by Becky Turner
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BECKY TURNER
KINDLE EDITION
Copyright © 2015 Becky Turner
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design by Mayhem Cover Creations
Formatting by Mayhem Cover Creations
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events described in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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The thing about being a big fish in a little pond is that you never really have to prove yourself to anyone. Even if you never did a single thing to deserve your status, no one ever asks you to show that you can handle whatever things are entrusted to you. They just assume you can do it, and can do it without any help, because of who you are. Or, who your parents are. Or were, I guess.
That’s why no one batted an eye when The Leaky Lifeboat was passed down to me. No one said that maybe I couldn’t handle it. No one could say anything about me possibly driving the bar into the ground. They just trusted me to not screw up because my parents never screwed up, which meant, ostensibly, that I had learned some things from them.
The other thing about being a big fish in a little pond is that you can’t admit to the little fish that maybe you don’t know the first thing about whatever it is you’re being asked to do. Because all the little fish know is that the big fish are going to make everything okay. They’ll keep the little fish from being eaten up by invasive species. They’ll keep the pond healthy. They’ll take care of everything.
I guess it’s time to stop talking in metaphors. Besides, I should really be saying “lake” instead of “pond”. Our town sits on the Oneonik Lake, a forgotten little body of water in a forgotten little part of the largely forgotten little state of Ohio. Fed by the Cuyahaga River, Oneonik Lake is surrounded by four small towns, of which mine is the smallest.
Home to retired steel mill workers, a few small-business owners, one or two fisherman who can barely live in what they catch, and a medley of people who commute to work at the larger towns, my town is one of those places with one sign on the highway and no visitors.
My parents owned the most successful bar in our little town. Note: it was also the only bar in our little town, so to say that it was the most successful is kind of a joke. The Leaky Lifeboat had history, though, and character. It’d been around for over 100 years, and for most of those years it had been owned by my family. My great-grandpa inherited it from the original owners, who had been close family friends without children of their own. Then it was my grandparents’, and then it was my parents’.
And in September of 2012, my parents were driving home late at night when a runaway truck plowed into them and sent their Plymouth into the Cuyahaga River. And then The Leaky Lifeboat became mine, at age 20.
After the funeral and the wake and the mourning period, after people had stopped bringing by fruit salads and casseroles, after people stopped hugging me whenever I was at the grocery store or gas station, it finally became real. I remember very clearly sitting in the office behind the bar; it’d been closed since the accident, but after three weeks people started asking, politely and discreetly, what I was planning to do.
Obviously, they believed, I would just pick up where my parents left off. My parents almost lived in the bar. There were two bartenders, locals, and one chef who made simple bar food. My parents were always hanging around to lend a hand when it got busy: they were the owners, but they weren’t above slinging drinks or serving French fries.
And they really loved being there, seeing all the townsfolk coming in to have a good time or lay their troubles down for the evening. The Leaky Lifeboat was like the social hub of town. People said that more laws were made and conflicts solved over pints at The Leaky Lifeboat than at Town Hall meetings. The whole town really depended on The Leaky Lifeboat.
Which is why, when I sat down in the office and nearly had a panic attack looking over all the receipts and ledgers and deposit slips and accounts, I had to pull myself together and get to work. I couldn’t just close it down, or sell it.
As much as I was still lost in grief, and as much as I knew that this was going to be the most challenging thing I’d ever do, and as much as I realized that it meant I had to drop out of school and devote my life to the bar, I didn’t have the heart to close it down. The town was my family, almost as much as my parents were, and I couldn’t let them down.
But that didn’t mean that I wasn’t going to let them down anyway, I realized as I looked everything over. I knew a little bit about running the bar, but I’d been going to college for business yet only just started taking any relevant classes.
I had been taught some basics by my parents, of course, but for the most part I felt like I was adrift on Oneonik Lake with no life preserver. The Leaky Lifeboat may just earn its name under my care, I thought as I rummaged through papers and tried to make sense of the accounts.
Eventually, after a full day of calculating mysterious sums and jotting down endless numbers that really didn’t mean a damn thing to me, I decided there was really only one thing to do. I had to just open the doors, get the staff in, start making sales, and see what happened.
So that’s what I did. And it seemed like it was working, for a while. A local accountant had been doing the bar’s taxes for free for years in return for a round on the house anytime she came in. If that doesn’t give you an idea of what our town was like, nothing will.
So I didn’t have to worry about the taxes. Throughout the long, cold Ohio winter I kept up the bar, taking deposits to the bank, ordering whatever food the chef told me he needed, writing checks for the bartenders. It was sort of starting to make sense – though I’d be lying if I said that I really actually knew what I was doing. I was just making do.
By the time April came around, though, I began to realize that things weren’t adding up the way I thought they should. We weren’t losing money, by any means, but we weren’t making as much as we did when my parents ran the bar. I asked the staff, and they couldn’t figure it out. I asked the accountant (over some complimentary whiskey sours and jalapeno poppers) and she couldn’t exactly illuminate me, either.
