"What are you in the mood for, beer, wine?"

"Something stronger. Something you make," says Petra.

He pours off some of the drink he's just mixed into a small gla.s.s and places it down in front of Petra, who takes a sip.

"That's good. Espresso martini?"

He nods.

"I'll have that," says Petra.

"Me, too," says Jill.

"Try some?" asks Petra, offering what's left in her gla.s.s to Beth.

"No, no, I-" says Beth.

"Can't have caffeine after four," says Jimmy, knowing her answer. "She'll be up all night."

Beth shifts in her seat.

"How about something sweeter?" he says, already pulling bottles.

It's strange to see him mixing all these fancy drinks. Jimmy's a beer-in-the-bottle kind of guy. And not the new kinds of beers infused with nutmeg or pumpkin or blueberries. He likes "real" beer. Budweiser and Coors. He reluctantly admits to liking Cisco's Whale's Tale, but only because the brewery is down the road from their house.

And this isn't Jimmy's kind of bar. He likes a guys' place, not necessarily a sports pub, although the Red Sox, Patriots, Bruins, or Celtics had better be playing on the flatscreen. He likes a bar that's dark and dirty, a gla.s.s jar of hard-boiled eggs and bowls of peanuts on the counter, wooden floors warped from years of soaking in spilled beer, Def Leppard playing on the jukebox. The menu might have mozzarella sticks and buffalo wings but certainly not anything with foie gras or truffle oil. There's a pool table and a dartboard and a bouncer because at least one sloppy drunk is going to throw a punch at somebody before closing.

Salt is the opposite of Jimmy's kind of bar. The coppery-orange globe pendants glow against the tin ceiling, giving off a romantic light. The mixed crowd here-some locals, most not-is more women than men, and everyone is dressed well, refined looking, out for a civilized evening. Beth reads the list of c.o.c.ktails on the drinks menu and gasps at the prices. At $20 a pop, everyone here is out for a civilized and expensive evening. She looks down the length of the bar, at the men and women seated next to them, trying to get a sense for who comes here. She notices nothing worth mentioning until she sees the large Nantucket basket purse perched on the bar, owned by the blond woman next to the bald man in the seersucker suit jacket. Too expensive for anyone actually from Nantucket to own; Beth has seen Nantucket baskets much smaller than that sell for over $1,000.

The bar itself is a honed, rugged stone slab embedded with amber-colored pieces of sea gla.s.s. Beth slides her hand over the cool surface. It's beautiful, a piece of art. The music is techno and loud. No one will be singing "Pour Some Sugar on Me" here.

"Here you go," says Jimmy, presenting Beth with a martini gla.s.s br.i.m.m.i.n.g with pink liquid. "The best drink on the menu."

Beth takes a sip. It's sweet and spicy with a strong but not unpleasant kick, the kind of drink she could easily get drunk on.

"It's good. What is it?" asks Beth.

"Vodka, rum, chili, lime, and ginger. It's called a Hot Pa.s.sion martini."

Hot Pa.s.sion? What is he doing? Beth feels embarra.s.sed, indignant, and then strangely flattered.

"What's with the beard?" asks Petra.

"Just trying it out," says Jimmy, scratching the hollows of his newly hairy cheeks with his fingers. "You like it?"

"No," says Petra.

He's been growing the beard for about a month now, and Beth thinks it looks good on him, rugged, masculine. It makes up for his weak chin. And she knows him, that he's not just trying it out. Jimmy stops shaving whenever he's going through a hard time-when his dad died, when scalloping dried up and they couldn't pay the bills, when Jessica had surgery on her ears in Boston. And now. Beth smiles to herself, pleased to realize that at least their separation ranks up there with the death of his father, that she still matters to him. And he stops shaving not simply because he's too distracted and overwhelmed with the stress in his life to bother, but mainly because his beard makes him feel protected, hidden. Jimmy wearing a beard is like Beth wearing one of her big, black, shapeless sweaters that covers her b.u.t.t.

But she's not wearing one of those sweaters tonight. She's wearing her Goldie Hawn dress, and Jimmy's wearing a beard. Interesting. It hadn't occurred to her that he might be having a hard time without her. Maybe this isn't what he wants. Maybe he's suffering, too.

