Celebrating our twenty fifth anniversary, we made it to dinner half an hour before our reservation. On a Thursday night, it wasn’t as busy as we expected. We have only been to Mattie’s a few times as guests to an occasional wedding or other event, but never for dinner. Formerly known as Green Pastures, it’s well known for its pea fowl roaming the early 1900s southern farm home surrounded by stately live oak trees.

We head to the bar for a pre-dinner drink. The last time I was there, it was one of several dining areas. Pale, mint-green walls made for a cozy atmosphere. Votive candles nestled among the liquor bottles along the wall cast a lovely dance of light throughout the room. Bar tenders wore the speakeasy look and asked what we’d like to sip. My husband ordered the Old Fashioned, I had the Rosabella, pink and fancy in a chilled coupe glass. I’m a sucker for fancy drinks.

We took two of the velvet lounge chairs in front of the windows overlooking the quiet porch. Hot, sticky, summer nights haven’t begun yet, but we decided to stay inside. A couple sat at one of two tables, bar empty, save for the bartenders mixing up drinks for those dining. An empty table sat to my left. We leaned in to chat, sipping our drinks. I asked my husband if he preferred to sit at the empty table even though it was larger than what we needed. No one else would use it; we were the only people there.

He declined and we continued with our conversation. We took deep breaths contemplating what all has happened in twenty five years. A long time, yet not so long.

I set my drink on the cocktail table in front of me. Arranging the small bud vase with fresh flowers and votive next to my drink, I pulled out my phone to snap the mood. I am that person. I shouldn’t be, but I wanted a souvenir photo and who knows when we’ll go back? Hopefully sooner than twenty five years.

A glass shatters.

“Ooh, did you hear that?”

“What?”

I look toward the bar, but it didn’t come from the bar.

“Creepy…”

I look to my left.

Gasp.

“Ghost!” I say.

I look at the bartender, half expecting him to pick up a broken glass, but he looks towards us.

At the table where we considered sitting, a piece of the broken votive rocks back and forth. The candle flame flickers a bit before it goes out.

“Maybe the glass had a hairline crack and the heat made it burst,” my rational brain says aloud, dismissing my ghost theory when the bartender says, “It’s the ghost! Really, it is.”

But it sounded like it was dropped…

He makes his way to the table with a bar towel, methodically picking up glass shards and the spent candle as if it isn’t the first time it has happened.

“Well, maybe they or whatever ghost got a little upset because we didn’t join them,” I mutter, taking another sip. The hostess walks in as the bartender walks behind the bar and relays the story again. Ghost.

“Yeah, probably a hairline fracture in the glass…”

I check my watch. We pick up our drinks and make it back to the hostess station.

“Whatever you do, don’t follow us home,” I say to the empty looking table. “We’re going to dinner. It’s been nice meeting you and next time, maybe we’ll sit with you, just don’t break any more candle holders.”