Homecoming (Speakeasy)

by Rebecca Norinne

  Speakeasy had only just opened for the day, so it was still relatively quiet. I pasted my warmest, most friendly smile on my face. “Is there a manager around I could speak with?” I asked, stepping up to the hostess podium.

  “Is there something wrong?” the woman standing behind it asked.

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that. I’m here about the bartending job.”

  “Oh!” she said, brightening as she turned to scan the floor. “Let me get Ty for you.”

  A few minutes later, she returned with a handsome man with dark, slightly shaggy hair and a neatly trimmed five o’clock shadow dotting his jaw. He reached out to shake my hand. “Hi, I’m Ty. Kaitlyn said you’re interested in the bartending job?”

  “Nice to meet you, Ty. I’m Rosalie,” I said, passing him my resume.

  Briefly, he glanced down at the sheet of thick white paper in his hands like he wasn’t sure what it was. I shifted nervously on my feet, wondering if I’d done something wrong. Did people not do resumes anymore? Should I have called to make an appointment first?

  “I saw the flyer at the grocery store,” I continued, trying to cover the awkward moment. “I have several years of experience organizing gallery exhibitions in San Francisco. Plus, I’ve taken a class on prohibition-era cocktails, which I thought was relevant given this is a Speakeasy.”

  He took another quick look at my resume, eyes snagging on something on it—I wasn’t sure which section—and smiled kindly. His eyes told me he wasn’t entirely convinced, however. Still, he lifted his chin to indicate a semi-circular leather banquette off to my left. “Why don’t you take a seat in that booth over there, and I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes?”

  “Thank you,” I chirped, smiling widely—and maybe a tad bit wildly—as I turned to make my way to the booth. I hoped he didn’t think I was too eager, but I was so damn happy he was willing to give me the time of day that I couldn’t seem to control my facial expressions. This was further than I’d gotten with any of my other prospects since I’d set out to find a new job.

  While I waited for Ty to return, I glanced around the space, taking in its leaded glass windows, rough-hewn floorboards, and exposed brick walls while imagining myself working here. It was a definite step up from the dive bar that I’d worked at in college, and while I was sure there’d be a steep learning curve if they took a chance on me, I felt up to the challenge.

  A couple of minutes later, Ty returned with a tall man with soulful brown eyes, his arms covered in tattoos. “Rosalie, this is Alec Rossi. He’s one of the owners here.”

  “Hi, Alec.” I pushed awkwardly to my feet and reached across the table to shake his hand. I debated whether or not I should mention that I’d known his sister back in high school, but decided not to say anything just yet.

  “Please, sit.” He slid behind the table on the other side of the booth and Ty slid in next to him. “Ty mentioned you’re interested in the bartender position, but we were hoping you’d be open to discussing a different job.”

  Honestly, I wasn’t sure that I was qualified for much else. Maybe a hostess position that would help me to learn the ropes first? I figured the pay would be significantly less than that of a bartender—especially when you factored in tips—but beggars couldn’t be choosers. If I had to start at the bottom and work my way up, I’d just have to grit my teeth and smile.

  “Are you looking for another hostess?” I hoped my voice didn’t give away my disappointment.

  “Actually, no. We could really use someone who knows their way around an event,” Ty said, jumping in where Alec had left off. “Someone who can pull off something like a wedding reception or a large holiday party. Our event space upstairs is booked solid for the next six months and none of us have the bandwidth—or the experience—to really manage the process.”

  Alec cleared his throat before picking up the thread of the conversation. “As our events manager, you’d work closely with Colton Vega, our catering chef, and Ty, of course. Events are separate from their regular schedules, but most of the staff will pick up shifts for some extra cash. There’s also a temp agency in Montpelier we work with when we need to hire extra hands. Whoever takes this job will become our liaison with them.”

