I was a frustrated artist with a screwed-up personal life, but I knew how to work hard (even hungover or buzzed), and I had an eye for commercial images. However, showing my real art always felt awkward and exposed, so I’d put my energy into the paying work. I’d somehow established a quirky vibe that was now popular. “It pays the light bill.”

“Whenever I’m in the market for a wedding photographer, you’re my girl,” Kurt said.

“There a lady in the wings?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

Brit had said something once about him being divorced. I glanced to his left hand. Empty with no trace of a ring tan. “Can’t rush greatness.”

He grinned. “That’s what I keep telling my mother.” He turned to Brit, hugged her, but the embrace was tentative—chaste, as if Brit were an older, distant aunt. In reality she was only a year older than Kurt.

“I’m glad you made it,” Brit said.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said. “Been too long.”

“The bar is running an open tab,” Brit said. “What can I get you, Kurt?”

“Craft beer.”

“You got it. Soda for you, M?”

“Perfect.”

Brit hurried out of the room, leaving a scented trail behind. The silence settled. The only thing Kurt and I had in common now was Clare’s murder. We both had gone through the wringer after her death. The devastating news, the cops asking endless questions, the media attention, and then the friends who stopped calling.

“You’re drinking soda?” he asked. “That a joke?”

“No punch line. Sober for one year now,” I said.

“Wow. How’s that been?”

“Not too bad.” Lying was a birthday-girl privilege.

Brit entered with a tray sporting a beer bottle, a canned soda, and a misty glass of white wine. She doled out drinks and held up her wineglass. “This will be the first of many toasts tonight, but happy birthday, Marisa.”

Kurt grinned as he drank from his beer bottle, clearly relieved for something to do. He looked around the room at the dark wood paneling, flickering sconces, and vintage bar signs now draped in pink and white streamers with balloons dangling from the ends. “Brit, you’ve outdone yourself. The room looks terrific.”

Mama Brit beamed. “Thanks, Kurt.”

“There’s no place like home,” he quipped.

“Exactly.” In high school, Brit had a crush on Kurt, and there had always been a snap of attraction in her eyes when she’d looked at him. Then she’d left for college, and he’d started dating Clare.

“What’s on the menu?” Kurt asked.

“We’re having Marisa’s favorite,” she said. “Barbecue, rolls, creamed corn, and coleslaw. A little out of season but can’t argue with a favorite.”