Portia and I chatted over wine as the sun sank into the bay and our stomachs began to rumble. Lloyd had long since staggered off, and the tourists had departed to the nearest eateries. Only a couple die-hard locals were left.
Portia and I waved goodbye to Nina and headed out into the cool evening. “I’m meeting Cheryl for dinner. You want to join us?” I asked Portia as I shrugged into a lightweight jacket and twisted my long, dark brown hair up into a quick bun to avoid wind tangles. Clouds were beginning to scuttle across the darkened sky. No doubt there would be rain before morning.
Portia shivered. She hadn’t brought a jacket, silly girl. “I’ll take a rain check. Right now, all I want to do is get my pajamas on and curl up with some mind-numbing TV.”
We said our goodbyes, and Portia sashayed away, nearly giving a passing tourist a heart attack. He did a double take so hard he nearly tripped over his feet. His wife angrily smacked him on the back of his head and stormed off. He stumbled after her making loud protestations of his innocence. I hid a smirk as I turned to walk uphill toward Fort George Pub.
Astoria is built on a hill where the Columbia River meets Youngs Bay before flowing out to join the Pacific Ocean. The docks are on the waterfront, naturally, with the town center running parallel to the river a couple blocks in. From there, the city marches uphill toward the Astoria Column, the crowning glory of Coxcomb Hill. I’d read once that the monument was patterned after the Trajan Column in Rome. I’ve never seen it— the one in Rome, I mean—so I couldn’t tell you if that’s true.
Most of the houses in Astoria were glorious old Victorians painted in wildly bright colors. Made the town look like a mini San Francisco. But sprinkled in between were Craftsman cottages, a few Cape Cods, and the odd modern home.
Fort George Pub was in a renovated warehouse a block up the hill from the main drag. I made it in record time to find Cheryl already there, sitting at one of the rustic tables, a pint of something golden in front of her. Personally, I hated beer, but Cheryl enjoyed the odd glass. She waved me over with a grin.
She was dressed similarly to me in jeans, boots, and a casual top. On me, it looked relaxed and comfy. On her, it looked stylish and charming. Her short, brown hair stood up in cute little spikes that would have made anyone else look like they’d just rolled out of bed. On her, it was artistic and stylish.
“So, how goes the writing?” she asked as I took the chair across from her.
I rolled my eyes. “Same as ever.”
She gave me a look of sympathy. Only another writer could understand the frustration of writer’s block. “Really? Getting out of the house didn’t help?”
“Not even a little. Maybe I need a trip to Eastern Oregon or something. See some real cowboys. Visit a ghost town. I don’t know.”
She gave me a look. “You don’t even like cowboys.”
I shrugged. “Anything for my readers.” It was true. I didn’t much like cowboys, ranches, country music, or any of that other stuff that one might think went along with writing historical Western romances.
“Speaking of...how is the gorgeous Lucas?”
“Were we speaking of that?”
She glared at me. “What is your problem, Viola? You’ve got a gorgeous, smart, talented, not to mention rich guy who is totally into you, and you act like you’re about to visit a dentist’s office.”
She was right. It was nuts. I should be throwing myself at the man, but that wasn’t my style. Plus, I’d gotten used to being alone. Other than a brief flirtation with marriage in my early twenties, I’d avoided long-term commitment. It wasn’t for me. Although Lucas Salvatore seemed to be shaking that long-held belief. Still, I wasn’t ready to go there.
“How about you?” I said, switching the subject. “Meet anyone interesting lately?”
“Men,” Cheryl said with a scowl. “I’ve got no time for them. I’ve got a deadline, you know. This book isn’t going to write itself.”
“I hear you.”
The waiter interrupted with our burgers, and we both dived in. Mine had bacon jam and bleu cheese. The smoky bacon and tangy cheese was absolutely perfect, and I nearly moaned in delight.
I felt badly for Cheryl. She’d met a lovely man at the Florida conference. It had seemed like things were going well, despite the differences between them—he lived on the East Coast and she on the West. He was a vegetarian; she wasn’t. That sort of thing. Then he dumped her to get back together with his old girlfriend. It had taken a lot of Ben & Jerry’s to get her over that one. She was still pretty much off men, even though I kept pushing. Gently, of course. It was my job as her best friend.
While we ate, I told her about Portia’s troubles with The Louse as well as our conversation about dealing with the situation. “She seems to think she’s stuck. That there’s nothing she can do.”
Cheryl snorted. “Maybe she should go with Nina’s first suggestion. Consequences be hanged.”
“Believe me, I’m tempted to do it for her.”
We were waiting for the waiter to bring us our check when my phone started playing “Everybody Have Fun Tonight” by Wang Chung. I literally had no idea how my ringtone had gotten changed. Probably one of my nephews. They were always doing things like that as pranks when I visited my sister in Portland. I probably should have changed it back, but I liked the catchy tune. The caller ID told me it was Portia.
“Hey, girl,” I shouted cheerfully over the din of the pub. Maybe she’d changed her mind. “We’re at Fort George. Want to join us?”
“Viola, I’m at the museum.
