Description
By: Rebecca Barry
A charmingly tender debut novel that “is a delicate, beautiful balance of wit and yearning” (Elizabeth Gilbert, #1 New York Times bestselling author) as it follows the ups and downs of the regulars at a local smalltown bar.
Lucy’s Tavern is the best kind of bar. It has a good jukebox, a bartender with a generous pour, and it’s always open, even in terrible weather. Lucy’s is where everyone ends up, whether they mean to or not.
There’s the tipsy advice columnist who has a hard time following her own advice. The ex-con who falls for the same woman over and over again. And the soup-maker who tries to drink and cook his way out of romantic despair. Theirs are the kinds of stories about love and life that unfold late in the evening, when people finally share their secret hopes and frailties.
In this rich and engaging debut, each central character suffers a sobering moment of clarity in which the beauty and sadness of life is revealed. But rather than crying about it, they simply light another unfiltered cigarette, and head across the floor to ask someone to dance.
Later, at the Bar is as warm and inviting as a good shot of whiskey on a cold winter night.
A charmingly tender debut novel that “is a delicate, beautiful balance of wit and yearning” (Elizabeth Gilbert, #1 New York Times bestselling author) as it follows the ups and downs of the regulars at a local smalltown bar.
Lucy’s Tavern is the best kind of bar. It has a good jukebox, a bartender with a generous pour, and it’s always open, even in terrible weather. Lucy’s is where everyone ends up, whether they mean to or not.
There’s the tipsy advice columnist who has a hard time following her own advice. The ex-con who falls for the same woman over and over again. And the soup-maker who tries to drink and cook his way out of romantic despair. Theirs are the kinds of stories about love and life that unfold late in the evening, when people finally share their secret hopes and frailties.
In this rich and engaging debut, each central character suffers a sobering moment of clarity in which the beauty and sadness of life is revealed. But rather than crying about it, they simply light another unfiltered cigarette, and head across the floor to ask someone to dance.
Later, at the Bar is as warm and inviting as a good shot of whiskey on a cold winter night.