More Than a Memory. Roz Denny Fox

back in Gatlinburg before dark, having had a decent meal in a chain restaurant. If that was putting on airs, she was guilty of it, not her mother.

      Reaching her car, Jo hesitated. She ought to ask Mildred where she could locate Garret Logan.

      Fortunately, a boy of about twelve or thirteen passed Jo on a bicycle. He darted her a friendly smile, then swerved toward the city park.

      “Hey,” she called. “You on the bike. I’m trying to find a man named Logan. Do you know where he is?”

      The boy circled back. “Sean just went into the bank.”

      “Garret. I’m looking for Garret.”

      “I reckon he’d be at the pub.” The boy once again started across the street.

      “Thanks, but where’s the pub?” The most she got out of the kid was a thumb jerked at the opposite end of the street. She did remember seeing a tavern almost at the edge of town.

      She could’ve walked, but driving gave her a moment to collect herself. She pulled into a graveled lot at the end of a log structure. Jo looked the building over as she locked her car. Neon lettering spilling out of a giant foamy beer mug identified the establishment as Logan’s Pub.

      At once a different image flashed before Jo’s eyes, making her blink. In her mind the sign said not Logan’s Pub, but Garret and…someone else’s…Pub. The second name swam, refusing to come into focus. The entire image dissipated in an instant. But it lasted long enough to startle Jo, and her sweaty hand slipped off the heavy oak door.

      A plaque nailed at eye level announced live bluegrass music on Friday and Saturday nights. Thankfully that sign didn’t float or change. Still, her stomach fluttered as Jo stepped inside and took a minute to let her eyes adjust to the dim interior.

      Suddenly her knees threatened to buckle as she was overwhelmed by a rush of nostalgia she couldn’t explain. A polished bar reflected light from several brewery signs. Her nose wrinkled at the malty smell of beer. As far as she knew, this was the first time she’d ever set foot inside this tavern or any other.

      Her eyes skimmed the dark-haired bartender who had his back toward the door as he filled a glass with a dark amber brew. Two other men sat at the farthest end of the bar, deep in conversation. One had a glass of beer and a sandwich in front of him. The other had a sandwich but no beer. Dismissing the men, Jo’s eyes lit on a small empty stage opposite the bar.

      Aloud crash had her whipping her head back toward the bar. The bartender had dropped the glass, and a million winking pieces swam across the floor in a river of ale.

      GARRET LOGAN HAD HEARD the front door open and close. It was early for the onslaught of the usual afterwork crowd. He finished drawing an ale for the second of two salesmen at the bar before he turned to check on the new customer. When he did, the glass slipped from his hand. He blinked hard, trying to erase the too-real apparition of a woman he’d thought dead for the past seven years. He’d assumed Colleen Drake lay buried in some East-Coast cemetery, along with her father, Joe. And with her, a secret the two of them had never told a soul.

      Unable to tear his eyes from the mirage, he whispered a shaky “Colleen? My God, come closer. Let me look at you.” Garret’s brain said he should fill another glass for the waiting salesman. At the very least he needed to clean up the mess. But his boots seemed welded to the worn plank floor as his eyes drank in Colleen’s beautiful features.

      She stared at him, her eyebrows drawn together.

      “You’re the second person in this town to call me Colleen. Who are you? Do you know me?”

      No. She couldn’t be serious. Garret would know Colleen anywhere in spite of the inevitable changes in her appearance—such as the salon-tamed hair that used to curl wildly around his hands each time he tilted her face up for a kiss. This classy woman who gazed at him from several feet away had a degree of sophistication Colleen had lacked. But it could be no one else. Dammit, half his life had been entwined with hers. He’d loved her even longer than that. Loved her with all his heart. And for seven years he’d grieved over her death. It was only in the past year that he’d been able to consider going on without her. It didn’t matter that his large, loving family and host of friends urged him to get on with his life almost daily. Garret’s pain at losing Colleen had been too great. They’d planned to be married as soon as he returned from Ireland.

      From deep inside a fog of shock, he watched her come closer. In the same smoky voice he’d never forgotten, she murmured, “May I call someone? Did you cut yourself on the glass?”

      The formality of her query shook Garret out of his paralysis. The paralysis was replaced by unreasonable anger. He planted both hands on the bar to steady himself. “Where did you run off to? Why are you back now? What do you want from me?”

      A dozen questions swirled in her head, but what came out surprised Jo. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take a sarsaparilla.” Truthfully, she had no idea what she had just requested, other than she thought it was some type of soft drink. She hadn’t ever tasted sarsaparilla. Had she?

      Garret didn’t smile but said through clenched teeth, “Why don’t you and I step outside?”

      “Why?” Jo’s voice wobbled.

      “Because we have an old score to settle.”

      “What old score?”

      “As if you don’t know. Give me a minute. I’ll get Brian to take over for me here.” Abruptly he turned his back on her, grabbed a mug, filled it to the brim and deposited it in front of his customer, who along with his friend was taking everything in. Too shaken to stay in her presence a moment longer, Garret stiff-armed his way through a door marked Private at the back of the bar.

      “Who are you? And who’s Brian?” she asked, raising her voice.

      The door swung shut behind him on silent hinges, leaving Jo gaping at the rude man who hadn’t felt the need to share his name.

       Chapter Two

      GARRET SHOVED THE DOOR OPEN so forcefully he nearly hit his brother Brian, who was toting two trays of clean glasses into the main bar. “Whoa, dude!” His brother jumped aside in the nick of time. “What’s your rush?” Only Brian’s agility saved them from having to clean up even more broken glass.

      “She’s back. She’s out there.” Garret jerked a thumb at the still-swinging door.

      “Who? Are you all right?”

      “Colleen. Colleen Drake is back. She sashayed right up to the bar, cool as you please, asking for sarsaparilla like she used to. Remember how Mom stocked sarsaparilla at home for her?And Dad had it here because it was all Colleen liked, but her mother nixed soda pop. Sharon said sugar made Colleen too high-strung to play her violin.”

      “Slow down. You’re babbling, my man. Take a deep breath. Colleen’s been dead for seven years. You’ve probably gone and scared off a customer, Garret.” Brian set the heavy trays on the kitchen island that held a six-burner stove and a well-used grill.

      Garret was ready to yell at his older brother, but with a backward glance at the door, kept his voice low. “It’s her, I tell you.” It was true he hadn’t set eyes on Colleen Drake since her whole family left town while he escorted his mother to Ireland for her family reunion. But Harvey Bolton, the real estate agent who sold the Drakes’ house, told everyone Joe and Colleen had died in a car accident.

      Brian laid a hand on Garret’s shoulder. “Garret, maybe you should go home and let me handle the bar. Sean showed you the newspaper article about the accident. You must be mistaken. They say we all have a twin somewhere in the world.”

      “Right, and Colleen’s twin happens to love sarsaparilla? I’m telling you, Brian, it’s her.” Garret shook off his brother’s hand. “I can’t deal with her right now. Do me a favor. Ask her how long she’s