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Not in the finance industry, though.
I’m thinking hospitality. Mom always wanted to have a lakeside house or something cozy and quaint by the beach somewhere. A bed and breakfast, maybe? It would be cute but luxurious for the discerning traveler.
California is often best known for its sun, beaches, and Los Angeles and Hollywood. But there is so much more to this state—so much splendor, so much history. The Latin heritage alone is a treasure trove of culture and beauty.
Mom used to talk about building a Spanish-style hacienda somewhere, with red archways and giant windows, spacious terracotta patios for barbecues and entertaining, luscious gardens, and maybe even a pool. Dreams that died with her.
Dreams I’d like to make happen someday.
The clubhouse is relatively quiet during the week. It’s mostly business meetings for Orion, Kai, and Drake, the occasional lunch for the other members when they’re not out riding or working their day jobs. The club itself may seem like a full-time gig, but the Iron Horse Bikers have lives outside this place, too.
I always have Paddy around, though. As the senior club member, he’s been chosen to handle the bar’s management on a day-to-day basis, leaving all the MC stuff to Orion, Kai, and Drake. They only come to him for the really big decisions, and I can’t help but respect that they still include him and that they still value his opinion.
Matty, Lisa, and Travis are busy doing inventory this afternoon while I wipe a freshly washed batch of glasses in Paddy’s company. He’s going over one of his favorite photo albums, one of many he keeps here in a locked cabinet by the jukebox.
“Nostalgic again?” I ask, smiling as I pick up another glass to polish.
“When am I not nostalgic?” Paddy chuckles and flips the page. “Oh, look at this.”
I lean over the bar counter and see a photo of the original MC members. My father is among them, third from the president’s left. The sight of the president, Rufus Williams, sends shivers down my spine. Orion is his spitting image, although a little taller. “Wow,” I mumble. “That’s Dad.”
“Mike ‘Quicksilver’ Kessler,” Paddy says.
“Quicksilver?”
“Like mercury. Never stood still. Always on the move. Always quick to anger.”
I raise a doubtful eyebrow. “Are you serious? The Michael Kessler I know keeps a Zen garden in his home office.”
“Yeah, Cassandra changed him to the core,” he replies, laughing lightly. But the warmth in his eyes tells me precisely how much he cared about my mother—perhaps more than Paddy himself realizes. “The minute she walked into this clubhouse, it was game over for Quicksilver.”
“Wait, she came to this place?”
Paddy looks at me, beaming. “This is where they met.”
I glance around, suddenly seeing the place in a whole different light. As the afternoon sun shines through the western windows, bathing the whole room in a golden shimmer, I try to imagine it all those years ago.
I try to envision my mother opening the door, her short heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Country music is playing on the jukebox; the air is thick with cigarette smoke, and beer is being poured from the tap.
My dad laughing with his boys, then turning his head to see her for the first time.
“Cassandra was a vision in pink. A strawberry blonde who didn’t seem to have a care in the world,” Paddy says, his gaze wandering away from me. “She wore this cute little dress, her hair pulled up in a tight bun. She had on these tiny cherry earrings. That girl had a keen eye for detail, and she matched everything. Her nails were cherry red. Her shoes—”
“Let me guess, red patent leather pumps,” I interject. He nods and laughs again. “I think she kept them long after the clubhouse days. They might still be in a box somewhere.”
“You didn’t throw anything out, did you?”
I shake my head. “Dad moved out of their bedroom. He took the downstairs guestroom and made it his own. The master bedroom is like a shrine. Everything is still just the way Mom liked it. Hell, the whole house is a shrine devoted to her.”
“It’s his way of coping,” Paddy sighs. “Mike loved Cassandra so much. Nadia, you have no idea. The minute he saw her, he knew. He actually leaned in and told me. He said, ‘Paddy, that’s my future wife, right there.’”
He pauses, remembering that precise moment in time with remarkable clarity. “He walked over to her. Cassandra had come in with some friends. Their car had broken down. They were having it fixed just down the road at Harry’s.”
“Oh, I know Harry. Great mechanic.”
“You know Harry Jr. We still had Harry Sr. back then,” Paddy corrects me. “Anyway. Your mom and her friends sat in one of those booths over by the window, the morning sun shining on her strawberry hair. She ordered a mojito. Imagine that. A mojito in this clubhouse. We had mojitos on the menu, but none of our bartenders knew how to make one. I don’t even think we had fresh mint around. Our guys drank beer and whiskey.”
“And what happened?” I ask, hopelessly invested.