That’s how I came to be sitting with my head in my hands, racking my brain for an explanation, praying for miraculous intervention, and on the verge of tears for the umpteenth time that week, when David Stevenson knocked on the door to my office.
“Come in,” I said, wiping my face with my hands. I expected it to be one of the bartenders or the chef to talk about scheduling or some such technical business. So you can imagine my surprise when instead of one of my aged but jolly staff members, a well-dressed, well-coifed, knee-knocker of a man came through the door.
When I say I was speechless, I’m not exaggerating. He was tall, dark, and handsome. With jet-black hair, clear blue eyes, and a face cut from marble, the man towered in the doorway. He was thin but clearly built, hints of his muscles bulging through his suit, which fit so well it looked tailor made. I must have looked like a damn fool, sitting at my desk with my mouth hanging open like I was trying to catch flies.
“Ms. Pitch,” he said. It wasn’t a question; I would soon find out that David Stevenson almost never asked questions.
“Yes, t
hat’s me,” I said, my brain forming the only words that it could handle at the moment.
“I’m David Stevenson. I’ve come from New York to speak with you about this bar,” he said, his eyes piercing through mine. “I passed a coffee shop on the way here. It looked like a good place to talk.”
“Uh, well, uh, what? I mean…yeah, okay, but…what?” I was having immense difficulty understanding what he was trying to say. He wanted to talk about the bar…why? All the way from New York? To talk about….The Leaky Lifeboat? What the hell…I wondered as I stared at him. He didn’t seem uncomfortable, although I’m sure the way I was gawking would have made many a man fidget in their shoes.
“I want to talk to you about this bar,” he repeated, gesturing through the still-open office door to the bar.
“Well, I mean, yeah, okay, but…why? How did you even find out about this place? What…what could you possibly have to talk to me about?” I said, finally able to at least string words together to make a sentence.
“I’d rather discuss that over a cup of coffee. Please,” he said. When he said “please”, it was like he was actually saying “come along now, little girl.” I bristled slightly at the tone but, looking down at the account book and seeing the mess of figures, I realized that this could actually be the godsend I was praying for.
I had no idea what the guy wanted, and I still didn’t know how he could ever even have found the place, but I needed a break, and from the look of him, it seemed like he might actually be able to enlighten me. Maybe he was one of those bar make-over producers from television. I wasn’t sure I wanted that, but it couldn’t hurt to grab coffee. I stood up and grabbed my purse.
“I bet the coffee shop you saw was The Lighthouse. They are great,” I said, trying to sound cheerful and enthusiastic about the mystery meeting.
“Yes, well,” was all he said. He stepped aside, letting me leave first. I thought that was rather gentlemanly of him. He followed me out onto the street; it was a nice, warm spring day, with the last bite of winter finally fading to an occasional cool breeze.
“So what brings you down to Ohio?” I said, starting to walk down the street. I stopped when I realized he wasn’t following me. For the first time, I noticed the long, black limo parked outside the bar; I think my eyes must have bugged out of my head about a mile.
“We’ll take the car,” he said matter-of-factly. I stood staring at him with my mouth open. Thinking quickly, though, I realized how peculiar it would look for me to be seen getting into a limo right outside the bar. It already must look weird to even have a limo outside the bar; no need to raise more questions.
“Well, it’s only a block or two. We can walk,” I said, hoping he would bite. He stared at me, his blue eyes almost hypnotizing in their depth. Finally, he nodded. I watched him walk to the side of the limo; the window rolled down, and he said something to the driver. As he began to walk towards me, the limo pulled out.
“He will meet us there,” he said, not looking at me but continuing to walk past me in the direction of the coffee house. I had to walk double-time to keep up.
“So, what brings you to Ohio, Mr. Stevenson?” I said again, hoping to lighten what I was beginning to feel was a dismal energy.
“Business,” was all he said. We walked in silence the rest of the way. At the coffee shop, he directed me towards a table.
“Americano?” He asked. Again, it was more like a statement than a question. I was surprised and impressed that he knew my favorite drink, but dismissed it as coincidence; many people love Americanos. I settled down as he approached the counter and ordered. I gazed at him from behind, my mind filled with strange thoughts and possibilities. I was hoping the truth of this mysterious stranger showing up at the bar was at least as exciting as the stories I was making up to explain him.
He came back to the table, coffees in hand, and planted one in front of me, as well as a packet of sugar. He sat down across from me, adjusted his suit, and looked me straight in the eye. His stare was intense and cold, like metal. I found my mind wandering, wondering what it would be like to be lost in that stare on a dark, cold night….
“I want to buy your bar,” he said. He said it as though I had asked what he wanted, as though I had been planning to give him whatever he said.
