Woulds

by J. L. Wilson

  “Maybe not, but I’d like to save one now and again,” I said to the empty room. I moved from behind the bar and surveyed the Acorn. The front windows faced north so the sun was muted, casting a glow over the front tables. The east side shared a wall with the Parlor and the west side faced into the brewery with mirrors behind liquor bottles on the wall between the windows. The south side of the room faced the parking lot, so there were no windows there. I designed the space to be a refuge from the world, not a reflection of it, so there were no televisions and no music. Forty, maybe fifty people could squeeze into the room, and frequently did. It was small, cozy, and exactly what I wanted when I thought of a pub.

  The back door opened and voices called out, one female and one male, telling me the afternoon shift was starting. I went to the front door and flipped the light to illuminate the front Open sign.

  It was time to go to work.

  ****

  By four o’clock the pub was three-fourths full. Alan stopped in, letting me know the Parlor was fully booked for the evening. “It really paid to put an ad in the newspapers. I had the waitresses do an informal poll. Almost a third of the tables in the Parlor for lunch were from out-of-towners and half of the dinner reservations are, too.”

  I took a sip of water from the thermos bottle I kept under the bar. “All those city folks must be bored with the fine restaurants they have in their towns.”

  “Good prices, excellent food, nice atmosphere. It’s worth a drive.” He leaned closer. “Owen and I were going to get together tonight, but something came up and he can’t make it. Let me know if you want me to take over for you later.”

  I nodded my understanding and turned to help a customer while Alan returned to his duties in the kitchen. Alan and Sheriff Owen Knott’s discrete affair was going on now for almost five years. I think they were happy with their easy-going relationship and neither was anxious to formalize it or advertise it.

  I walked carefully on the two-foot wide platform behind the bar which allowed me to reach the beer pulls and the counter. There are disadvantages to being only five feet tall, but there are always ways to cope, too. I made sure my Pullers Platform was installed when we built the bar so I could work the counter, a job I loved.

  After Alan left, I scooped up empty glasses from bar patrons and filled orders from the two barmaids. I turned to set drinks on their trays when the front door opened. When I saw who entered, I almost dropped the glass of Deacon’s Downfall, our house lager. Isabel Fitz stood in the doorway, sweeping the crowded room with an imperious gaze.

  PJ Fitz’s wife was tall and slender with shoulder-length dark brown hair hanging in an unbroken line to frame her face. Isabel was in her mid-forties but appeared at least a decade younger, unlike her husband who looked every year, if not more, of his fifty-five on God’s earth.

  Like Marianne, Isabel was beautiful, but unlike Marianne’s ethereal prettiness, Isabel projected a svelte, smoldering sexuality. It wasn’t garish or blatant but it was there nonetheless. I seldom interacted with her because Isabel was on the Haute social ladder while I was on the unHaute one but I golfed with her a few times and played bridge with her now and again. She was a merciless adversary and a generous playing partner.

  Isabel caught sight of me and headed for the seat at the end of the bar. Her navy skirt, blue-and-white striped silk blouse under the matching navy jacket and her navy pumps made her perfect for an advertisement for Bobby Brooks. She laid her navy blue leather handbag on the oak counter and slid onto the seat. “I see the rumors are true. That’s a terrible black eye.”

  “It looks worse than it is. How can I help you?” I set a bar coaster in front of her, one decorated with the logo of our Friar’s Folly Imperial Stout, featuring a fat and jolly Friar Tuck, laughing.

  “Have you seen my husband yet?”

  Hmm. Yet? “Nope.” I busied myself with the bar pulls. “He doesn’t come in every night.” Not a lie, I reasoned. PJ comes in often in the afternoon, too.

  “Very discreet of you.” She rested her hands in her lap and regarded me with a calm, somewhat exasperated expression. “Will you tell him to meet me at the country club? We were scheduled to go there for dinner tonight.”

  “I don’t take messages.” I held up my hands when she opened her mouth to speak. “It’s a house rule. We don’t act as a messenger service. If you need to contact him, call his cell phone.”

