When I walk in to the farmhouse kitchen, my brother Griffin is there, leaning against the counter, deep in conversation with Lark’s fiancé, Zachariah. There’s a plate of cookies between them.
Fiancé. I rehearsed this word in my head earlier, trying to get used to the idea. Their conversation stops the second they notice me. They both glance at me, their eyes wary.
Fuck. I’m so sick of that look in people’s eyes. The Poor Lark expression. And now it’s sinking in that with Zach and Lark planning their wedding, nobody will ever stop looking at me that way. Not for months.
I want to scream. But I can’t. “Hi guys!” I say instead. On goes the plastic smile. I don’t even take off my coat. I march right up to Zachariah and plant a kiss on his cheek. “Congratulations. I’m so excited for you.”
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“Nice pick with the ring,” I say, my bravado holding up. “It’s gorgeous.” Then I steal a cookie off the plate, give them both a wave, and walk out.
A minute later I arrive upstairs in my bedroom, coat and shoes still on. I close the door and throw the cookie right in my trash bin. Then I crumple onto the bed. My eyes sting and a headache teases my temples.
This has been the longest day of a really long week. Everyone who loves me is treating me like an emotional leper. I have absolutely nothing to look forward to.
And I really, really want a drink.
This idea settles over me like a wool blanket—warm but irritating. I want a glass of wine, red and plummy. I want the scent of the tannins in my nose as I swallow a hearty gulp. And another. And another. Until the gentle ease of numbness overtakes my senses, and the sharp edges of my life blur sweetly.
I want it so badly. If I could just have a little, that would help. Just one more time, my addiction whispers. Nobody has to know.
My addiction is such an asshole.
In two hours I’ll get off this bed, and I’ll go to an AA meeting. I’ll sit in a dingy community room at a church and listen to strangers talk about how hard they fought to get sober, and I’ll feel a little less alone.
A little.
Heading out to a meeting will have the added advantage of getting me out of this room. Lark asked me how I was doing today, but I didn’t tell her the truth. I haven’t told anyone, because they’ll only worry.
My cravings are really sharp, and I haven’t wanted a drink this badly in quite a long time.
Living at home is part of the problem. My lowest moments as an alcoholic were lived right here in this room. It happened a year and a half ago, when Lark was kidnapped overseas. She used to have a job with a non-profit agricultural agency. They sent her to Central America, where she was snatched off the street. She was missing for weeks, and I was sure she was dead.
That’s when I climbed inside the bottle and forgot how to climb out. I stopped doing my law school work and ended each night drunk and weepy. I was so destroyed that I didn’t even care that everyone saw my breakdown. For years I’d hid my favorite habit, but when Lark was missing, I stopped caring who noticed.
My family was astonished by my behavior. They hadn’t noticed before that alcohol was my crutch, because they didn’t recognize the urge in themselves. The week before Lark was rescued was the one of great drama, when I finally admitted I needed help. My mother drove me to my first AA meeting, where I cried like a fountain the whole time.
Ah, the memories.
Many people would call me lucky. My addiction didn’t cost me my family. It didn’t cost me my job, and I didn’t have to kill someone behind the wheel of my car, or disappoint too many people before I acknowledged my problem.
I have sixteen months of sobriety.
But this is a rough patch. I’m stuck in this house again. Thinking about Lark again. And wondering how I managed to screw everything up with Daniela.
I feel really lost for someone who’s supposedly on an upswing.
My phone chirps with a text, and I dig it out of my coat pocket, needing the distraction. The number is unfamiliar. But when I tap on the message, I recognize the Gin Mill logo on the Avatar. It’s Alec Rossi.
How are you doing? he asks.
It’s the same question everyone asks me. But for some reason I don’t mind the question from Alec. He’s just an acquaintance, not someone who expects me to self-destruct under the weight of my recent disappointments.
Also, he’s super cute.
I’ve had better weeks, is my reply.
Alec: Want to hear a joke?
May: I love a good joke.
Alec: I didn’t say it was a GOOD joke.
May: I’ll take my chances.