  I nodded as he spoke, my mind racing with possibility. This was way more than I’d ever expected. The thought of running events here had me brimming with excitement. While Blake had usually handled acquiring the actual art for the gallery, much of my day-to-day job focused on contracts and planning the actual exhibitions and parties with the artists themselves. That, and working with brides who’d rented out our space for their receptions or HR people who’d hired out our space for corporate events. This job was perfect for me.

  “As an owner,” Alec continued, “my job is more behind the scenes. Same goes for Griffin Shipley—do you know him?”

  I nodded. “I know of him.” Everyone in Colebury knew who the Shipleys were. I might have been gone a long time, but the family was like royalty around these parts. That, and I’d been drinking my fair share of Shipley Cider lately.

  “Lyle Giltmaker and my uncle Otto round out the list of owners,” he said, his jaw ticking when he spoke his uncle’s name. Briefly, I wondered what the story was there. Not that I’d ever pry. “I also own The Gin Mill on the other side of the path through the woods, so I’m stretched pretty thin right now.” He shared a glance with Ty.

  “We all are,” Ty said. “Not that we’re complaining, but business is booming, and we could really use someone with your skills to help pick up the slack.”

  “That all sounds … wow.” I pulled a deep breath into my lungs. “It sounds amazing, if I’m being honest.”

  “So, you’re interested?” Ty asked.

  I nodded enthusiastically. “I’m more than interested. I think I’d actually love it.”

  “Good,” Alec said. “I’m afraid we don’t have a formal job description written up yet. But if you want the job, we can work on defining your role together.”

  “That sounds fantastic,” I enthused, practically vibrating with excitement. When I felt my chandelier earrings pinging against my neck as I bounced in my seat, I immediately sat still. This was an interview, and I was supposed to be a professional. “Do you need references or anything? I’m sure I could put you in touch with a couple of brides or artists I worked with.”

  “That’d be great. Can you email me their contact information?” Fishing a business card out of his back pocket, he slid it across the table. “Assuming everything is on the up and up, when could you start?”

  I felt myself vibrating again. “When would you want me to start?” I asked, my gaze flicking between him and Ty.

  Ty chuckled. “Last week would have been really great.”

  I smiled happily. I was doing a lot more of that lately. Frankly, there’d been a time in my life not too long ago when I wondered if I’d ever do so again. “I can start as soon as you need me.”

  Alec checked his watch and slid out of the booth. “I’ve got a couple of minutes. Want to see the upstairs space?

  “Absolutely.”

  Half an hour later, I extended my hand toward Alec and Ty. “Thank you so much for meeting with me today. I honestly hadn’t expected things to go this way. I’m really excited to get started. Assuming, of course, my references check out.”

  “Right,” Alec smirked, giving me the impression my references were a mere formality at this point. It was obvious he’d liked the ideas I’d rattled off upstairs about the type of events Speakeasy could add to its schedule beyond just the weekend’s bigger money makers. “I’m glad you stopped in, too. I think we’re probably getting the better end of the deal here, but you won’t hear me complaining. Welcome to the Speakeasy family, Rosalie.”

  Family. Yeah, I liked the sound of that. I wrapped my arms around my middle, my insides feeling all warm and fuzzy.

  I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Preston. I’d actually found a job! And an amazing one to boot. T
hings were definitely looking up.

  28

  Preston

  When I heard what sounded like metal scraping loudly against wood, I pulled the curtain in my living room aside, expecting to see Gloria dragging another one of her dilapidated roadside furniture finds through the snow and into the house. But instead of her turquoise Mini Cooper, there was a black sedan with Massachusetts plates parked out front. When it happened again—louder this time—I pressed my nose to the glass. That was when I saw it: a tall, lean man dressed in an expensive wool coat trying to pry open the door that led into the farmhouse’s kitchen.

  Oh, fuck no. Shoving my bare feet into my work boots and throwing a sweatshirt and jacket on over my favorite old Red Sox t-shirt, I yanked open the door and slunk toward my truck, conscious of keeping my steps as quiet as possible. Pulling a heavy tire iron out of the back, I crossed the yard with it gripped tightly in my hand.

