During the Jasper era, they’d only come here the one time. The Hoodies hadn’t taken to him, nor he to them. Which in retrospect probably should have told her something. He didn’t understand a comfortable bar filled with good people. He was a rich-kid windsurfer with a torn knee, turned successful windsurf shop owner, turned aspiring yuppie with a BMW and an attitude. She’d been too polite to leave him until the relationship completely died and neither of them could remember why they’d gotten together in the first place.
But sitting here, in the group but separate, with only Vern to deal with, was close to ideal. The general hum of conversation and shouted greetings in fact made their table quite private, like a sound isolation booth afloat on the cheerfully noisy sea that was the Doghouse
