
her conscience and hope that it would eventually break.
“Call your mother. Go see her. Something.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Nothing worth fighting for is easy.” When she
rolled her eyes at what she obviously considered a platitude, he leaned forward
with a low voice. “It’s horrific that you lost Violet and, no bullshit, you
have my deepest sympathy. But
for Christ’s sake, you didn’t lose your entire family. They’re not
gone. They’re in New York waiting for you to realize they still love
you – and that you love them.”
He pushed the remainder of his beer toward her and stood
to fish cash from his pocket. Tossing it onto the bar, Jon decided
there was nothing left to be said today. All he could do was wait
and pray this girl was worthy of Delaney’s love.
And gather
information for Mou.
Jon paused in picking up his phone to ask, “Did you
get that thesis finished?”
A slow, sad smile tilted one corner of her mouth. “Memorial
Day.”
“Congratulations. What’s
it on?”
Both the sadness and the smile disappeared under a façade
of staidness, and her chin lifted with the same fearlessness as her
mother. “Grief transference.”
That was even more revealing that her feelings of
guilt. In it, Jon found not just a
glimmer but also a full ray of hope.
Poppy was working out her shit, and when she did…. When she did, Delaney would get her daughter
back.
God, please let
that be the case.
Lifting a parting hand, he ended his visit to O’Toole’s
with a subdued, “Happy birthday, Zoi.”
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