“Try it,” I said firmly. “Yes. Let’s do that. You date someone on your trip, and I’ll do the same here.”
“Deal.”
The sparkling of my ruby ring winking at me brings me back to the present. I twist the ring I never took off my left finger and push aside the divorce papers.
I’m still not past Vegas. At Ginny’s insistence, I’ve even tried what Logan and I decided on—I went on a few dates with a guy in town. Jamie is polite and friendly. He’s only kissed me on the cheek at the end of each date. And that’s all I’ve wanted. That’s more than I’ve wanted, even.
My father’s booming voice calls out to me from down the hall. “Macey! Come out here and take a look!”
I stand up and hurry down the hallway, stopping short when I see what’s happening in the bar. Daddy and Evan, his sober companion, have just finished unfurling an oversized banner above the long u-shaped bar. The banner is dangling from the wooden ceiling beams and hangs over the collection of gold-framed blurry photograph “sightings” of Jane Austen’s ghost.
I read the banner out loud—
Darcy’s soul mate couplewillmarry by Independence Day! Who are Darcy’s Mr. Darcy and Ms. Bennet? Don’t miss any upcoming weddings at The Cowherd Whiskey Saloon & Chapel—the next one could be the match!
I step behind the bar and put my hands on my hips. “Daddy, what are you doing? Is the Texas heat finally getting to you?”
He’s too busy fiddling with the banner to even turn around and look at me. “Darlin’, I know you’re in charge for good now, but I’m still allowed to offer ideas and suggestions. And we need a new gimmick. This bar needs another spark.”
“We have enough going on this summer,” I say to the back of his gray head. “We’ve got a wedding booked. We conduct guided tours of The Cowherd and its jail cell. And I was just about to do this.” I hold up a bottle of brandy. “Who wants a Jane Austen brandy on the house?”
Old Dye Jenkins looks over. Dye’s wife, Donna, left him for the postman and rather than have to see her around town with her new family, Dye started coming here on the daily with his dog, Rusty. To me, it feels like Dye soaks up every last morsel of human contact he can get before he has to go home alone to the same house and same bed he shared with Donna. He’s our best customer.
But even he passes on the house brandy.
From her barstool next to my mother, Ginny winces. “Wait until later, Macey,” she says as she fiddles with the straw in her glass of ginger ale. “Friday nights are usually pretty good in the summertime, right?”
I shrug. “Used to be. Not so much lately.”
The Wild Darcy Derby was a hit, but it was only enough to make up for the money lost from the safe. And after my father’s accident, The Cowherd’s reputation suffered.
I’ve had to work like hell to keep things going.
Mama doesn’t move from where her nose is buried in Vivian’s diary. She’s wearing her light yellow dress that shows far too much cleavage. Wedding dress number four—the one my siblings and I call Mama’s “I’m definitely getting back together with Ben Sr.” dress.
I shake my head and turn my attention back to my father. “Daddy, you’re just out of rehab. Trip number four point five.”
When my father was discharged eight months ago, the stint didn’t “expel the demons” as we all hoped they would. So, last month, he made the decision to return to the clinic. He did this on his own without any goring by a bull or crazy bike rides. However, he did kiss another woman, and Mama was devastated. As she should have been. She told him she was out.
So Daddy went off to rehab, where he stayed until yesterday. Mama visited him every day, despite what had happened, and Daddy wrote her long letters of apology. I told her to stay strong and make him clean up his act.
“You can be there for him as his friend, but you don’t have to take him back as a lover,” I said emphatically. “You deserve to be treated like a queen, Mama.”
But Daddy swears he’s ready to stay away from liquor now. He reads his Bible daily, and he carries it with him constantly, even earmarking crucial passages. I look at that as a win, and I know him agreeing to have a sober companion is definitely a step in the right direction. Still—
“You shouldn’t be anywhere near alcohol,” I say sternly.
My father ignores me and angles toward the bar, but I block him at the swing door.
“No!” I say firmly. I turn to his companion. “Sir, can you back me up?”
“Evan, it’s fine.” Daddy turns to Evan, the short, red-haired man with a friendly face, and then he refocuses on me. “I still own this bar,” he reminds me with a smile.
My father looks surprisingly good for a man twelve hours removed from rehab. A little thin, but his brown eyes are clear, thank God, and his skin’s got good color. His green plaid buttoned-down shirt is tucked into his new blue jeans—both a welcome home gift from his four children—and his gray hair is nicely trimmed. Not even any facial stubble, a near miracle.
But just because he looks the part doesn’t make him any more trustworthy to his oldest daughter, who’s been officially helping him since she turned sixteen and unofficially since she was old enough to pour a drink without spilling it. Perks of a small town where everyone knows everyone? Little things like a minor serving alcohol get conveniently overlooked.
“And I still run it for you,” I say back as I point to the contract hanging on the wall.