Alec: A screwdriver walks into a bar. The bartender says, "Hey, we have a drink named after you!"
Alec: The Screwdriver responds, "You have a drink named Murray?"
May: Is it pathetic that I just LOLed?
Alec: Nah. I love that joke. If you’re a really lucky girl, someday I’ll tell you the one about the mushroom who walks into a bar. But that one has to be told in person.
May: It won’t be easy to wait, but I’ll try.
Alec: In all seriousness, is there anything I can do to help? Besides telling you my collection of bar jokes?
I’m about to reply no, when I have an idea. I probably shouldn’t ask Alec for another favor. But if he says yes, it will help me out a great deal. And maybe there’s a way I could make it up to him.
May: There is one little thing…
Chapter Five
Alec
I’m behind the bar again, and Smitty is late for his shift. This happens a lot, unfortunately. And tonight it’s a real problem, because I’m not planning to work this shift.
My phone rings in my back pocket, and I fish it out, hoping it’s not Smitty calling me to make an excuse. I tug it out and answer. “Hello?”
“Alec?” The voice is weak and unfamiliar. “It’s Hamish.”
“Hamish! What’s shaking?” I feel a pang of worry. The old carpenter never calls me, he just walks through the front door instead.
“I hit a spot of trouble,” he says. “I’m laid up for a couple days. Could you feed my cat and lock up my shop?”
“Of course,” I say slowly. “Not a problem, man. But are you okay? Where are you?”
Hamish’s chuckle sounds embarrassed. “Montpelier Hospital. But it’s no big thing. Just a scare.”
“Sorry to hear that. I’ll check your place in twenty, okay? I’m on my way out about then.”
“Thank you, kid.”
“My pleasure.”
I hang up the call and tuck the phone back into my pocket.
“Problem?” my sister Zara asks from right beside me. She’s tending bar tonight.
“I hope not. You know our neighbor, Hamish?”
“He’s one of my best customers. The man likes lemon-poppy muffins.”
“He said he’s in the hospital, that’s all.”
My sister’s eyes widen. “Oh, shit.”
“He played it down, but he didn’t sound so good.” Also, an hour ago I saw an ambulance pass by when I was taking trash out to the dumpster. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence?
I keep this fear to myself. “Where the hell is Smitty?”
“Who cares?” Zara makes a face. “I don’t need his help.”
Uh-huh. Right. “So… Did I finish telling you about the new IPA from Hill Farmstead Brewery? Also—there’s a new ale. It’s made from malted barley. Unfiltered.”
“That’s cool, bro,” Zara says, sipping from a glass of club soda. “But I can read the board all by myself, like a big girl.” She jerks her thumb toward the beer menu on the chalkboard over her shoulder.
“But did you read it?”
Zara rolls her eyes. “Sweetie, I’ve spent far more time behind a bar than you have. I could run your bar with one hand tied behind my back.” She demonstrates by tucking one hand behind her body and grinning at me. “I could probably do it with two hands tied behind my back,
but pouring drinks with my boobs sounds clumsy. Good for tips, though.”
“You’re a pain in my ass.”
“Nah. The truth hurts, Alec.”
Okay, sure. I’m having a little trouble handing over the reins to my crazy little sister. The whole family is stunned that Zara grew up to be a competent adult and a great mom.
Not that I’m willing to say that out loud. I value my balls too much.
And I hate admitting that Zara is right. She might actually be a better bartender than I am. Worse—she might be a better businessperson than I am. Her coffee shop is doing great, while I’m still struggling.
Success has never come easily to me. I was the kid who struggled in school—the one who did the homework but still got Cs. “Not the sharpest blade on the tiller,” Uncle Otto used to say about me.
Nobody ever said that I was smart. They only said that I threw the best parties. That’s why owning my own business is such a gas. The Gin Mill is the first thing I ever did in my life that has a fighting chance.
Right after high school I tried the navy. But the Rossi family doesn’t fare all that well in the military. I lasted less than two years before they discharged me for medical reasons. A bone spur in my shoulder made me unfit for duty. And after I had the surgery to fix it, they’d already processed me out.
