CHAPTER 1
Sam
The smell ofhoneysuckle is the only aromatherapy I need. It’s the scent of the South, and even on a tough day, it can pull me out of a funk. While the cicadas haven’t started their summer music just yet, at least the worst of the yellow pine pollen is gone.
Spring has settled into Whynot and there’s no other place I’d want to call home.
I lock the door to my duplex, tuck my keys into my back pocket, and start the walk toward Main. The sun is warm enough today to bake the sidewalk, and the days are stretching longer. The sky is the kind of pale gold that gives the illusion that everything has been dusted with sugar, and I make a mental note to remember that simile for later use.
My shift at Chesty’s starts in twenty minutes and my walk there will only take five, but I love this stroll through town. It’s five blocks of routine, five blocks of familiarity.
I’m a habitually early person and despise those who are chronically late, which some may say is a fault to be so hard-line about. But I consider it disrespectful to be tardy over and over again, or as my mee-maw would always say, “If you can show up late, you can show up on time—you just choose not to.”
Mrs. Beasley’s on her porch swing, fanning herself with what I bet is an old church bulletin. Her hound dog is sprawled out on his side, and he opens a lazy eye at my approach.
She lifts her chin when I pass. “Evenin’, Sam-Pete.”
I can feel the dimples pop from the unbidden grin. You can separate generations in this town by what they call me. Samuel, if it’s one of the church elders, Sam-Pete for those in my parents’ age group since that was my nickname from toddlerhood all the way through high school, and just Sam from those who know me best and therefore know it’s what I prefer these days.
I tip my head and call back. “Evenin’, Mrs. B. Ol’ Chester there looks pretty lazy today.”
“He’s sheddin’ something fierce. On my last nerve, I tell you. I could knit a sweater with how much fur he’s blowin’.”
“But you love him anyway,” I call back over my shoulder.
“That I do,” she says, and leans over to pat the old dog’s back.
A couple of teenagers in a mud-splattered truck holler something that sounds like, “Free beer at Chesty’s!” and I wave back because it’s easier than explaining marketing doesn’t work that way.
Whynot’s a tiny town in central North Carolina, but it packs more personality than should legally fit between the feed store and the water tower. White clapboard houses lean into each other like old friends. Flower boxes explode with petunias. Somebody’s frying something three streets over, and the smell makes my stomach growl.
When I walk past Central Café, I try to see into the darkened restaurant, but it’s too gloomy. I can make out the tables with chairs stacked on them, but not much else. I try to imagine the smell of Muriel’s biscuits and the way they used to perfume this whole stretch of sidewalk, but she’s been closed down now for a week, and there’s no sign of her reopening in the near future. I swear you could tell the time of day by what you’d smell as you walked by.
“Damn shame,” I mutter, because the old diner was the heartbeat of Whynot. It’s where gossip ran rampant, but friendships only got deeper as people bonded over blueberry pancakes in the morning and Muriel’s famous meatloaf at night.
I adjust my pace, cross to the other side where the pavement cracks around an old crepe myrtle, and keepmoving. The neon sign of Chesty’s glows weakly in the waning daylight—red letters flickering in welcome to the parched citizen.
I push through the door, and the bell gives its half-hearted jingle. Chesty’s smells like stale smoke from the days when it was legal to smoke indoors and the faint sour of spilled beer, making it fall squarely within the description of a dive bar. Sunlight stripes the room through the blinds, doing little to brighten up the inside.
Larry’s behind the bar, wiping down its scarred top. He glances at the clock and then at me. “Why are you always early?”
“To balance out the way you’re always late, my friend,” I say easily as I step through the pass-through to join him behind the bar.
Larry snorts. “You’re the only man in Whynot who treats bartending like it’s air traffic control.”
Pap’s already parked on his usual stool, elbows planted like he owns the place—which, technically, he does. He’s the kind of old where you can’t tell if the lines on his face come from laughter or stubbornness, but knowing the man the way I do, it’s probably both.
Around Whynot, many people call him Pap as he’s grandpa to the Mancinkus brood of kids, but the regulars at Chesty’s switch between that and Gunny, a nod to his Marine Corps days. He’s a retired master gunnery sergeant, served two tours in Vietnam, and still carrieshimself like the Corps might call him back any minute. I think that might actually be his fondest wish.
His hair’s thick and regulation—short, silver shot through with a few stubborn streaks of black. His skin’s dark and weathered—part Lithuanian, part Polish, and a whole lot of years under the Carolina sun without a drop of sunscreen. He’s a Yankee who became a Southerner, rail-thin but wiry strong, and if he ever decided to hug me—rare as a snowstorm in July—he could probably crack a rib. Social graces have never been his strong suit, but somehow this old coot with the bark of a drill instructor and the charm of a cactus ended up a local legend. Whynot folks adore him and Chesty’s wouldn’t be half as full without him growling from that stool like it’s his personal command post.
“Evenin’, Pap.” I critically note his mug of draft beer is still half full and go on high alert to watch its progress toward empty. “How’s the world treating you?”
“World’s fine. This town’s gone to hell.” He jerks his chin toward the street. “Been eating gas station biscuits for three days. I am one mystery patty away from meeting my maker.”
“Yeah.” I sigh wistfully because the Kind bars I’ve been eating for breakfast aren’t cutting it for me either. “Can’t wait until Muriel’s well enough to open back up.”
“Goddamn broken hip,” Pap growls. “That woman’s tougher than shoe leather, but there’s no hope for us inthe foreseeable future.”