  I stepped on a twig that snapped loudly and the man turned to face me. I felt shocked recognition flash through me. It was the man from the pictures—Rosalie’s ex. For a brief moment he appeared startled, but then his face morphed into a mask of polite interest. Stepping forward, he extended a hand in greeting. “Hi, I’m Blake. You must be the neighbor my wife Rose has told me so much about.” He smiled that smarmy smile that all actors who play villains seem to have perfected.

  It set my teeth on edge. It was one of those smug smirks you’d enjoy forcibly removing from someone’s face … assuming you were the violent type. I wasn’t. I turned and tossed my tire iron in the direction of my truck. I’d pick it up later.

  I might not have been violent, but I wasn’t a pushover, either. “You mean Rosalie?” I asked, stressing her full name.

  While I’d taken to calling her Rosie every so often—mostly when we were about to get naked—she’d asked me to never, ever call her Rose. From the outset of her relationship with Blake, she told me, he’d been weirdly dismissive of her name, claiming that it sounded juvenile and not befitting the sophisticated woman he knew she could be. Personally, I thought it was a beautiful, classic name that fit her perfectly, especially when she flushed that pale blush color I loved so much.

  Blake snorted out a noise of disgust and waved away my use of her full name. “Some things never change with that woman.” He pushed his hands into his coat pockets and eyed me critically, an undisguised sneer tugging his mouth to the side.

  I knew what he saw when he looked at me, but I didn’t care. Despite what he so obviously thought, clothes did not make the man.

  “Is she around?” he sniped.

  “No, which you obviously know since you were trying to break into the house.”

  He scoffed at the accusation, but his eyes bore a momentary look of panic that gave him away. “No, I wasn’t.”

  “I watched you trying to pry open that door,” I said, jutting my chin toward the side entrance. “You think I like running out into the yard half-dressed to investigate people who don’t look suspicious?”

  “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Yes, I agree.” I took a couple of unhurried steps toward him. Crossing my arms over my chest, I added, “And since you’re about to be her ex-husband, you should get used to not calling her your wife.”

  His lips hitched to the side with another of those ugly movie villain sneers. “I know who you are, you know,” he said conversationally, completely flipping the script on this exchange.

  While I’d expected him to say something outlandishly crazy about how he would never let her go, the fact that he was suddenly talking about me had me jerking my head back in surprise. “Who I am?”

  “Preston Patterson Kelly, son of Robert Kelly, residential and commercial property development tycoon whose net worth is said to be somewhere in the nine hundred million dollar range. The thing I don’t get is why you’re up here, hiding out in Vermont, instead of working for daddy. Unless it has something to do with your fiancee marrying your brother?” He lifted his right eyebrow, daring me to contradict him.

  I didn’t know for sure what he saw on my face, but I could only guess it was shock. “What—you think I wouldn’t do some digging on the man who’s fucking my wife?” he spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, I know all about that, too.”

  “How?” I asked, my mind reeling. As far as I knew, Rosalie had cut off all communication with him. She might have mentioned my name in passing, but I couldn’t imagine her telling him that we’d had sex. That just wasn’t how Rosalie operated. Knowing how cruel Blake could be when provoked, she absolutely would not have said anything that might set him off.

  “Are you asking how I know all about your family’s incestuous foibles, or how I knew Rose had spread her pretty little legs for you?”

  Oh, fuck no. This man could say whatever the hell he liked about my family, but speaking about the woman I loved this way was unacceptable. “Don’t you dare,” I warned, taking a step closer, my fists clenched at my side. Perhaps I’d been too hasty in tossing that tire iron aside, I thought.

  And maybe, my subconscious added, you’re a little more violent than you previously thought.

