Bernie plopped down across from him, stuck her tired feet up on a chair, and then pushed another one toward him. “That’s a bartender’s footstool.”
He nodded and followed her lead. “So, how did I do?”
“Just fine, but after six weeks you might be ready to throw in the bar rag and go back to wearin’ three-piece suits,” she said. “One night does not a bar owner make.”
“Well, Miz Bernie, I loved the evening. If all nights are like this, I will never go back to the courtroom,” Nash declared.
“What makes you think you can afford to buy my place?” she asked. “We haven’t even talked about my price.”
He combed his silver hair with his fingers. “Grandpa says you are a fair woman, so I’m not worried about that. Tell me about your apartment in the back.”
“Two bedrooms, a little living room, and a small kitchen, plus a nice backyard that looks out over those two acres I was telling you about. I have my morning coffee out there every morning and feel like I’m at a fancy resort,” she answered.
“This just gets better and better,” he said. “A job I know I’m going to love. A place to live so I don’t have to pay rent. Working from six in the evening until closing.Sounds like a chunk of heaven to me.”
“That’s what it has always been to me,” Bernie said with a nod.
“What is rule number two?”
“Never put your pickle in the customer’s jar,” she answered without hesitation.
“Does that mean what I think it does?” he asked.
“Yep, it does,” she answered. “I learned that lesson early on. If you sleep with one of the customers and things go south, they’ll whine to their friends, and you will lose business. So, keep your jeans zipped up when it comes to the bar bunnies.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nash said with a smile and a nod. “And rule number three?”
“Two is enough for the first evening,” she told him.
Chapter 2
Bernie had never tiptoed back into her apartment, not in all the years that she had owned the place, but she did that morning after she locked up the bar. She hoped that Clara had cried herself to sleep, and that the story of whatever had brought her to Ratliff City could be put off until the next morning. Like always, she had had enough talking by closing time and wanted to take a shower and crawl into bed. She was on her on the way to her own bedroom when she heard a dog bark. She peeked out the kitchen window and saw Clara sitting in one of the two lawn chairs. The Chihuahua was in her lap, and the bottle of whiskey she had taken from the bar lay empty on the ground.
Bernie poured herself a sweet tea, added ice, and carried it outside. She had hoped to get a good night’s sleep before she had to hear Clara’s sad story—or, worse yet, deal with the fallout when the phone calls started coming from her estranged sister, Vernie Sue, and Clara’s mama, Marsha. Evidently, the stars were not aligned in her favor that night. She sat down in the second chair. “I figured you would be asleep.”
Clara handed Pepper to Bernie. “He seems friendly, but I don’t like dogs.” She slurred her words. “I’m a cap…I mean, cat…person. C.A.T.” She spelled the word out slowly. “I can’t sleep, Aunt Bernie. I’m looking thirty in the eye in the fall, and my life is in shambles. I have no job or even a place to sleep. Everything I own is in the back of a car that made it from Fritch to here on nothing more than fumes and a couple of earnest prayers that, according to Mama, God don’t even hear from the likes of me.”
“Your mama and grandmother don’t know what God hears or don’t hear,” Bernie fumed.
“I should be on my way up a ladder to success, and here I am…drunk, homeless, and trying to make sense out of why my family…” She used the back of her hand to wipe her wet cheeks.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Bernie scolded. “When life gives you lemons, you add a touch of maple syrup or honey, and Jack Daniel’s or Jim Beam, and make a whiskey sour. You don’t whine about how bad you’ve had it. You pull up your big-girl panties and show everyone that you are strong enough to take on anything that gets thrown at you. Tomorrow you are going to have one hellacious hangover,” Bernie scolded. “But it’s a case of choices and consequences. You drank too much, and now you have to pay the price.”
“Story of my life.” Clara hiccupped. “According to Mama and Grandma, I make bad choices, and they’reright. But they say they have to pay the consequences because I embarrass them.”
“Been there. Done that.” Bernie chuckled. “That’s their choice. They could learn to love both of us unconditionally and tell their friends to go to hell, but since they don’t, then embarrassment is their consequence to pay.”
“I am very drunk,” Clara said. “I was going to ask you if I could work for you, but that good-looking guy beat me to the punch.”
Bernie patted her arm. “If you are going to stick around southern Oklahoma, youwillwork, starting tomorrow morning. And youaredrunk. For tonight, you have a bed and tomorrow, when you are sober, we’ll talk about the rest. So, go to bed and sleep off your feel-sorry-for-me attitude.”
“You sound like Mama and Grandma, only without all the rules.” She raised her voice a couple of octaves to perfectly mimic Vernie Sue’s high-pitched tone. “‘If you don’t change your life, we won’t even come visit you in the box or makeshift tent where you live in a nasty back alley or under a bridge. God has already turned his back on you for your poor decisions, so don’t expect us to take you in with open arms if you don’t agree to change and get right with the Lord.’” Clara buried her head in her hands and began to sob again. “It was their way or the highway. I chose the latter, and here I am in bed with the devil, according to them.”
Bernie had seen her fair share of drunks through the years. Mean ones that she had to grab by the ear and toss out the door. Happy ones that she took their keys from and made sure they had a ride home. She would take either of those two over a melancholy one. Next time Clara was throwing a bawling fit in the bar, Bernie was definitelynotgiving her a half-full bottle of whiskey.
“I can leave in the morning and take my feel-sorry-for-me attitude with me,” Clara declared and stumbled back inside.
“I wouldn’t be so lucky,” Bernie told Pepper. “I guess it’s just me and you, and I’m tired, so let’s go to bed. I’ll get you a collar and leash ordered tomorrow, but for now, I’m going to trust you not to get out on the road when I let you out the back door to go potty. If you mess on my floors, I will feed you to the hungry coyotes that come around.”