  “That won’t get his attention.” Her dark brown eyes held mine in a steady gaze. “I know he comes here to meet his girlfriend. It’s irrelevant to me. We have an obligation to be at the dinner and it’s important he attend.” She stated this with no hint of anger, self-pity, or reproach, but as a statement of fact.

  I grudgingly admired her calmness in the face of her husband’s blatant infidelity. My mother used to say Cream rises to the top, but so does the scum, and that was certainly the case with Isabel Fitz and her no-good husband. I nudged a clean napkin toward her. “You can leave him a note and if I see him, I’ll make sure he gets it.”

  Isabel tilted her head to one side. “Thank you.” She spoke while she jotted words on the paper. “We’re scheduled to go to the Sherwood Faire to benefit the Food Bank. PJ is supposed to hand out the prizes for the raffle after dinner.”

  “What prizes?” I drew a draft of Vicar’s Vengeance, our house pilsner, and set it on the bar maid’s tray.

  “Archery lessons, a gift certificate to the Forest Spa, and the dinner coupon you provided.” Isabel finished writing and folded the napkin in half, creasing it with one pink-painted fingernail. She glanced around the room. “This is very nice. You did a good job on the restoration and decorating. Very tasteful.” She touched the napkin, edging it in my direction.

  “Thanks.” I put the napkin on the back bar, propped next to the bottle of Maker’s Mark, which was PJ’s drink of choice most nights.

  She watched my actions. “Can I ask you something?”

  “You can ask. I may not answer.” I leaned over to clean a glass before running it through the hot sanitizing water. I’d done this for so many years I barely felt the heat any more.

  “Is Tucker your real name?”

  I set the glass on the drying rack. “Yep. My momma thought it would give me an edge in a man’s world.”

  Isabel’s nodded thoughtfully. “Did it work? Did it give you an edge?”

  I drew a glass of The Archbishop’s Ardor, our India Pale Ale, and held it up, the golden liquid molten in the light. “You tell me. I own a bar and a restaurant. Well, I partly own them. Miller owns half of the Pub and Alan owns half of the Parlor. I worked hard all my life to save up the money and when the chance came, I didn’t look back.”

  “Good for you. You found your path and you took it.” She examined the coaster and the laughing Friar Tuck. “Why did you name your beers after religious figures?”

  I grinned. “It was Miller’s idea. You see, I love a dark beer. So we thought we’d use a play on my name. Our stout became Friar’s Folly. Tucker Frye, you see. From there, we brainstormed some other ideas and before you knew it, we had names.”

  Isabel touched the coaster with a pale pink fingernail. “I always wanted . . .” She shook her head and frowned.

  “Wanted what?” I asked.

  Isabel glanced to her left, but the nearest customer wasn’t interested in our conversation. “I always wanted to be a chef,” she confided. “In fact, I took classes in France. But my father fell on hard times, and we didn’t have any money, and PJ came along.” She shrugged, her beautiful linen jacket sliding over her silk blouse with a whisper. “And here I am.”

  I glimpsed the glitter of tears in her eyes but a moment later, she slid off the bar chair, her poise in place once again. “If I see PJ, I’ll give him the note,” I promised.

  Her eyes went to the bottle of Maker’s Mark. “Thank you, Tucker. I appreciate it. It was good talking with you. You’ve given me some things to think about.”

  I started to reply but
the bar phone rang, the long jangle easily heard over the low buzz of conversation. I picked up the receiver while Isabel left, brushing past some newly entered customers. “Oak’s Acorn, Tucker talking.”

  “Aunt Tuck, it’s me, it’s Will.”

  I turned my back on the bar and hunkered over the phone. “I can barely hear you.”

  He spoke in a whispered rush, his words tumbling together. “I’m being followed, chased. Be careful, Aunt Tuck. They might know I gave you something. I’m sure they’re after me. Somebody called me and threatened me.”

  “Where are you?” He sounded frightened out of his wits. I checked the window. It was still light outside, but clouds were rolling in again, piling up above the trees. “What do you mean, someone called you?”

  “I’m at the factory. Something’s wrong. Make sure you take care of the information I gave you. If you have to, get it to—”

  The line went dead.

