Girl Most Likely

Six

The outer area of the Galena Brewing Company on North Main was a big modern room with rustic touches, brick behind the bar, barnwood-trimmed doors, wooden tables and chairs, and — hanging from the open rafters — nostalgic posters. These hawked their house brews — General Grant for Uly’s Dark, Carrie Nation for Anna Belle’s IPA, and a weary Depression-era farmer for Farmer’s Blonde.

This time of year the microbrewery was rarely hopping (or barleying either, for that matter). But this was a Friday, and fairly busy, so Krista was not surprised when she and Jerry were directed to the party room. Maybe thirty people were packed into the modest space with its own bar and rustic touches (here a barrel, there a pioneer picture), and half a dozen four-chair tables. On the edge of the bar, a phone in a speaker dock was giving forth with Lady Gaga’s possibly prophetic “Bad Romance.”

The word “casual” to Krista’s female classmates hadn’t stopped them from making an effort — around the room were colorful sweaters, ruffled blouses, and funky sweatshirts. Less thought had gone into the rest of their ensembles, which invariably ran to leggings or jeans. UGG boots and maybe her own cowboy boots were as fancy as the footgear got, with running shoes in the lead.

The guys had taken “casual” more literally, the room filled with flannel shirts and sweatshirts, nondesigner jeans, and even sweatpants, with running shoes winning the footwear event, male division.

But for the occasional selfie, the usual phones were tucked away, texting taking a back seat to actual human contact with these old classmates. It was better than Facebook.

Krista and Jerry, who on the brief car ride here had spoken very little, if politely, joined Jessy and her husband, Josh, at the table where seats had been saved for the less-than-happy couple.

“You look adorable!” Jessy said, standing and giving her a hug. “I love the cowboy boots!”

Josh, also on his feet now, grinned and said, “I thought you were the police chief, not the sheriff!”

He was a good-looking, friendly guy with dark blond hair and dark blue eyes, slightly overweight, in camouflage sweatshirt and khakis.

She laughed politely at Josh’s greeting, not terribly interested in having her profession pointed out. Jerry said hello to everybody as they both sat down.

“Well, you look very nice yourself,” Krista told Jessy, who — ever the professional — had on a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, with a tailored navy blazer, her makeup flawless, though her dark-washed jeans and flats showed less effort.

Krista added, “Love the purse!”

Jessy — the black Coach crossbody purse before her like a meal she was protecting from some hungry interloper — said, “Nabbed it at T.J. Maxx across the river. Where did you find those boots?”

“Online, I’m afraid,” Krista admitted.

She and Jessy talked clothes for a while, and commented in hushed tones about the attire of other female classmates (mostly admiring, but a modest amount of cattiness creeping in). Josh and Jerry just smiled awkwardly at each other. They had nothing in common, Josh having typical male sports enthusiasms, Jerry a would-be hipster interested only in the arts.

Krista caught snippets of their occasional, strained conversation.

Jerry gestured to Josh’s camouflage sweatshirt and said, “Didn’t know you were into hunting.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh.”

Josh shrugged. “Just thought it had a nice macho vibe.”

Jerry nodded. “That it does.”

“Don’t want people to think because I’m in the food industry I’m some kind of... you know.”

Jerry, who clearly didn’t know, said, “Right.”

And that, of the several things that got through her radar as she girl-talked with Jessy, was the longest and most interesting exchange between the two former classmates.

Krista asked Jessy, “Any sign of Astrid?”

“Not yet. I fully expect her to make an entrance. If she shows at all.”

“Thought you said she was coming...?”

Jessy nodded, her permed dark hair bouncing. “Yes, but we only took RSVPs for the formal night. We just informed everybody on our emailing that on Friday we’d meet casually here at the Brewing Company.”

“Nice place for it. Did they charge us for the party room?”

“No. Not even for the bartender.”

Of course, the microbrewery was obviously making out just fine. And that was cool with Krista, who liked their craft beers. Her particular favorite was the Farmer’s Blonde. Noting that neither Jessy nor Josh had drinks yet, she interrupted the conversation with Jessy to take their orders, which she and Jerry rose to go over to the bar and get. They would buy the first round.

As they stood in line, Jerry said, “What the hell kind of aftershave is that doofus wearing?”

“Josh is very nice,” she said firmly. “Anyway, I don’t think that’s aftershave.”

“What is it then?”

“Maybe the new garlic caramel corn.”

As they carried four beers over to the table, Miley Cyrus was singing “Party in the USA.” Krista and Jerry distributed the beverages, giving an Uly’s to Josh, an Anna Belle’s to Jessy, with Krista keeping the Farmer’s for herself and Jerry the can of Coors Light he’d disgraced himself asking for.

“You’re kidding,” Josh said, to no one in particular.

He was looking across the room where two guys had just come in. Both were noticeably older than Krista’s classmates, which was as it should be, since Christopher Hope had been one of their teachers, and his significant other, Tyler Dale, was the longtime owner and operator of Galena’s Own Artworks, where you could find paintings, prints, ceramics, and jewelry by local artists.

