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.
“That’s right, Ben.” Mama nods at me and then gives my father a hard look.
Daddy throws up his hands in surrender at Mama. “I’m not arguing, Courtney.” He turns to me with a frown. “All I’m saying is the bar’s not doing well, baby. Not that anybody blames you. Far from it. But we need a punch to bring in extra revenue.”
I clench my jaw. “I’m well aware of The Cowherd’s financial issues. But short of that mythical ghost down the hall going free by this July fourth”—I nod my head in the direction of the jail cell peeking out through the open doorway of the liquor room—“no gimmick is going to be big enough to bring The Cowherd into financial heaven.”
“Your mama’s idea matches perfectly with the Independence Day deadline,” Daddy says. “Tell her more, baby.”
Baby? I look at Ginny and lift my shoulder in a shrug.
All those indiscretions behind Mama’s back over the years, and she still just takes my father back again and again. I don’t care if he doesn’t always cheat and that he only does it when he’s drunk. The point is, he’s done it. And he’s done it more than once.
This is exactly why it’s safer to stay single. If you don’t give your heart away, it can’t be broken.
Mama raises her big blue eyes from the diary and smiles broadly. “I said to your daddy, ‘let’s pick the soul mate couple ourselves!’ We’ll market the wedding and invite reporters from out of town. This banner is just the first step. The soul mates’ wedding will be a huge event!”
“But it will be a lie!” I tug hard at my wavy hair, my age-old habit of trying to straighten what cannot be straightened. “We have no idea who the soul mates are or if they even exist. We can’t just make up crap like that.”
“How do you know it’s a lie?” Mama frowns at my hand tangled in my hair. “Oh, Macey, please don’t play with your hair. The waviness just gets frizzy when you touch it like that. Now, where was I? Oh yes, the soul mates. According to the legend, if the couple doesn’t marry by July fourth, the spell is permanent, and Jane’s ghost is forever trapped. I know God wouldn’t want for that to happen to such a talented author. So, God will make sure the soul mates marry at last. We’re just getting a head start on marketing. All we need to do is locate our real-life Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet—a romantic, crazy-in-love couple who would make Jane Austen proud.”
“I don’t like this plan.” I rest my head on my hand. “But I think I’m going to be outnumbered.”
“Macey, who’s on the calendar between now and July fourth?” Daddy asks me.
