Page 8

She laughs. We pass Pistachio Sweets, where Maya waves from the window. Past Noelle's new tea shop on the corner, where the lights are on and somebody's arranging autumn window displays. Past Maple Auto where a dark haired guy in coveralls is scowling at an engine with an intensity I respect. Past Toe Beans and Coffee Beans, the cat cafe with the big orange tabby sitting in the window looking furious about everything, which I also respect.

Hank's Bar sits at the corner of Maple Lane and a side street that doesn't have a name because it predates the town's road system. Dark wood exterior, neon beer sign in the window, a chalkboard outside that reads WHISKEY. BEER. NO COCKTAILS. DON'T ASK.

Inside is exactly what you'd expect. Dim lighting. Dark vinyl booths with cracked leather. Scarred tables that have survived decades of elbows. The floor is sticky in places and immaculate in others depending on whether Dolly got to it first.

Hank is behind the bar, white beard halfway down his chest, arms crossed. He looks like Santa Claus got a dishonorable discharge and decided to open a bar about it.

"Took you long enough." He nods at me. "Beam's in the back. Through the kitchen."

"Hello to you too, Hank."

"Hello is for strangers. We're past that. Kennedy, the usual?"

"Please."

"You." Hank points at me. "Whiskey? Beer?"

"Whiskey. Neat."

"Good man."

He pours both without fanfare. Dolly appears from the kitchen with a tray of glasses, her dyed blonde hair piled high. She gives me a once over that could strip paint. "So this is the parking lot man."

"Dolly." Hank's voice carries a warning.

"What? Kennedy talked about him for twenty minutes last week. I just wanted to see if the shoulders matched the description." She gives Kennedy a look. "They match."

Kennedy's face goes hot. Brown skin flushing darker across her cheekbones. She takes her drink and turns toward the back room fast enough that her earrings swing.

"Beam's this way."

The back room is storage. Cases of beer stacked to the ceiling. An old jukebox that probably hasn't worked since Reagan. And there, along the far wall, a support beam with a visible crack running diagonally from about five feet up to where it meets the ceiling joist.

I run my hand along the split. Solid on both sides. No rot. No moisture damage. The crack is structural stress from decades of load bearing. Fixable.

"Well?" Kennedy stands behind me, whiskey in hand, watching.

"Needs a sister beam bolted alongside it. Cedar, not pine. I can cut one in my shop tomorrow and bring it Friday morning before the festival opens."

"You'd do that?"

"It's a beam. Takes an hour."

"That's not what I asked."

Our eyes meet in the dim light of Hank's back room. She's standing close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. The tiny scar above her left eyebrow I've never noticed before. She's wearing that burnt orange sweater again, the one that makes her look like autumn personified.

"Yeah." My voice drops. "I'd do that."

Something shifts between us. A gear clicking into place. She holds my gaze and whatever she sees in my face makes her breath hitch.

The moment stretches. My hand is still on the beam. Sawdust on my fingers. Her lips part and every thought in my head narrows to the three inches between my mouth and hers.

"DOLLY, WHERE'S THE EXTRA CASE OF JACK?" Hank's bellow shatters the silence from the bar. Kennedy blinks. Steps back. Takes a sip of her whiskey with a hand that isn't quite steady.

"So. Friday morning?"

"Friday morning."