  Chapter 4

  I set the phone back in its cradle then went to my purse stored under the bar. A call to Will on my cell phone just bounced immediately to voice mail. I wiggled my fingers into the snug little inner purse pocket and checked. Yep, the USB stick was still in there. I debated calling the police but immediately nixed the idea. If Will was at the factory after hours, it was probably best the police not know about it. I jammed my purse back into the drawer and returned to work, not sure what else to do.

  About an hour later, John Smalley came into the bar. “You’ve got a good crowd in the restaurant.” He glanced over his shoulder at the glass doors leading to the Parlor while he took a seat at the bar.

  “Alan said we had a full house reserved for tonight. What can I get you?” I set a coaster in front of him.

  John rested his tanned forearms on the dark oak counter. Like the rest of him, his arms were big, with dark wiry hair and clearly defined muscle showing under his rolled-up pale brown shirtsleeves. “A club soda. I really stopped in to see how you were doing. I felt bad leaving you last night. Did you go to the doctor?”

  I tossed some ice cubes into a glass and filled it with soda from the spigot then set it in front of him, nudging the dish of lemon and lime wedges his way. “I’m fine. A bit sore from the fall I took. You’ve got nothing to feel bad about. I’m glad you were there to break up the fight.”

  His coarse black hair, cropped short and curly, bounced gently when he shook his head. “You’d think Rob would know better. He and Guy have been fighting most of their lives. I wonder what set Rob off last night.”

  “Probably Marianne.” I glanced at him while I leaned over the sink to wash glasses. “Guy has the hots for her and I suppose Rob takes exception to it.”

  John gasped, choking on his drink. “You don’t pull any punches, do you?”

  “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see what’s going on. I have to admit, though, I’m surprised Guy isn’t making a play for a younger trophy woman. That seems more his style.”

  John’s dark eyes narrowed with laughter, giving him the appearance of a mischievous young boy. “I think it has more to do with Rob than it does with Marianne. Guy always resented Rob.”

  “Seriously?” I held up a finger when I was summoned from the far end of the bar. “Hold that thought. I’ll be back.” I took care of my other customers, returning in five minutes or so to resume our conversation. “So you think Guy is making a play for Marianne as payback at Rob?”

  John stirred his drink with the swizzle stick. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Rob was always popular in high school, more than Guy was. Guy’s family had money, but Rob was always the first one chosen for sports, the king of the prom, Homecoming king. You know how it goes.”

  I smiled wryly. “I spent most of my high school days pretending to be a Goth. We weren’t exactly part of the In Crowd.”

  John grinned, small white lines crinkling in the dark tan skin around his eyes. His neatly trimmed beard, like his hair, was liberally streaked with gray and it seemed to twinkle in the light coming in from the windows. “Yeah, I didn’t fit in, either. My parents were organic farmers.”

  “Really? So you were part of the Green Movement years ahead of your time?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Not really. It was before there were the new refined organic products. We used raw manure. I stunk all the time. I smelled like, well, you know, like manure. It got in our clothes and our hair. It followed me wherever I went. I was teased unmercifully.”

  The raw bitterness in his voice made me wince. “I can only imagine,” I murmured.

  He didn’t hear me. John was on a roll. “Marianne never made fun of me. You should have seen her in high school. You think she’s beautiful now, you should have seen her then. She had waist-long, gold-white hair, pale skin. You know how it was. Everybody thought they needed a tan. But not Marianne. She was pale as snow. Untouched and beautiful.”

  Pale like snow and cold like snow. I felt the little twist of jealousy I always felt around Marianne, so beautiful, so perfect.

  Unaware of my thoughts, John continued. “She never laughed at me. Marianne was the only one who didn’t.”

  “Well, I guess you showed them,” I said, trying to toss lightness into an otherwise bleak conversation. “You’re a success now and Rob is stuck managing an awful factory.” I scowled, remembering the images on the USB stick in my purse. “That place should be shut down.”

  “I won’t argue with your sentiment. I wish some animal rights activists could get in there and get pictures. What they do there is ethically wrong,” John said in a low voice, glancing to his left where another customer sat. “It should be morally wrong, too, but it isn’t.”