“Uh, well, I’m not selling it,” I said back, raising an eyebrow and staring into his steely eyes. He didn’t flinch, and the expression on his face didn’t change. He pulled out a notepad from his suit pocket. It looked fancy, with a black leather cover and gilded edges on the pages. There was a small, silver pen attached. Without breaking eye contact, he flipped the book open and removed the pen. He jotted something down, ripped the paper out, and slid it across the table to me.
“I want to buy your bar,” he said again. I looked down at the folded paper he had offered me. I’d seen enough movies to know what was on that paper. I felt my irritation flaring up; I’d already told him I wasn’t interested. Maybe he didn’t get it. And what did he want with a bar in a one-horse town, anyway?
“I don’t care what that paper says. I’m not selling. This bar has been in my family for a long time, Mr. Stevenson. I’m not about to give it up. And I sure as heck wouldn’t sell it to some New York City big shot, anyway. I mean, no offense, but this is kind of a small town and we, uh, we just don’t…well, like they say about us hicks, we don’t cotton to your kind here,” I said, pushing the paper back across the table.
I reached around and began to put my coat back on, thinking that he would get the idea. I realized that he had not, in fact, gotten the idea when I saw a flash of rage pass over his eyes, soon replaced by the same steely look.
“I think you’ll find this might change your mind,” he said, pushing the paper back across the table. Now, I hoped, he’d see the flash of rage in my eyes.
“What do you even want this bar for, anyway?” I asked. I still didn’t pick up the piece of paper. I didn’t care. There was no amount he could pay me to get The Leaky Lifeboat. Although I had to admit, I was curious how much he was offering.
“A town like this could be something. I deal in things with potential. Have you ever been to Hudson, New York?” I shook my head. I’d never been too far from the town, actually. Never been to the state of New York.
“Well, that town looked a hell of a lot like this town thirty years ago. And then I bought a bookstore. And a restaurant. Now it’s a weekend getaway for Manhattanites and people from Westchester. You do know where Manhattan is, don’t you?” His condescending tone inspired another bubble of rage inside me.
“Yes, Mr. Stevenson, I know where Manhattan is. So what? You think we want to become some yuppie heaven? We have a lot of soul here, sir. We don’t need other people’s money to be happy,” I said, pulling my coat on all the way. I’d had about enough of this conversation. As I rose to leave, I felt him grab my wrist. I winced at first at the contact, but weirdly enough I didn’t mind as much as I thought I would. I looked him in the eye as he held me in place.
“Just look at what I’m offering you, Ms. Pitch. I think it might just change your tune,” he said. His eyes were strangely compelling, and I found my will struggling to uphold my determination to ignore the slip of paper. The truth was, I really did want to see what kind of money he was offering. I sat back down and picked up the paper. What I saw nearly made my eyes pop out of my head.
This wasn’t just a lot of money. This was six-figures of a lot of money. This was more money than the entire population of the town made, combined. That might be an exaggeration, but I’d honestly never seen so many zero’s in my life. I looked up at Mr. Stevenson wide-eyed.
“You can’t be serious,” I said, my voice catching in my throat. He nodded, still looking at me with those killer eyes. I was speechless. But as I stared at the slip of paper, the shock began to wear off and I realized that as tempting as that much money might be, I wasn’t ready to give up my ground. After all, if there’s one thing my parents had taught me, it was that
money could never replace human kindness and love. Looking up at Mr. Stevenson, I told him exactly that.
“No, you’re right. But money can buy a new school. Money can buy new parks. Money can buy new docks. Money can buy lots of things this town needs, Ms. Pitch,” he said, making probably the first point that actually could have swayed me. Yet I remained unconvinced. I shook my head and pushed the paper back to him.
“We’ll get those things. Slowly, on our own. In our own way. See, Mr. Stevenson, what you don’t understand is that this town is a family. We’ll always look out for our own. We have everything we need in each other,” I said. “Thank you for the offer, and thank you for the vision. But we don’t need it.”
I saw rage flashing in his eyes again. This time, it scared me a little. I rose again, meaning to leave and forget all about this strange man and his insane wealth.
“Please, call me David,” he said, clearly trying to get me to stay. I didn’t look at him, simply continued gathering my things. “Listen, I’m not the sort of man who takes ‘no’ for an answer.”
“Well, I’m not the kind of girl who cares,” I said, shooting him a glance. Or, at least, it was meant to be a glance. It turned into a lingering gaze as I was struck once more by his appearance.
“But you are the kind of girl who was thrown into a very complicated situation very suddenly. And you don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” That made me pause. He was right about that. I was in over my head, in a big way. But what did that have to do with him? Exactly nothing, that’s what.
“That’s not really your problem, is it, David?” I said, trying to sound tough but knowing that he had finally found the chink in my shield.
“Have dinner with me tonight. I won’t try to sell you on this, I promise. Let me give you some advice, though. I know you need it, and I know you don’t have anyone to turn to. Please,” he said. I was amazed at the sudden change in his tone; from demanding to genteel, it was like I was talking to an entirely different man.