  No. If Rosalie wasn’t that sort of woman, I certainly wasn’t that type of guy. With everything Margaux and Colton had put me through, I’d never once envisioned hitting my brother. And yet, in the five minutes I’d been standing here arguing with Blake, I’d definitely considered it. Quite vividly, if I were being honest. And I didn’t like how that made me feel. Slowly, I unfurled my fingers, tapping my right index finger against my thigh to keep my hands busy lest they somehow find their way around his scrawny little neck.

  “Or what?” he challenged, his gaze darting down to my hands. He’d clearly seen the moment I’d regained control of my senses. “You’ll kick my ass? Go ahead, I dare you. I’d love to take you to court.”

  I drew in a deep breath and then blew it out slowly, counting to five. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” I shook my head in disgust. “No wonder she left you.”

  “And you’re a rich bastard,” he countered. “No wonder she ran right to your bed.”

  I growled. “I warned you.”

  He snorted. “You forget, Preston, that I’ve known Rose far longer than you have. Let me fill you in on a little secret about her: that girl chased me for months, batting her eyelashes my way and doing everything in her power to get me to ask her out. And once I did, she couldn’t wait to fuck me.”

  The longer he spoke, the more my doubt grew. Rosalie and I had rushed headlong into our relationship, going from fake dating to blow jobs in practically no time flat. Had that been part of her plan all along? No, I told myself. She wasn’t like Margaux. But still, my thoughts became a spiral of “what-ifs” and “are you sures?” until Blake spoke again, inadvertently casting all my doubts aside.

  He scrubbed his hand over his clean-shaven jaw, so different my own beard that Rosalie was so fond of. “Let me ask you this, man,” he said, taking a few more steps toward his car. “Has she pulled the whole ‘oh my god, I think I’m pregnant’ routine with you yet? Because that’s a patented Rose Mitchell move.”

  And that was the precise moment he lost me.

  More than once, Rosalie had told me this man could twist things around so thoroughly that by the time the conversation was over, you’d be questioning your recollection of a particular sequence of events. At the time, I hadn’t understood how anyone could fall for Blake’s lies or believe him when he said he knew your mind better than you knew it yourself, but standing here now, experiencing for myself how manipulative he could be, I suddenly got it. There was no limit to the depths he’d sink to get what he wanted. And he’d done the damn research. He knew how to get at me. Which meant he’d known how to get at her, too.

  I had to hand it to him, he was good. A deranged fucking prick, but good at being one nonetheless.

  What he hadn’t counted on was how close Rosalie and I had grown. There was no way i
n hell she would have ever tried to trap him into marriage by claiming to be pregnant.

  And that was when I had my second powerful realization: in less than two months, I knew Rosalie better than Blake had ever known her—and he’d been married to her for years.

  “Yeah, man,” I said, throwing his use of the word back at him. “That’s not what happened, and you and I both know it.”

  He visibly startled, but he recovered quickly. “Hmm. Clearly, I underestimated your feelings for her.”

  At least he’d dropped the ‘my wife” bit. That seemed like progress.

  “I think you’ve probably underestimated a lot about Rosalie over the years,” I remarked, recalling her many stories.

  He cocked his head to the side. “You’re in love with her.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes.” Even knowing it might come back to haunt me later, I didn’t hesitate to confirm his suspicions.

  He shook his head again and muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “this is almost too easy.” Straightening, he peered at me consideringly. “How much are you willing to give me to go away?”

  “Come again?” Maybe I was mistaken, but it had almost sounded like if I paid him off, he’d finally leave Rosalie alone.

  The cynical part of my brain wondered if this had been his end game all along. But how? At what point had he realized who I was and figured he could milk my relationship with Rosalie for a payday?

  “You’ve already emptied your joint bank account,” I said slowly, wondering why he needed more cash. “And you fraudulently removed her name from your condo’s title—something, by the way, no one has been able to figure out how you did. And yet here you are, demanding even more?”