Jessy frowned at her husband and said, “Don’t.”

“I just think he has his nerve,” Josh said.

Krista knew Josh meant Chris.

Jerry, not following, said, “What?”

“I’m no homophobe,” Josh said, which was something that only homophobes tended to say, “but I don’t think somebody like that should be teaching children. Much less...”

Jerry, getting it now, frowning, asked, “Much less what?”

Josh was looking somewhere else now. “Nothing.”

But Krista knew. Chris and Tyler had adopted two children. Some people didn’t like that. Most didn’t care. She certainly didn’t. And in her time on the PD, she’d seen four instances of barroom literal gay bashing that had made her sick.

“Excuse me,” she said, somehow managing a smile, and rose and went over to Chris and Tyler, who were looking around for a place to sit, apparently.

Krista smiled big and took the hand Chris offered and she held it and squeezed. “I’m so happy to see you! I wish more of our teachers were here.”

Chris, who was all in black — turtleneck, its long sleeves rolled up, dark-washed skinny jeans, and black dress shoes — had a slimly athletic build a quarterback might envy. He was in his late thirties and looked great, blond and chiseled, the kind of handsome gay guy that made a woman sigh in disappointment.

“You must be the best-looking police chief anywhere,” Chris said, smiling and looking her up and down in a way most of the other men here couldn’t get away with.

She laughed and thanked him, letting him have his hand back, not minding when Chris was the one invoking her job. She said to Tyler, “I was in the shop last week. I love the new things!”

Tyler — in a Tom Waits chapeau, black satin jacket, vintage Pat Benatar T-shirt, ripped jeans, high-top Converses, and fashionably scruffy beard — said, “I’m afraid the best things aren’t selling like they should. And we’re pulling in arts and crafts from all over the tristate area.”

Chris gave his partner a sideways smile. “He means his paintings aren’t moving as fast as he’d like. I told him he should do some more of those David Bowie images.”

Tyler laughed quietly. “He wants me to pander.”

“No,” Chris said to him, “I want you to sell out!”

All three of them laughed, and Krista said, “You know, you really gave me a boost of confidence, back at GHS.”

That half smile of Chris’s was worth more than most people’s full grin. “You mean that lead in Into the Woods? We were one of the first in the nation to do the high school version, you know.”

That was the so-called “junior” edition that was mostly the first act. Krista had played Little Red Riding Hood.

“I was very shy before that,” she said. “Kind of... inward.”

“You were something of an introvert, yes. But now you deal with people all the time — at their best and their worst, I would imagine.”

“Well,” she said, “I hope you know how much you did for me. For so many of us.”

Somewhat shyly, possibly a little embarrassed, he said, “You’re very welcome.”

“How are the kids?”

He gave her a full grin now. “Chloe and Liam are great. Nine and twelve respectively. Liam is in basketball and Chloe is into science. Not a speck of drama talent in either one of ’em. That will prevent a conflict of interest one day.”

“I’m so happy for you guys,” she said.

Chris looked around. “I don’t see Astrid anywhere.”

“I’m not sure she’s coming tonight. But Jessy says Astrid put in a reservation for tomorrow night. She was your star, I know.”

“Your costar,” he said, referring to Astrid playing Cinderella in Into the Woods.

“Well, she had the lead,” Krista said, “in every play you put on all through high school.”

“I’m sure some of the kids resented that,” he said. “But she was so very good. Talent will out, you know.”

“Like evil,” Tyler said.

Krista said, “I hope to see you two tomorrow night. Like I said, I wish more of our teachers were coming.”

“Tomorrow a number are,” Chris said, nodding. “Enough of us to reserve a table, anyway.”

“Great!”

Several other classmates who’d been in drama came over and kidnapped the two men to come sit with them. On her way back to the table, Krista ran into Frank Wunder and his wife, Brittany. Frank had a can of Budweiser in a fist and Brittany a glass of wine in her more delicate grasp.

“You can arrest me anytime, Chief!” Frank said, good-natured but, as ever, a shameless flirt. Predictably he was wearing a Galena High football jersey, brand new but with his old number — 69 — which had been the source of much boring humor among his teammates.

Rugged, with short brown hair, Frank had a Woody Harrelson handsomeness undercut by those nice green eyes being set even closer together than Woody’s, and a nose that had been broken a few times.

He was bound to start off by ragging Krista about not buying her latest car from him.

And he did: “How can the chief of police of an all-American town like Galena buy Japanese? I’ll give you a better deal on that Toyota than you deserve, just to get you into the right kind of ride.”

“Hi, Frank. Hi, Brittany.”

Brittany had speared a page from her rock ’n’ roll almost namesake, wearing a clinging black spandex top with the shoulders cut out, too-tight jeans with bedazzled butt pockets, and high-heeled black leather boots. This outfit would have worked better ten years and two kids ago, her long blonde hair sporting too much product, her makeup predictably heavy. But unlike many other women here, Brittany had given her entire wardrobe real thought.

