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“I guess,” he concedes, “but that’s just throwing money away we don’t have.”
“I have money saved up,” I inform him. “Six years of living in a studio apartment and paying nothing for rent will make a good cushion.”
“I’m not taking your money.” He shakes his head. “And Dad sure as fuck is not going to take your money.”
“What choice do you have?” My voice goes higher than I want it to be. “You are literally drowning right now.” I shake my head. “And that is putting it mildly.”
“Autumn,” he says my name softly, “if you put everything you have into this, then what? You could end up with nothing, and then what?”
“And then I deal,” I tell him. “I go back to work and start over again. It won’t be the first time. And we can always sell my house.”
“Absolutely not.” He slaps the bar with his hand. “No fucking way. That’s nonnegotiable.”
“We can take a mortgage on it.”
“And what if you can’t pay it?” he asks me. “Then what, you lose Mom’s family home?”
“Well then, I guess we are going to have to go with plan A.” I try to cover my smile with the mug.
“Which is?” His eyebrows pinch together when he knows he just agreed to something without knowing he agreed to something.
“I’ll write you a check. A loan, and when we make it back.” He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “I want it back.”
“Fine.” His words are laced with annoyance. “But”—he then smiles—“you get to tell Dad.”
“Or we don’t tell Dad.” I start to walk away from him. “Then he is none the wiser.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s going to ask questions when we start serving food.” He follows me to the back.
“Well, until then, we keep it to ourselves.” I push open the swinging door and look over my shoulder at him. “Now, I have some other ideas I want to run by you.” He immediately groans. “Aren’t you happy I’m back?” I fake smile at him, walking into the office and sitting behind the desk.
“So happy,” he says, sitting down. “Now, what else did you have in mind?” he asks, and I lean back in my chair, giving him a grin. “Ugh, I hate that face.”
“Get ready to work.” I wink at him and proceed to tell him about my ideas.
Ten hours later, I’m behind the bar while he’s on the floor. It’s Friday night, so a couple more people are in. I try to ignore the whispers coming from tables, which is why I’m behind the bar and not out on the floor. “Table four wants another round of Midsummer Night,” he orders. “Good idea, offering samples.” I walk over to grab the bottle, plucking the cork out, and pouring two fingers into the small glasses.
“See, my ideas are already working,” I gloat to him as I place the glasses on his tray and look at a man come in the door. A man I’ve never seen before, wearing jeans and a button-down shirt with a sweater over it. His black hair is combed back as he walks straight to the bar and pulls out a stool. “Hi there.” I smile at him. “Welcome, what can I get you?”
“What do you recommend?” He folds both hands on top of the bar, tapping his finger.
“I can give you a little sampler you can choose from there,” I tell him, and he nods.
“Sounds good,” he says with a smile.
I turn away, walking to the side, taking five little shot glasses out and filling each with a little bit of whiskey before going over and placing them in front of him. “Let me know which one you would like.”
I walk back over to grab a rag and wipe down the bar for the millionth time. “I’ll take the second one.” He holds up the glass and finishes it.
“Neat or on the rocks?” I grab the glass in my hand.
“Neat,” he replies, so I pour two fingers into the glass before walking over to him and placing a square white napkin down, then putting the glass on top of it.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” I tell him, and I’m about to walk away.
“There is something you could help me with, actually.” He picks up the glass, brings it to his mouth, and sips.
My back goes up, and my neck tingles at his voice, and I feel Brady at my back. “My name is Darren Trowel,” he starts, and my body goes on high alert. I just don’t know why yet. “I’m a reporter for a New York magazine calledThe Future and the Past.” I swallow down, but something is lodged in my throat. “We are doing a follow-up segment on the Cartwright accident.” I put my hand on the bar. “I’d love to ask you some questions about it.”
