The note of exasperation in her father’s voice was surprising. He’d always said he loved how Simone stuck with certain absolutes because so much of her artistic temperament was unpredictable. But they’d clearly reached a point where all those things that had caused them to fall in love were now just bugging the crap out of each other.

“Why not try something different?” he suggested.

“Yeah, Mom,” Suzanne broke in. “Winona tells me piña coladas are Tucker’s specialty.”

“They are; I can definitely vouch for that.”

Suzanne glanced over at the young woman two stools down. She had some kind of insignia on her pocket and was sitting with two elderly men who were currently debating when it would snow.

“Tonight, I tell you, Ray,” bar dude number one said. He was a spritely looking old white guy, with a twinkle in his eyes. “My hip never lies.”

“That’s horseshit, Bob,” bar guy number two interjected. He was a tall African American man with snowy white hair. “Bureau says day after tomorrow.”

There was an inelegant snort. “What do they know?”

“They have weather satellites, you old fool. I’ll take that over your dang hip any day.”

“Humph. Bureau should pay me to be their satellite.”

The young woman glanced at Suzanne and crossed her eyes, and Suzanne laughed as Tucker said, “What do you want, Della?” in a surprisingly short kind of way.

Not a hi or a hello or how are you. Not a what can I get you or how about those Broncos. His body language was different, too. He’d been all loose and laid-back with them, but with Della, his expression was more masked. Definitely more brooding.

She called him on it, though. “I’m fine, Tuck, thank you for asking.” She didn’t pause for him to apologize, just put in her drink order. “I’ll get a piña colada.”

Tucker glanced at the two old guys still bickering like they’d been doing it for decades. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

She looked like she wanted to deny it for a moment; then she sighed. “Yeah.” She looked like it had been a long day, and Suzanne could totally relate. “Better make it a Coke.”

“I’ll have a Shirley Temple,” Bob said like he was Dean Martin ordering a scotch on the rocks in Vegas. “And can you throw in an extra cherry? Doc says I gotta eat more fruit.” Then he laughed, and Ray laughed with him, slapping the bar several times. “I’ll have a Fuzzy Navel,” Ray said after he’d recovered from his laughing, playing Sammy to Bob’s Dean. “Extra fruit for me, too.”

And they both cracked up some more.

Tucker glanced at Della. “You giving out some new kind of happy pill at the old folks’ home?”

“Why?” she asked sweetly. “You want some?”