“Nik already told me to go over there to apologize,” I tell her, sliding into my dark blue jeans and tucking my shirt into them. “You don’t have to make a fake list.”
“I know he did. But…Do you really want to go over there after a few hours of lugging kegs and crates, smelling like sweat and hoppy beer,orwould you rather go to the store first thing for your oh-so-tired, heavily pregnant sister-in-law who your brother dares not argue with?”
I fasten my belt into place, smiling at the back of Sef’s head. “You were always my favorite,” I tell her. I grab a dark gray button-down shirt from the drawer and put it on, leaving it unfastened.
“I know,” she says, her fingertips tapping rhythmically on the door before she waddles away. “The list will be on the counter upstairs!” she shouts exaggeratedly as if maybe my brother will hear her. “Thank you, Milo!”
I wouldn’t dare drive Bertha after the promise I’d made to her for a two-week rest. Instead, I take my brother’s minivan full of discarded toys and half-chewed snacks, which Sef insisted she wouldn’t need today, over to Welch’s Gas and Grocer.
Pulling up out front, there’s already two other cars in the small parking lot and one at the gas pump. It’s surprisingly busy for a Monday in September, but this is the time of year when early birds begin coming up to close their cottages for the season.
The bell above the door chimes as I walk in. A bald man behind the counter greets me with a polite nod and smile as hecontinues to attentively listen to the three small children at his till, purchasing ten-cent pieces of candy and listing off their favorite flavors.
I wander over to the refrigerated section, ducking below a low-hanging sign on my way. I grab three sticks of butter, then a carton of eggs, and then a gallon of milk before I realize I might need a basket after all.
“Need any help, son?” the man calls, circling around the L-shaped checkout counter. He fetches me a wire grocery basket on his way over and holds it out to me. “Pop it all in here,” he says kindly.
“Thank you,” I tell him, placing each item inside before taking it from him. “I’m Milo,” I say, sticking out my hand. I wait to see if my name raises any sort of reaction from him, following yesterday’s events, but see none. “I’m Nik’s younger brother,” I add as he moves to shake my hand. “I’m here to help with the brewery.”
“Ah! Yes!” The man pats me on the arm, his smile ever widening. “I’ll tell you what, your brother and his friend make a good beer.”
“I, uh, brought you some more of it actually. It’s in the van out front.”
“Oh, no need—”
“It’s sort of a…an apology,” I interrupt, then swallow, looking out the front windows to the parking lot where I’d met his daughter. “Yesterday, I stopped by and, well, I think I maybe caused some upset?” I see the realization wash across his face. So shedidtell him about me. That’s good. No…wait…It’s bad?Well…“So, yeah…Apology beer.”
“Milo, right, sorry, yesterday, of course. My wife, Julia, Mrs. Welch, as you knew her…Well, she’s…” The door chimes as another customer enters, cutting him off.
“Morning, Doreen.”
The elderly woman smiles over at us, stopping to assess me with a careful, wry grin. “Morning!” she replies in an almost skeptical yet cheery tone. “I see we have some fresh meat in the store today!” She points at the fridges, but I cannot help but think she meansmewhen she continues to stare.
Tom chuckles. “Help yourself, Dee.”
“You know I will,” she replies, winking unabashedly at me.
I raise a hand in greeting before turning my attention back to Tom. “I understand, sir.” I dip down to his height in an effort to keep my voice low. “And, I’m deeply sorry to hear she’s unwell. Mrs. Welch was, well,is,incredibly important to me.”
“Maybe you could tell me about that sometime,” he says, in a request more than a suggestion. “It’s not often I get to meet one of her students, especially one who she spoke so fondly of.”
My back straightens and I blink down at him as I take in his words. “Sh-she did?”
“Yes.” He nods, nearly laughing as if it’s obvious. “You were probably in, what would that be now, the graduating class of twenty-fourteen?”
“Yes.” I scoff in disbelief. “How did you—”
“Sorry, one moment.” He darts away to meet another customer at the counter who’s ready to check out. I turn around and search for the rest of the items on Sef’s list in disbelief.
A few minutes later, I’m lined up to check out behind a mansoold that the items from his basket take near lifetimes to reach the counter. Just as I think he couldn’t hold up the line any longer, the old man begins lifting each item to his eyeline to read its label before placing it on the counter for Mr. Welch to type in. I’m about to offer to help him—or chuck the basket across the room—when the door behind the register opens.
Then,shewalks in. With her hair somehow even more unruly than the day before, wearing loose-fitting, half-buttoned denim overalls covered in dirt and droplets of paint, and carrying a mop in hand like a sword ready for battle. I shouldnotfind it so endearing. I shouldnotwant to put the rest of my day on hold, damn my brother and his bar, to help her with whatever mess she’s found herself in. I shouldnotwant to rile her up again. But I do. I really,reallydo.
“Dad?” she calls out, fighting to close the door with her left foot. “Have you seen the mop bucket? I—” We lock eyes and, for whatever reason, I immediately avert my gaze when her stare hardens.That doesn’t usually happen.
“Hi, darling,” Mr. Welch replies, without so much as looking over his shoulder. “Yes, just give me two shakes.”
“Hello, Prudence,” the old man ahead of me greets my mystery-girl-no-more.
