“Whiskey sour and make it a double,” Hoot answered and headed back to a table to join the bikers.
The Chihuahua’s little feet seemed to be tapping out the beat to the song “Storms Never Last,” by Jessi Colter and Waylon Jennings, playing on the jukebox when he crossed the bar, wagged his tail, and licked Bernie’s hand. He was a cute little thing, but Bernie was thinking of retiring, not adopting a dog. And she didn’t care if the title of the song reminded her that the three-sided squall in her bar would soon be gone and done with.
“He likes you,” Hershal said, sniffling.
Bernie picked up the dog and handed him off to Clara. “Hold this thing while I get this sorted out with Hershal.”
“Nothing more to talk about. I sinned by cheating on you, then sinned more times than I can count afterthat, and now God is sick of forgiving, and he’s punishing me for stealing the dog. It’s like the straw that broke the camel’s back. He punished me—God, I mean, not a camel—for all of it by killing Goldie,” Hershal declared.
“It’s a goldfish!” Bernie was at her wit’s end. “It’s not even something you can pet or that will play with you.”
Hershal shot a dirty look across the bar. “Don’t you talk about my Goldie like that! She was always there for me and listened to all my troubles when I came home off a route. I read a chapter out of the Bible to her every night. I believe that she was saved before she died.”
“Did she bring you a cold beer?” Bernie asked in an icy tone, tired of Hershal’s tirade about a blasted goldfish and sinning. Forget about warning people not to get cocky in her bar. Next week she was making a new sign to hang on the other side of the door: WHINERS WILL BE SHOT ON THE SPOT.
“That’s enough! I’m taking my Goldie home and giving her a proper burial, and I’m never coming back in this bar again.” He growled as he slid off the barstool with his goldfish bowl sloshing water out onto his shirt all the way across the floor.
“Take your dog with you,” Bernie called out.
“That’s your dog, and his name is Pepper.” Hershal slammed the door behind him, and the movement caused the rooster to crow again.
Bernie turned to Clara and said, “Now, your turn. Does your mama know you are here?”
“Mama don’t care where I am. She and Grandma both are so mad that they said I would have to live in a box under a bridge if I didn’t do what they wanted. I was begging Mama to let me stay with her until I could get on my feet and telling her what had happened when Grandma walked in the door. Mama blurted it all out to her, so I got a double dose of lectures. After five hours of driving, my ears are still scorched. It’s a wonder that Fritch, Texas, didn’t burn to the ground because someone as horrible as I am set foot in Mama’s house. According to them, I’m a bigger sinner than the goldfish man is.”
“Go on back to my apartment and take that animal with you.” Bernie nodded toward a closed door. “Go through the storage room, and the living quarters are on past that. We’ll sort this out after I close tonight.”
“You mean I can stay?” Clara asked.
“I don’t kick kinfolks out,” Bernie barked. “There’s food in the fridge if you are hungry.”
“Can I take a beer with me?”
Bernie almost smiled. “Of course, but you might want to take that bottle of whiskey that’s half-full instead. Looks to me like you might need it.”
Clara picked up the whiskey with her free hand and headed toward the door at the end of the bar leading through the storage room and on back to Bernie’s little apartment.
“Maybe I was wrong about her,” Bernie whispered, and then turned around to face Nash. “Now let’s hearwhat you’ve got to say.”
“Short story is that I’m a burned-out lawyer, tired of working eighty-hour weeks, and am interested in a change. I came to Ratliff City to visit my grandpa, and he said that rumor has it you are looking to retire,” he said as he drew up four more pitchers of beer.
“How old are you?” Bernie asked.
“Thirty-five. I often get asked that question. It’s the premature gray hair. It turned when I was just finishing up my law degree.” He picked up two pitchers, one in each hand, and headed toward the bikers’ table.
He stayed a few minutes and talked to his grandfather and the guys in leather, then returned to the bar. But he didn’t sit down. “I did a lot of bartending to make spending money while I was in college and law school. I got to where I dreaded going to work at the law firm every day, so six months ago I quit and wandered around the whole lower forty-eight states for a while, trying to figure out what I wanted to do. A week ago, I landed here and told Grandpa, and Grandpa said that life is too short to do something you don’t like. Then he asked me when was the last time I was truly happy.”
“Tending bar, right?” Bernie asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Nash said. “If you need to go talk to that crying woman, I’ll be glad to take over until you get back.”
Bernie poured herself a double shot of Jameson and took a sip. “She needs time to think and have a drink ortwo before we talk. Iaminterested in selling my bar, but it’s been my home for a large chunk of my life, so I’m not passing it on to someone who doesn’t love it.”
“I understand,” Nash said. “How about I work for you free of charge for six weeks? If you like the way I take care of this place, you sell it to me. If not, I leave with no hard feelings.”
“Any help I’ve ever had just got in my way and made me cuss,” Bernie told him.
“I’m not just any help.” Nash flashed a brilliant smile. “I’m interested in buying this place, so I need to know the ropes. Maybe at the end of six weeks I’ll decide to go back to being a lawyer. Who knows? It’ll mean tying up future sales for a while on your part, but no salary for me while you are thinking about whether you’ll sell it to me. What do you say?”
