He wiped down the counter and tried to pretend he knew what he was doing while the espresso machine behind him hissed in short, impatient bursts.
“Okay,” he said, eyeing the order slips Ian had just slapped down. “One honey latte, one iced mocha, two lemonades, and…what in the world is a ‘Maple Bee Freeze’?”
Ian, who was now leaning against the back counter scrolling on his phone, looked up. “It’s like a blended maple milkshakewith honey whipped cream. Krista invented it. People are obsessed.”
“Of course they are,” Joe muttered. “Alright. Maple Bee Freeze. Hit me.”
Ian rattled off the steps, pointing to syrups, soft-serve, blender. Joe followed, trying not to think about the last time he’d heard that blender grind and how he’d been moments from a small kitchen explosion.
He finished the drinks, the bumblebee art looking more like an uneven butterfly, and slid them across to a waiting family. The mom took a sip of the Maple Bee Freeze and closed her eyes like she’d just seen an angel.
“Place looks good,” an older man’s voice said, walking around the corner.
Joe looked up, ready with a welcome, but the words shifted automatically when he saw who it was.
“Hey, Walt,” he said.
Krista’s grandfather stepped up to the bar, moving a little slower than usual. He wore his usual plaid shirt and work boots, but his shoulders seemed heavier, his cap held in his hand instead of perched on his head.
“Afternoon, son,” Walt said. His gaze swept the dock, pausing on the menu board, the stacked cups, the lake just beyond. “Sure looks busy.”
“Just a bit,” Joe agreed. “Can I get you something? Coffee? Honey latte? I can’t promise you the perfect bumblebee art, but I’ll give it a go.”
Walt hesitated. “You got regular coffee?” he asked. “None of that foam nonsense here.”
Joe glanced at Ian.
Ian lifted a pot from the warmer. “We keep a ‘Walt brew’ on hand,” he said. “Krista’s orders.”
Joe poured the coffee and offered him the cream.
“Come sit,” Walt said, after doctoring hiscoffee. He nodded toward a small table off to the side, cast in the shade from the bar area. “Ian, you good up here for a few?”
“I got you,” Ian said, already stepping into the gap.
Joe carried the mug over. Walt lowered himself into the chair with a small grunt, hand braced on the table.
“You alright?” Joe asked.
“Fine,” Walt said automatically. Then he seemed to reconsider, his gaze drifting to the water. “Truth is, I’m tired.”
Joe sat across from him, arms resting on his knees. “It’s been a week.”
“That’s one word for it,” Walt said. He wrapped his hands around the mug, staring into the steam. “Doc says they’ll keep Alice for a bit. Then rehab. Then…who knows?”
There was a weight in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Joe let the silence sit for a second, the soft clink of spoons and murmur of conversation filling in around them.
“They say she’ll walk again,” Walt went on. “With help. With time. But they’re talking ramps, handrails, grab bars, maybe one of those lift chairs for the porch steps.” He huffed out a humorless laugh. “And every time they say ‘maybe,’ I see dollar signs.”
Joe’s chest tightened. “Insurance…?”
“Covers some,” Walt said. “Not near all. And that’s just the house. Campground’s another story.” He stared past Joe now, out to the lake. “It was one thing when I could still do most of it. Fix the pipes, clear the lines, haul the firewood. But I’m slowing down, son. Been pretending I’m not, but…there it is.”
Joe didn’t rush to fill the space. He knew that if you stayed quiet long enough, the words found their way out.
Sure enough, Walt’s fingers tightened around the mug.
“I don’t want Krista’s life to turn into supporting us,” he said quietly. “She’s running herself ragged—the Hideaway, the campground, checking on us. She’s twenty-nine. She shouldn’t be selling this place, her dream.” His mouth tightened. “Andshe should be out doing whatever girls her age do. Preferably something that doesn’t involve spreadsheets and stress.”
