This time he played it more cool, sitting two stools down the way Meadows had at Pelican Pub in Sarasota. The woman didn’t look up, same as the one in the booth, but her chest rose and fell a little more rapidly to show that she knew he was there. It felt like she was a patient fisherman and he was the fish, the bait being an odd top with the shoulders cut out and jeans tight down to her ankles, what kids would wear. She was no kid. She’d had enough alcohol so her hand was steady when she reached for her purse, hanging by its strap over the back of the barstool, and took out a packet of cigarettes.

Beaufort took his lighter out of his jacket pocket and laughed shyly at his awkwardness leaning all that way over to light her cigarette. She smiled at him laughing at himself, and it seemed to relax her. Her face looked younger, and more appealing, as she cupped her small fingers around his.

In the light of the flame he could see she wasn’t bad-looking, just too sad to encourage strangers much. Her hair was a dry red wine with a little gray growing out around her temples. Her lipstick matched her hair, or had earlier in the evening. Now most of what had been on her lips was on the rim of her glass. This wasn’t the kind of woman who made him nervous. He could handle this kind easy. She offered him a cigarette after she took a puff of hers.

“No, thanks,” Beaufort said. “I’m trying to quit.”

That started the conversation. “Me, too,” she said, and winked. “Though I’d suppose that if I was really trying to quit,” she said, and paused as if there would be a punch line, “I wouldn’t carry a lighter.” Her chin dipped and her eyebrows rose as she said it.

Beaufort took that as a cue to chuckle. “My dad taught me that a man should always carry a lighter to light a lady’s cigarette.”

He knew he had her on that one, but just to seal the deal he added, “Also it’s a habit. My wife smoked.”

Her eyes flickered, going over his probable story in her head, calculating whether she should stay or go. She stayed. “Is your wife … gone?” she asked, choosing the word cautiously.

“Six months ago. This is my first time sitting alone at a bar since she died,” he said. “It took me all evening to put on a jacket and walk in here. Am I too late?”

“I don’t think so,” she said.

Beaufort had learned quickly that while he was gone the world had gotten nicer, and he knew not to start out with a moron joke. Instead he asked her about herself.