“You deserve nothing. You’re terrible.”
She grins. “Come on. One detail. Just one.”
I think about Asher’s hands. About the way he said my name and put my pleasure first.
“Eleven,” I say, and watch her eyebrows shoot up.
“Well, then.” She stands, brushing off her jeans. “I guess Fork Lick has more going for it than I thought.”
She ruffles my hair and stands up, having given me her version of deep approval.
19
Eva
My sisters leave the next day after helping me with a renovation timeline and a business plan. Esther’s friends are all very smart and connected, so she hooked me up with a financial planner and all sorts of strategy resources.
They’ve also left me with three plants, one goat, and a refrigerator full of labeled containers. Apparently Eden doesn’t trust me to feed myself.
The house feels too quiet after Eliza’s truck disappears down the road.
I text Asher a photo of Pepper investigating her new pen:
Your turn to meet her when you get back.
He responds with what is likely his first ever use of an emoji: a giant, yellow thumbs down.
The coaster from Tiddy’s is still sitting on my kitchen counter where Asher left it. I feel the overwhelming urge to start something I can finish quickly, so I pull up photos I took of the bar’s exterior and start jotting down ideas to pitch the bar as an institution.
Tiddy’s Bar is dated, under-promoted, and completely invisible online. No Instagram, no Facebook, not even a Google Business listing. For someone like me, that’s not a problem. That’s an opportunity.
I still haven’t been inside, so I check the lock on Pepper’s hastily built pen and head to town to see if I’m really as good at this as I’m hoping.
The interior of Tiddy’s is exactly what I expected: wood paneling, neon beer signs, a jukebox that probably hasn’t been updated since the Clinton administration. A few apparent regulars nurse drinks at the bar. Behind the counter, wiping down glasses with the energy of a man who has been doing this exact task for forty years, is the owner.
He’s sixty-something, barrel-chested, with a gray mustache that would make a walrus jealous. He looks up when I enter, and his expression flickers through several emotions—recognition, curiosity, wariness.
“You’re the Pierce girl,” he says, and I like the sound of that.
“Eva Storm. But yes, I inherited Pierce Acres.” I slide onto a barstool and offer my most winning smile. “You must be Mr. Tiddy.”
Something twitches in his mustache. “Just Tiddy. Everyone calls me Tiddy.”
“Right. Of course. Tiddy.” I pull out my phone. “So, I heard you might be looking for some marketing help? I had some ideas?—”
“Hold on.” He sets down the glass he’s polishing. “Who told you I needed help?”
“Asher Thorne? He was in here last week, said you mentioned wanting to get more people through the door.”
Tiddy grunts. I pull up my notes. Time to be professional. “Anyway, I took a look at your current presence, and I think there’s huge potential here. Fork Lick is becoming an agritourism destination, right? The Bedd farm festivals, the local food scene. But tourists don’t know about Tiddy’s because you’re not showing up in any searches.”
“Been here forty years without showing up in searches.”
This was not the reception I was expecting from someone who allegedly asked for my help. “Right, but the market is changing. People plan trips online now. They look for ‘authentic local bars’ and ‘hidden gems.’ You could be that for them.” I’m warming up now, hitting my stride. “I was thinking about your brand identity, and I came up with a slogan that really captures the vibe.”
I turn my phone toward him, showing the mockup I whipped up. It’s the bar’s exterior with text overlaid in a rustic font:
Ain’t Your Average Tiddy Bar