Angela wiggles her way behind the bar and says something to Jimmy that Beth can't hear. Angela laughs, and he smiles, flashing those crooked, charming teeth. It's quick and then guarded, but there it was. She made him smile.

Keep suffering. Keep hiding. I hope you end up looking like Grizzly Adams.

Jill leans into Beth. "I think he's trying out enough new things at the moment."

Jimmy turns his attention to the couple next to Jill and begins opening a bottle of wine for them. Beth sips her martini, aware that Angela is a few feet behind her, that her estranged husband is inches in front of her, that she is sitting between them. This is too weird. She downs her drink. She hates the thought of Angela looking at her right now, checking her out, without her knowing. She feels self-conscious, exposed. Beth rubs her arms as if she's cold and checks her phone. No messages from the girls.

Unable to watch Angela, which is what she thought was the entire point of this outing, she sits and watches Jimmy instead. She can't remember when she last looked at him for this long. Before he moved out, they slept facing away from each other, a habit that began because of his snoring and his cigar breath. Because of his schedule, they rarely ate meals together, and when they did, it was usually in the living room with their plates on their laps while they faced the TV. And she withheld regard for his very existence whenever they were in a fight, which for the past few years was often.

Now she has a front-row seat with nothing to do but watch him. She's never seen him bartend before. He's in constant motion back there, in command, at ease. His hands, uncorking wine bottles, pouring martinis to the rim, muddling limes, are confident, efficient, graceful. He knows where every bottle and bar tool is. He knows from memory how every drink is made. He's good at this, and he enjoys it.

She didn't know any of this. She feels surprise and a twinge of hurt to discover that there's anything about Jimmy that she didn't know. He's not exactly a complex guy. Work, sleep, TV, kids, cigars. Not that bartending is brain surgery or race-car driving, but still, he's got skill and talent. The bar is the hub of this place. Everything revolves around it, and Jimmy is keeping the cogs moving, keeping the customers happy.

This is vastly different from scalloping, which was solitary and outdoors, a job she thought suited him well. But here he is, in a crowded restaurant, confined to a small indoor s.p.a.ce, chatting up strangers, mixing "girlie" drinks, and appearing to love it. He looks so at home.

But he's not dressed the way he dresses around the house. At home, he wears jeans or shorts that used to be jeans-frayed and uneven where he cut them with scissors at the bottom-T-shirts, a Red Sox hat, and work boots. Here, he's wearing a b.u.t.ton-down shirt with vertical blue and white stripes. It's even ironed. He's wearing it untucked with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and unb.u.t.toned one b.u.t.ton more than most men would wear it, revealing the top of his chest. He has a handsome, muscular chest. The beard, his smile, his forearms, his chest-he looks relaxed and, she could kill herself for thinking this, s.e.xy. Fueled at least in part by the Hot Pa.s.sion, she's at once helplessly attracted to him and completely p.i.s.sed at him.

How is it that he can be present and engaged and so competent here, whereas at home he drags himself around, too exhausted to do anything but lie on the couch? How is it that he can pull himself together, look handsome and cleaned up for work, but at home he only wears T-shirts stained with barbecue sauce on the front and sweat under the arms? How can he save this alive and fun part of himself for work and not share it with her and his girls?

"So, Jimmy, is it always this busy?" asks Petra.

"This? This is nothing. Wait another hour, it'll be three people deep behind you."

"Huh," says Petra.

Her restaurant, Dish, does well, but not three-people-deep-behind-the-bar-without-a-seat well, not this time of year anyway.

"How was your drink?" he asks Beth.

"Okay."

"You want another?"

"No, thanks," says Beth, thinking that she's had quite enough of his Hot Pa.s.sion.

"You didn't like it?"

"I did, I just want to try something different now."

"How about a gla.s.s of wine? You'd like the-"

"I can decide what I want without your help."

"Okay."

"I'll have an espresso martini."

"You sure?" asks Jimmy.

"Really sure."

He shrugs his shoulders, acquiescing. He grabs two bottles and inverts them over a stainless-steel martini shaker. "How are the girls?"

"Good."

"How was Jessica's game?"

"It was long. They lost."

"And Soph?"

