“I think that’s called a cry for help.”
He huffs, then squints at me again with that thoughtful look he gets right before he starts a debate. “You don’t fool me none.”
“About what?”
“You’re up to something.” He taps the bar with a knuckle, offering me a lopsided grin. “You got that look.”
“What look is that?”
“Like a man carrying a secret.”
I chuckle as I wipe down the area around his mug. “Only secret I got is my wing sauce recipe.”
“That and sayin’ a lot of unnecessary words.” He lifts his beer. “Can’t trust a bartender who saysactuallybefore pouring you a shot.”
He has a point. I am fond ofactually.
By six thirty, the place doesn’t have a single seat empty, both pool tables are in full play, and the dartboard has been commandeered by the Ladies’ Junior Auxiliary. Judge Bowen is in, fresh offthe bench from the courthouse that sits in the middle of town. He takes the barstool next to Pap, trading stories and looking like a true Southern gentleman in his bow tie and seersucker suit. The judge roars with laughter over something Pap says and I’d bet they’re exchanging bawdy jokes.
Laughter ricochets off the tin ceiling and I slide a whiskey to a wizened farmer who calls everybody “son,” whether you’re a man or a woman. A birthday group erupts at a corner table when I set down a shot tower and light a sparkler because I believe in showmanship. The jukebox spins Garth into Shania into something with too much bass that has Floyd attempting a bizarre dance.
My phone buzzes again. This time, the preview flashes a different message:The timeline’s tight. I need an answer, Sam.
I angle my body away from the bar and type back one word.Later.
Then I lock the screen and tuck it deep. The phone feels heavier than it should, but then again, it carries all the secrets I don’t want to say out loud.
By nine, the surge slows and people start to drift home to start the workday all over again. I wipe down the bar in smooth, practiced strokes. I clean a sink full of pint glasses and set them in a drying rack. The jukebox mellows into some old Kenny Rogers.
Pap is dozing alone at the end of the bar, Judge Bowen having long ago given up keeping pace with him. Hischin is resting on his chest and I’m tempted to leave him like that forever, a permanent installation. But Pap isn’t a spring chicken anymore, and on top of that, he beat colon cancer last year and really has more business sleeping in his soft bed than on a bar top.
When I nudge his elbow to make sure he’s still with us, he snorts and blinks awake. “You hear the latest?” he asks, voice gravelly with sleep as he blinks, pretending he was coherent and awake the entire time.
“Nope.”
“Judge Bowen said Muriel’s niece is coming to visit.”
I toss the bar towel over my shoulder. “Penny Pritchard?” Haven’t thought about her in a long time. “Thought she swore off Whynot for good.”
“People also swear off carbs. Don’t mean they don’t still eat cake.” He cackles at his own joke and slaps the bar.
“Must be coming to check in on Muriel. I don’t recall her visiting much the last few years.” And I’d remember if she were here. Hard to forget a woman who could make half the male population of Whynot forget their own names.
“Mmm,” Pap hums, but not sure that’s agreement or skepticism. He picks up his mug, drains the last of the beer, and pushes the empty toward me.
“Another?” I ask.
“Nah… going to head home.”
Not a long journey as Pap lives in an upstairs apartment. “You feeling okay?”
He pushes off the stool and shoots me a look that says I’m a dumbass, although I’m not sure why. “Of course, I’m okay.”
I glance at my watch. “But… you’re leaving kind of early.”
His eyes sparkle with mischief and he raps his knuckles on the wooden counter. “Maybe I’m going to meet a lady friend tonight.”
Chuckling, I lean my forearms on the bar and tease him. “Tell Mary-Margaret I said hello.”