  I paused in the act of reaching for a beer glass. “What’s the difference?”

  “Ethics are a personal belief system. Morals are the belief system of a society.”

  “Really? I always thought it was the other way around.”

  John shook his head. “Nope. I have a minor in philosophy from the U. That’s one of the few things I’m sure of.”

  “You went to the University of Iowa?” I put the glass under the spout of Friar’s Folly and drew a glass of the dark stout.

  He grinned. “Moo U. Iowa State University. I have a B.S. degree in Agribusiness.”

  “And a minor in philosophy.” I shook my head. “A well-rounded farmer.”

  “I guess. I don’t know how Rob can work there. The right thing to do is to close the damn factory.”

  “I don’t know if it’s black and white,” I temporized, setting the glass on the serving tray and drawing another. “It affects so many jobs, not only here but in York. If it’s closed, the town will suffer.”

  “The town will evolve,” John said confidently. “It’s not right that a population should profit from the exploitation of a weaker species.”

  He was repeating the arguments I presented to Marianne and Rob earlier. Images from the memory stick drifted across my mind. I always prided myself on my eco-friendly lifestyle. I always bought organic (where possible), I recycled (when convenient), and I tried to reduce and reuse (when I could).

  But now I was confronted with a moral dilemma—and an ethical dilemma—which wasn’t convenient or timely. That awful factory did produce low cost food, but at what price? “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until someone checked how they run the factory. The egg recall threw the spotlight on the Yoke.”

  “And Richard will come to town and cover it all up.” John’s voice resumed its bitter quality. He tilted the glass up and drained the club soda, his throat surprisingly pale compared to the tan of his arms and bit of chest I saw at the top of his shirt. “It’s what he does so well.” He reached for his back pocket but I held up a hand.

  “It’s on the house, John.” I leaned forward, my elbows resting on the counter. John obligingly leaned forward, too. “Richard may find there’s evidence even he can’t cover up.”

  Our faces were so close I clearly saw his beard quiver when a muscle twitched in his
jaw. He nodded slowly, his eyes intent on mine. “Good to know. If I could help in any way, I’m be happy to do it.”

  I started to brush him off with an airy, thanks but no thanks. Then I remembered Will’s frightened voice on the phone earlier. “I may take you up on that, John.”

  He touched my work-chapped hand with his equally rough and chapped hand. “My home phone will bounce to my cell phone if I’m not there to answer.” He squeezed my hand gently when he straightened. “I mean it.”

  I nodded gratefully. “Thanks.” I didn’t know if I’d ever call on him, but it made me feel better knowing I could if needed. He headed toward the door, pausing to chat with a couple of customers on his way out. Well, it was nice to know I had reinforcements. Then I wondered where that idea came from. This wasn’t a war and I wasn’t on the defensive. Was I?

  There were no answer to my rhetorical question, so I turned my attention to waiting on customers. The Acorn wasn’t extremely busy, which was usual for an early summer evening. Many people preferred to be outside taking advantage of the good weather. Our real evening rush wouldn’t start until the sun went down, at eight or nine o’clock.

  I took a break at seven and tried calling Will again, but once again the line bounced immediately to voice mail. I called my home answering machine but there were no messages there. Where was he? What was happening? All I could do was hope he was okay. I went to the back of the pub and walked through the back restroom access hallway to the Parlor, which was full of patrons. It was just a few steps to the kitchen where I dined on a sandwich at a table in the corner while Alan and his assistant chefs bustled around me.

  I loved watching the kitchen staff at work. They were like a machine composed of human parts, one which danced and wove its way around an obstacle course of hot stoves, a pastry chef applying the finishing touches to a dessert plate, a salad maker who chopped and diced with elegant flourishes of a knife, a saucier who applied exactly the right amount of rich burgundy gravy to a steak.

  At the heart of the machine was Alan. He usually hummed and sometimes he sang while he cooked, his choice of music consistent with his mood of the moment. Alan had formal musical training and was in demand at weddings and funerals and other public events. His rendition of “Memories” from the musical Cats, could move a roomful of mourners to sighs and cathartic tears.