Fiona had put down her drink and looked at him, expecting a line, waiting for it, but Jamie had taken his time. Jamie had pulled up the stool next to her-handsome, muscled, glorious in a jaded way, a guy who looked like he’d been a college athlete before something had made him go as quiet and wary as a wild animal. A year ago she’d had a bad night-lonely, wallowing in self-pity and grief for Deb-and had found herself at a local bar, drinking alone. Fiona watched with the surreal feeling she still got sometimes when she looked at Jamie, even now. He sighed, but he stepped toward the table. “I’m better today,” she said, and she patted the table next to her. She’d done her best not to talk about it for twenty years, but talking about it out loud now was like bloodletting, painful and somehow necessary at the same time. Idlewild had always loomed silently in the back of her mind, a dark part of her mental landscape. That trip to Old Barrons Road had shaken something loose. It had been sort of a strange episode, but she didn’t regret it. “You couldn’t handle it last night,” he said. “About the restoration, the new school.” She watched his face.
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