That evening, the fiddle player was going strong, the strings singing, and Celtic music echoed across the room in strains of longing and melancholy—a specialty of the Irish. The room was almost full and it was only seven on a weekday evening. Colleen glanced around as she entered, having returned to the Lark after sharing dinner with Gavin and Shane. She watched as the historical preservation guy, Beckett, stood at the other end of the bar laughing with a cluster of men and women. He held a glass of water and his grin spread all the way to his eyes, maybe even to his forehead. Colleen looked away and headed to the back room with Shane.

“You can’t be hurting for money. This place is hopping,” Colleen said.

“Not hurting, but even one bad week could do damage. Dad mismanaged things badly before I got hold of the accounts. I’m still paying off the bills for supplies we didn’t need.”

They were headed toward the back swinging door when two women waved at Colleen from the left side of the room. Colleen squinted, trying to adjust to the lighting. Ah! High school friends. What were their names? She dug far and fast. “Lena, Lena!” the blonde called and wound her way through the tables to reach her, giving Colleen a hug thick with the aroma of vanilla perfume. “It’s me, Marie, from Latin class.”

“Yes, hello.” Colleen grabbed Shane’s arm in a motion not to leave her. “How are you?”

“Oh, my God, I saw your article in Travel and Leisure. There I was right in the Savannah Airport and I thought, good Lord, that can’t be our Colleen Donohue, the one who left ten years ago and never spoke a word to anyone again. But damn straight, I looked it up and it was you.” She paused and glanced around the pub, checking if anyone could hear her. She twirled a flock of bleached hair at the side of her face and then tucked it behind her ear with a flirty tilt of the head. Yes, Shane stood a few feet away. Then she returned her attention to Colleen. “What a fascinating life you’ve had. Those stories were great. No wonder you left.”

The other woman, with darker, shorter hair and wearing cutoff jeans with the ragged strings hanging down, had reached their side. “That’s not why she left.” She smiled almost savagely and Colleen spied orange lipstick on her teeth. “Do you remember me?”

Colleen stared through the makeup and tight clothes and grinned. “Yes, we were in Ms. Sparks’s class together for calculus. Your brother, Jimbo, he was, what, a year younger?”

“Yep. He married Merilee; they live up the road with four kids.”

“Four.” Colleen shook her head.

“And”—the woman leaned closer—“we were in the school play together—Annie, remember? I was Annie.”