“The weatherman gets a gold star for being right,” he said.
“Or a bullet from folks with whining kids because they couldn’t go outside and shoot off firecrackers all day,” Bernie grumbled.
Clara stopped putting peanuts and pretzels in the colorful bowls and stared at Nash with wide eyes. He wore a sleeveless muscle shirt under a pair of short overalls with red-and-white legs and blue stars on the bib, black cowboy boots, and a hat that had been created out of plastic wrappers with Budweiser logos.
Bernie nudged her on the shoulder. “Pretty sexy, huh? His hair says he’s older than thirty-five, but his body and that getup tell a different story.”
“I have never seen anything…” Clara’s gaze traveled from Nash in his short patriotic overalls to Bernie and then down at her own short skirt.
The rooster crowed and two of Bernie’s regularcustomers dashed inside. “Happy Fourth,” one of them growled.
“I don’t know why you are so grumpy,” the other one said as he led the way to the bar. “We have always spent the holiday right here. Don’t matter if the sun is shinin’ or we’re dodgin’ tornadoes. And we’re never disappointed. Look at all the decorations and… Oh, my! Bernie and whoever this delightful little lady is she has working tonight are both a sight for sore eyes.”
“Amen to that,” Nash said. “What can I get you guys?”
“A pitcher of beers and some good music,” Mr. Unhappy answered.
“Coming right up,” Nash said.
Bernie picked up a whole roll of quarters from beside the cash register and headed for the jukebox. She plugged in the maximum amount and began to push buttons. She started with Billy Ray Cyrus’s song, “Some Gave All,” and then went on to choose a couple by Toby Keith. When the machine told her to add more money, she went back to the bar.
“I can’t believe you still have one of them old jukeboxes that play real records,” Nash said as he filled pitchers and set them on a tray along with beer mugs.
“If you buy the place, are you going to trade it in for a digital one?” Bernie asked.
“No, ma’am,” Nash said. “Does a man still come around to change out the records?”
“Nope,” she answered. “When he retired, I bought the records I wanted from him for a quarter each and made him teach me how to change them out. If I retire, I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“That is a jewel that I would never get rid of,” he vowed.
Clara picked up the tray and carried it back to the table where the first customers were seated. Bernie noticed that Nash seemed frozen with a bar towel in one hand and a dreamy expression on his face as he watched her walk across the floor.
“She’s pretty cute in that getup,” he said.
“Yes, she is,” Bernie agreed.
“Is she in a relationship?” he asked.
“Are you?” Bernie fired back at him.
Nash wiped down the already clean bar. “No, ma’am. Eighty-hour weeks didn’t leave much time for dating.”
“No, she is not seeing anyone,” Bernie answered.
The rooster crowed again to let it be known that more customers were on the way. By the time Toby Keith had finished singing “Made in America,” the place was half-full and more people were steadily coming in. Most usually Bernie was busiest on Independence Day after the local fireworks shows had all finished, but not that night. From the time the doors opened at six o’clock until she figured it was about time to turn on the television above the jukebox, the tables were full, the small dance floor was crowded, and the barstools were all taken.
Bernie put the jukebox on pause and yelled, “Our fireworks display here in Ratliff City has been rained out, but that doesn’t mean it’s raining in New York City. Everyone put your hats or your hand over your hearts and sing with me. It doesn’t matter if you sing off-key or out of tune, just show your appreciation for this great county that we are privileged to live in.” She started singing the national anthem, and when they reached the “rockets bursting in air,” she hit the remote’s play button. The television screen lit up with a brilliant array of fireworks being shown live from the East Coast.
“That was impressive,” Nash said.
“She’s amazing,” Clara agreed. “Are you really still thinking about buying this place?”
“Not only am I thinking about it, but I’m going to write Bernie a check the minute she gives me the green light. I was happier than I had been in years on Saturday night. And that wasn’t a flash in the pan, so to speak, because tonight has been even more fun,” he answered.
When the fireworks show ended, Bernie started up the jukebox again. “Letters from Home” by John Michael Montgomery was playing when she went back to the bar. She expected most of the people to call it a night, but several couples made their way to the dance floor for a slow country waltz.
“I’m almighty glad you are both here,” she said as she made a half-dozen margaritas and set them on a tray. “This has been my biggest night in the history of the bar.”
