The door opens, bringing in a blast of cold and a woman wearing nothing more than a light jacket, no hat or gloves, her cheeks ruddy and heavily lined. She walks with her head low, makes a beeline for a barstool. There’s a tightness in my chest. “Who’s that?” I ask.

Ruth makes a clucking sound. “Jory Woods. Her husband just up and left her when the fishing season ended, and her mother died last year. She’s got two young ones at the school, but this winter has been hard on her. I thought she was trying to quit. Hmmm, where’s Alice?”

I’m staring at the bottom of a glass; ice cubes slide down and hit my teeth, bringing with them the watery taste of whiskey. I set the glass down, chomp on an ice cube, and look around. Whiskey Pete’s. My head swims the tiniest bit but enough to tell me that I shouldn’t have another whiskey.

Harriet hands me a water; her eyes are narrowed with what I’m thinking is concern for me, which makes sense because drinking too much probably isn’t the best idea. “Thanks,” I say and take the water, draining half of it before setting it on the table.

She frowns. “Two drinks should probably be your limit.”

“Or none at all,” mumbles Ruth.

The guy onstage stands, slings his guitar to his back, and leans into the microphone. “That’s my set. I’m Jarrod, and I want to dedicate tonight to Claire.”

I’m startled to find the young guy holding up his beer bottle toward me.

An old man in the corner booth gives a half-hearted clap. Harriet leans into me. “You’re teaching young Jarrod there how to play the guitar, Claire. His playing is no reflection on your teaching, by the way.”

Ruth snorts and I start to smile, amused and trying to piece it all together, when a woman at the bar starts to cry, bent over, shoulders shaking. The sound is pathetic and so lost it hits me right in the gut, and all I can think about is my mom and how alone in her own tortured thoughts she must have been to have gotten so lost like that.

Pete heads her way, pats her lightly on the shoulder. “Okay, now, Jory.” His voice is low and comforting.

Ruth shakes her head. “Poor woman.” Harriet makes a sympathetic sound in agreement.

“Here you go, Jory, drink this.” Pete sets a soda on the bar before heading back to help another customer.

I still can’t take my eyes off the woman, can’t stop imagining my mother like that.

“Is Alice up next, Pete?” Ruth says.

“Rick’s up doing Elvis covers, then Alice.”

Harriet hoots. “Rick? The guy who plays death-metal tunes on the jukebox every damn chance he gets?” She slaps her knee. “Come on, ladies, this we’ve got to hear.”