Following that, I went to work for a friend’s snowboarding tour company. It went bankrupt. Then I got a job as a manager at a ski area that—wait for it—went out of business.
I’ve always lived cheaply, though. So I’d saved up some cash by the time this old mill went to auction. The price was low because it stood vacant for years after Hurricane Irene flooded the ground floor. I rebuilt parts of the interior with my own two hands. And when I needed capital, I sold an upstairs apartment to my brother Benito.
Benito is the one I originally asked to work tonight, because his commute is just a flight of stairs. But Ben said he’d rather hang out with my niece than pour drinks. So now Zara is tending bar for the first time since I bought the place.
“I want a bonus for doing this favor,” she says, pointing at the beer taps. “How about a four-pack of Heady Topper? For Dave’s visit next week.”
My impulse is to say no, just out of stubbornness. “Fine.” I sigh. “Just don’t get caught carrying it out.” The law does not allow me to sell beer for takeout.
“You take me for an amateur?” Zara scoffs. “What did we just discuss?” She turns to me and begins to shadow box.
“Easy, killer.” I grab Zara’s fists and kiss her forehead. “You’ll get your bribe. Although it’s not easy keeping that particular beer in stock.”
“Stop.” She gives me a little shove. “I don’t want to hear about your whoring ways.”
We both laugh, because all good jokes are based in the truth. The reason my bar never runs out of the sought-after craft brews is because the daughter of the beer distributor thinks I’m good in bed.
Although. We had a mix-up the night I had to help May move out of Daniela’s house. I went to dinner at the Shipleys and forgot all about poor Chelsea. One of these nights I’ll make it up to her.
Not tonight, though.
“Where are you going tonight, anyway?” Zara asks, adding a lime wedge to her beverage. “Hot date?”
“Nope. I’m actually going to a law school function with May Shipley.”
Zara blinks. “Wait, really? You? Mr. Party Boy visits the legal scholars?”
“Hey,” I complain. “I clean up nice. Don’t you think?” I run my hands down my button-down shirt, which I’m wearing over black trousers. I’m presentable. Though Zara is right—I’m not known for being formal. Or serious. You can take the guy out of the bar, but you can’t take the bar out of the guy.
“You look fine. But you and May Shipley? What’s that about? You don’t like the Shipleys. At all.”
“May’s all right. I was checking up on her, and she had this thing she didn’t want to go to alone.”
“She’s having a hard time,” Zara says as she cuts up lemon wedges, which she does twice as fast as I do. “This breakup is crappy luck. And her best friend is getting married.” Zara shakes her head. “That girl can’t catch a break. Treat her nicely, okay? She’s fragile.”
“First of all, May isn’t as fragile as you think.”
Zara lifts an eyebrow. “You know this how?”
“Well… It’s just a feeling I get about her.” The way she fought back when her ex’s hookup was mean. That took guts. There’s just something steely about May that makes my heart go pitter-patter. “She seems solid,” I say carefully.
Zara’s eyes narrow. “You cannot bang her.”
That’s when Smitty decides to grace us with his presence, stepping out from the back room. “Who’s banging who?” he asks, tying on an apron.
“Alec is absolutely not getting May Shipley naked,” my sister says.
“Fuck that advice,” Smitty argues immediately. “May Shipley is hot. Also, it would piss her brother off. Alec still needs to get even with Griffin for fucking you.”
Oh, Jesus.
3…2…1…
Zara erupts. “Oh my God, you are a freaking Neanderthal.” She grabs another lemon and slaps it onto the cutting board. “Let’s have none of your caveman bullshit tonight on my shift.”
“Your shift?” Smitty says, his voice getting high. “Who works here five nights a week?”
“It’s both your shifts,” I say, feeling like a kindergarten teacher. “Back into your corners.”
I’d forgotten that Zara hates Smitty. She calls him “that cretin you hired.” If Smitty gets defensive tonight and acts like dick, she’ll never sub for me again.
