“Excuse me!”—a voice sing-songed.
Wes looked up. A customer waved from the barn, holding up a wreath.
Wes shoved the phone in his pocket and jogged over.
By six, the lot was empty. Miguel and Charlie had gone home, the equipment locked up, and the register counted. Wes stood in the barn, staring at the cash box.
Not bad for opening weekend. Not great, but not bad.
Not enough to catch up on forty-seven thousand dollars, though.
Not even close.
He closed the box, locked it in the office safe, and headed to the house.
Henry was in the kitchen, heating leftovers. He glanced at Wes when he walked in.
“Busy day?”
“Yeah.”
“Good crowd?”
“Good enough.”
Henry nodded, stirring a pot on the stove. “You eat?”
“Not yet.”
“There’s stew. Help yourself.”
Wes washed his hands at the sink, grabbed a bowl, and ladled out stew that was more vegetables than meat because they’d been pinching pennies. He sat across from Henry at the table.
They ate in silence.
Outside, the sun had set. The security lights had clicked on, bathing the lot in harsh white.
“You gonna talk to him?” Henry asked.
Wes looked up. “Who?”
“The banker. Marley.”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s stopping you?”
Pride. Fear. The certainty that if I let myself hope, it’ll hurt worse when it all falls apart anyway.
“Nothing,” Wes said.
Henry set his spoon down. “You know what your grandfather used to say?”
“What’s that?”
“That the worst answer you’ll ever get is the one you don’t ask for.”
Wes smiled despite himself. “He also used to say that bourbon was a vegetable because it came from corn.”