"She's upset about a math test, thinks she failed it, but I'm sure she did fine."

"How's Gracie?"

"Good." She misses you. They all do.

"Good."

"Don't you want to know how Beth is?" asks Petra.

"Of course. How are you, Beth?"

"Good."

"You look good."

"Thanks."

"I like your necklace."

She places her hand over her locket. Her face flushes hot. She almost forgot she was wearing it. Before she can respond, Angela is behind the bar again, this time showing Jimmy something on her phone, capturing his interest. She laughs and touches his forearm. Angela's hand on Jimmy's arm. Beth could stomach the laughing and the smiling and the flirting and the b.o.o.bs, but something about that small touch, the intimacy of it, undoes her.

"You okay?" Jill asks Beth in her ear. "You look a little pale."

Beth nods as she clenches her teeth and swallows. She can't speak. If she talks right now, she'll cry. Whatever goal she had for tonight, the goal now is to get out of here without crying in front of Jimmy and Angela.

"You probably just need to eat."

Beth nods again, rubbing her silver locket between her fingers, disgusted with the foolish girl who put it on a few hours ago.

Jimmy serves Beth her espresso martini and then all three women their dinners. Petra ordered the grouper; Jill, on a sushi kick ever since that April book club, got the spicy tuna roll; and Beth got a burger with fries. Truffle-oil fries.

"How is everything?" asks Jimmy after a few minutes.

"Good," says Petra. "The food is really good, Jimmy. Who's your head chef?"

While Petra and Jimmy discuss the restaurant business, and Jill is texting her boys, Beth stays focused on eating and drinking. After finishing her second martini, she notices that she doesn't feel like crying anymore. She mostly feels numb now, as if a thick layer of fuzzy static is wrapped around her like a coc.o.o.n, impenetrable, more effective than a beard or a black sweater.

She's on her third drink, another espresso martini, when she hears someone yelling her name from behind her. She turns around. It's Georgia, waving and weaving her way through the crowd, knocking into bodies and gla.s.ses and splashing drinks as she pushes toward the bar, leaving a sea of hostile faces in her wake.

"I'm so glad you're still here!" she says, out of breath. "How's it going? Where's the Salt mistress?"

Beth, Petra, and Jill look at each other and then at Jimmy, who definitely heard that. Petra laughs.

"You mean hostess?" Petra asks.

Georgia laughs. "Whoops, yes! And I haven't had anything to drink yet. Where is she?"

"You didn't see her on the way in?" asks Petra.

"No, where?"

"Behind you. By the door."

"Where?"

"The dark, curly hair."

Georgia stands on her toes and squints her whole face.

"The one in the black shirt," says Petra.

Georgia shakes her head, still searching.

"The one with the b.o.o.bs."

"Ah, got her!" says Georgia. "Bimbo. I never pegged Jimmy for a b.o.o.b guy."

Beth presses her hand over her own insulted b.o.o.bs. It's true that Beth's are unremarkable, and Jimmy is more of a leg guy. Beth has great legs, long and toned. She's always walking, at the beaches, at Bartlett's Farm, all over New York City before she moved here.

It occurs to her that she's never heard of a man referred to as an eyes guy or a brains guy or a personality guy. She downs the rest of her martini. Guys suck. Maybe this is a blessing. Maybe she's better off without Jimmy. No man in the house. Her home will stay clean and organized, and it will smell pretty. And no more fighting. It's been peaceful since he left. Somewhere in her brain, Marilyn McCoo is singing "One Less Bell to Answer," a song her mother used to like when Beth was a young girl and that Beth hasn't heard or consciously thought of since.

"Not that there's anything wrong with yours," says Georgia.

"Just wait until she has babies," says Jill. "Hers will be hanging like the rest of ours."

The fuzzy numbness of Beth's martini armor must have a c.h.i.n.k in it because that comment punched right through and knocked the wind out of her. What if Angela gets pregnant? Beth thinks about how easily she conceived. Each and every time they pulled the goalie, it was one shot-score! She feels dizzy. The edges of her vision turn dim and blurry. She's got to get out of here.

"h.e.l.lo, Georgia," says Jimmy.

"I'm not happy with you," says Georgia.

"I know."

"But I'll forgive you if Beth does."