I wait until Smitty goes into the supply room for a case of beer and then clear my throat. “Smitty gets a little cranky when you talk down to him.”
“You want me to pretend to look up to him?” She snorts.
“Just don’t pull rank. Even though we both know you’re the best bartender Vermont ever had, he doesn’t want to hear it. He’s fragile.”
She looks up at me with a smirk. “Well played.”
“Thank you. If you have any issues, text me.”
“There won’t be any need,” she says, and I don’t doubt it. My sister isn’t easily rattled. “Just focus on May, okay? Ask her for a game plan. A woman always has one.” Zara grabs the last lemon and braces it on the cutting board.
“Game plan?”
“If you’re supposed to be her date, there’s probably an image she’s trying to portray. Does she want you to be you, or does she want you to pretend to blend in with the lawyers, Cousin Vinnie?”
“Hey now. I’m cuter than Joe Pesci.”
She snickers. “Just be a good boy. Don’t try to get in May’s pants.”
“I won’t!” Jesus. My rep isn’t that bad.
Or maybe it is. But I don’t get to argue the point, because the front door opens up to reveal May. And then it’s an effort not to swallow my tongue. She’s wearing a sparkly top cut into a deep V in front, exposing a wedge of cleavage. Then there’s her short skirt and black over-the-knee boots. May is a tall girl, so there’s a few inches of creamy skin above the boots and below the skirt. It makes her legs look super long. Long enough to wrap around me while we’re—
Fucking.
Yikes. Nope.
I yank my eyes back up to her face and smile. “Hot damn, lady. That’ll drive your ex wild.”
May stops in front of me and raises her palms to cover her cleavage. “Do you think it’s too much?”
“He does not think it’s too much.” Zara snickers beside me.
“You shut up,” I say out of habit.
“Hi, Z,” May says. “You’re tending bar tonight?”
“Sure am! It’s nice to be out where grownups are. Usually I’m at home with the kidlet right now.” She wipes her hands on her apron. “Run along, children. Have fun making the lady lawyers jealous.”
“Oh, we
will!” I assure her. I grab my jacket off a hook and come around to greet May properly—with a chaste hug. “Let’s do this. Can we take my truck?”
“Sure,” May says, buttoning her coat. Pity. I’d been enjoying the view. “You’re such a good sport for going to this thing with me.”
“It’s not entirely selfless,” I say, walking her outside and opening the truck’s door for her. “You mentioned cheap wine and cubed cheese with crackers. That’s my weakness.”
“I’ll bet.” She snorts.
She’s onto me. I don’t give a fuck about this party. But my new weakness is May dressed in that short skirt. I asked to drive so that I wouldn’t stare at her the whole way there.
As I climb into the driver’s seat I can smell her perfume. And I notice she’s done something with her makeup that makes her eyes look enormous.
“How’s it going at home?” I ask as I reverse out of my spot. Eyes on the road, pal.
“Oh, fine, I guess. Except I’m back to square one, you know? Living in the parents’ house. Paying off my law school loans and watching sci-fi movies with my brothers. This was my life when I was sixteen.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I hang out in the same bar every night, and I’m thirty-two.”
“You get paid to do that.”
“It helps.” I drive only a hundred yards or so and then turn off the road. “This will only take a second. My neighbor asked me to feed his cat and lock up for him.”
“Need any help?” May asks, smiling at me.
Gawd, that smile. It’s just the right shape for kissing. But I won’t let it get to me. “You just sit there and look ravishing. Back in a jif.” I hop out of the truck and jog up to Hamish’s big double doors. I open one, and it lets out a loud creak. I love old buildings, and this one is pretty neat. The cavernous space is lit by antique soda lamps hanging from the ceiling. There are giant leaded glass windows and rough-hewn floorboards.
The place has serious atmosphere. And some day I’m going to own it. Hamish and I have a gentleman’s agreement that when he’s good and ready, I’m buying the property from him. Then I’ll own this whole stretch of riverbank, and nobody can wreck it and put in a strip mall or a self-storage place or some other eyesore.
Speakeasy Page 5