Out of Time 01 - Out of Time

tawdry bacchanal. Crowded, loud and dirty. But the people were amiable, even generous. Charlie ran the place well. He stayed on top of countless drink orders and kept things running smoothly. Not to mention Simon had seen him have a few harsh words with one of the men who’d given Elizabeth a hard time. All in all the evening went well. And, thankfully, King Kashian was nowhere to be seen. Although, judging from what Elizabeth had told him about her encounter with the man, they would certainly be seeing him again. His hand went unconsciously to his pocket and he felt the outline of the watch. It was their only chance of getting home and suddenly he needed the reassurance that it was there.
    The bulk of the night passed in a blur. Just when it seemed they’d barely begun, their shift was over and Charlie gave last call. Only Simon’s aching wrists and Elizabeth’s sore back let them know how hard they’d really worked. They changed into their street clothes and were ready to head home when Charlie offered them a nightcap.
    “None of that rotgut,” he said. “The good stuff. Glenlivet do ya?”
    Simon arched an eyebrow. The other bottles were of indeterminate origin, homemade labels sloppily pasted on. Brand name drinks were a rarity during prohibition.
    Charlie understood the unasked question and set the bottle down. “Fella I know brought a few bottles back from the war. Smooth as a baby’s bottom.”
    A drink sounded wonderful, but it was outrageously late. “Some other time perhaps.”
    “Just one?” Elizabeth said and cast a quick glance at Charlie. “Besides, it’s tradition. Your first night working in the club. Gotta have a drink.”
    “Right,” Charlie said too quickly. “Uhm, it’s tradition.”
    “Tradition?” Simon said, easily seeing through her ruse.
    “Well, traditions have to start somewhere,” she said and settled herself on a stool. “Just one drink and then we’ll go.”
    His inability to deny her would surely be the death of him. “All right,” he said taking the stool next to hers. “But just one.”
    Charlie set up the cups. “Dix, you want a snort?”
    She set down her dishtowel and came to join them. “Don’t mind if I do.”
    Charlie raised his cup. “Here’s mud in yer eye.”
    They toasted and drank. The scotch was warm and soothing and reminded Simon of home. He wasn’t a social drinker, preferring his own company to most other’s. He’d never given much thought to the notion that he drank alone. The idea of sitting at a bar making idle chitchat was vaguely nauseating, and yet, here he sat. And it wasn’t so bad after all. Elizabeth made conversation, while Simon merely listened, content as usual, to simply watch.
    She was animated and engaging as she regaled them with stories of her father and their misadventures at the race track. Dixie and Charlie chimed in with stories of their own, but Simon’s attention was swallowed whole by Elizabeth. The way the soft light brought out the golden highlights in her hair. The gentle timbre of her voice as she laughed. Her small fingers delicately tracing the rim of her empty cup.
    “What about you, Professor?” Charlie asked, breaking him away from his reverie.
    “I’m sorry?”
    “He asked where you learned to play?” Elizabeth said.
    “Play? Oh, piano. My mother insisted,” he said, hoping that would satisfy them. He should have known better.
    “Insisted?” Elizabeth asked. “Doesn’t sound like much fun.”
    “It wasn’t,” he said, but something pricked at his memory, something warm and long-forgotten.
    Elizabeth must have noticed a change in his expression. She was too astute by half. “Except,” she prompted gently.
    “There was one Christmas,” Simon started, not sure why he felt compelled to tell the story. The words simply came of their own volition. “I was eight or nine, I can’t remember. I’d been taking lessons for only a few months, and my father decided I should give a recital. My mother took the task of molding me for the occasion.”
    He could still see their living room. Victorian furnishings, Chippendale chairs he was forbidden to sit in except on special occasions. The grand piano looming in the corner.
    He looked down into his empty tea cup, almost as though the scene were playing out at its bottom. “I was petrified,” he said and cast a quick glance at Elizabeth. Her smile was perfect. Not patronizing nor overly sweet, just perfect.
    He looked away and continued,