“You look nice,” Brittany said. She seemed sincere but not happy about it.

“So do you. Any of your classmates here?”

She nodded, sipped her wine. “A few married up like I did.”

Brittany meant she’d been a sophomore who snagged the school’s star jock. But it was her husband who’d married up — Brittany’s daddy owned the car dealership that Frank managed.

Drake started singing, “Best I Ever Had.”

Frank asked, “Any sign of Astrid yet?”

He was one of half a dozen guys who had been a boy toy of Astrid’s back in his glory days. And bringing Astrid up in front of his wife like that was thoughtless, to say the least. And he wasn’t even drunk yet.

“No,” Krista said. “Not sure she’s coming tonight. Pretty much for sure she’ll be there out at the lodge.”

Frank grinned, perhaps at the thought of seeing Astrid again. “Really cool of Dave Landry to roll out the red carpet like he is. Hell of a nice thing to do for his old classmates.”

“Really is,” Krista said, nodding, meaning it.

Some of Frank’s old jock buddies were approaching, so she smiled and nodded at the couple — Brittany seemed in petrified misery — and headed back to the table.

But Jerry intercepted her halfway.

Whispering, barely audible above the Black Eyed Peas, he said, “What’s the idea of leaving me alone with that homophobic fool?”

“Josh is okay,” she said. “He’s just a little screwed up in some areas.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

She leaned close to him. “Jessy is my best friend. Go mingle with some of your own friends — this is your class, too.”

“I thought we came together.”

She gave him a strained smile. “That’s starting to feel like a technicality.”

He gave her a dismissive wave, then moved away, not back to their table, rather taking her up on her suggestion to connect with some other classmates.

When she returned to the table, Jessy was sitting with another friend of theirs, Cindi Thomas, who was also on the committee. Krista went over and got a second Farmer’s and, when she returned, Cindi was just going. Josh was across the room talking to a couple of guys from his old crowd.

Jessy leaned in and asked, “Are you back with Jerry?”

“Not really.”

“Would I be out of line saying, ‘Good’?”

“Not at all.”

“Okay, then. Good. He was really a jerk to Josh.”

“How so?”

“Well, he congratulated Josh on being the most boring, backward ass in the class. Was he trying to sound like a poet? Rhyming ‘ass’ and ‘class’?”

“Dunno.”

And Jerry wasn’t completely wrong about Josh, but insulting him at an event like this, in front of the guy’s wife, who organized the reunion... well. She drank some beer.

“Omigod, look.” Jessy’s eyes were on the entry between the party room and the outer brewpub. Sixpence None the Richer, with its girl singer, was doing “There She Goes,” the old La’s song.

Astrid Lund.

Pausing there as the world stopped around her. Tall, blonde... but then so was Krista. Attractive in her Nordic way... but then so was Krista.

But not like this. Not quite platinum hair stopping at her shoulders, classic blunt bangs. Wide-set ice-blue eyes. High cheekbones. Perfectly formed nose with a slight upward tilt. Mouth on loan from Charlize Theron. Slender with a narrow waist.

And the clothes!

Krista may have spent most of her time in uniform, but she had always loved fashion, getting lost in the chichi magazines. She consoled herself with the notion that fashion would be bad for her law enforcement image. Not that, in real life, she could afford anything that wasn’t a knockoff or a T.J. Maxx castoff.

Apparently Astrid could afford it.

She was in a Burberry tan-and-black plaid shirtdress — knee-length with quarter-length sleeves and a sash belt. On her small, no doubt perfect feet were Burberry booties, the front half brown leather, the back half plaid cloth, wraparound leather strap, gold buckle. Casually from one shoulder hung a Louis Vuitton bag — brown-and-tan hobo with signature LV. Krista guessed that maybe her classmate had figured going all Burberry would have been a bit much.

The watch riding Astrid’s wrist was an oversize Rolex. Her bare legs were bronze — product, tanning bed, or island vacation? Who could say? But all her exposed skin, face included (making that blonde hair pop), was that same bronze.

Krista was considering going up to her, but to welcome her, since everyone else was as frozen as the kids staring at Astrid playing Stupefyin’ Jones in Mr. Hope’s sophomore-year production of Li’l Abner.

What made Krista hesitate was thinking that if only that red sweater of hers had been cashmere, and not cotton...

But before Krista could get past that, Jerry ran up to Astrid like a lost puppy catching sight of its master. Or mistress. She took both his hands in hers and kissed him, briefly, on the mouth. And then they began to talk, Jerry fairly animatedly, and Astrid listening politely, making the occasional comment, as the rest of the party room thawed itself and got back to their conversations.

When Astrid and Jerry moved deeper into the room, Krista found her moment. She slipped out and headed home.

It wasn’t much of a walk.