“Did not.”

“Did so.”

“Did not. Anyway, wait until you see the banker. He’s light-years away from this moron. You’re gonna like the banker.”

“No. No more fix ups. I hate fix ups.”

“I wouldn’t have to get you fixed up if you were better at getting dates.”

“I don’t have time for dates right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” Danny said.

“I’m twenty-six!”

“I worry about you,” Danny said. “We all worry about you. We don’t like you working in the bar, coming home at all hours, dealing with drunks all night long. You should be married to some nice boring guy who takes care of you and keeps you safe.”

“I don’t want to be married to a nice boring guy. I want to teach school, and I want to marry an exciting guy who rides in on a big black horse and sweeps me off my feet.”

“I’d feel better if he could ride in on a white horse,” Danny said. “Why don’t you at least get a better job? Something that doesn’t dump you out at midnight.”

“The bar is perfect. It pays well. It allows me to go to school during the day. And I’m good with the drinks and the customers. All those years of listening to everyone talk at once at the table are finally paying off.”

Not to mention Cate was getting cheap rent because she was subletting a room from Marty Longfellow. Marty was a South End drag queen who sang at the bar and single-handedly pulled it out of economic disaster. Not only was Marty a fascinating oddity… she was also good. She had a voice like velvet and, after an hour and a half of shaving, two hours of makeup, a half hour to strap herself down and squirm into her dress, she was every woman’s envy and every man’s dream (at least on the surface). Marty sang at the bar two nights a week and traveled the other five, mostly doing private parties. Sometimes she would leave on an extended tour and be gone for a week or two. This was why Cate got the cheap rent. Cate guarded the castle. Cate watered Marty’s plants, retrieved the mail, answered the phone, and made sure things were spiffy for Marty’s return.