Neat

by Steiner, Kandi

  “Sorry I missed yesterday, I wasn’t feeling well,” I said, then I turned back to Dad. “Your office? Or do you want to do this here?”

  Dad gave an exaggerated sigh, taking his sweet time folding up the newspaper he was reading before he grabbed his coffee, kissed Mom on the forehead, and assured her and Malcolm that he would be back.

  Again, Malcolm didn’t seem to notice any of it.

  Dad followed me down the hall to the west wing of the house where his office was. As much as I hated the business done within those walls, I absolutely loved the office. Three of the four walls were covered with books — which was laughable, considering the only books my father had ever read were end-of-the-year reports on the distillery — and the last wall was a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the rolling hills of our property, the Smokies peeking out over the horizon far in the distance.

  He closed the door once we were inside, taking a seat behind his desk.

  I remained standing.

  “What is it that you’re being so dramatic about?”

  “Stop acting like you don’t know,” I said. “What the hell was all that about at the Christmas party? I’ve worked at the distillery for a month, Dad. I’m still in training. I’m not fit to take that job from Uncle Mac any more than you’re fit to be a good father.”

  “Watch your tone, young lady.”

  “That position was Logan’s,” I said, pressing my index finger on the top of his desk like I was pointing at indisputable proof. “And you know it.”

  Dad rolled his eyes. “Cut the theatrics. This was a business move. We can’t have a Becker running an entire department, let alone the most important local one, lucratively speaking.”

  “Why?” I asked, tossing my hands up in exhaustion before they fell back to my thighs with a whack. “What is your vendetta against that family? They lost their father in the one and only fire our distillery has ever had. We owe them. Besides, Papa loved their grandfather. They were partners.”

  “They were not partners,” Dad said, nose flaring and face reddening. “That was never officially written on any paperwork.”

  “It didn’t have to be written. They knew it because they were friends — you all were. I remember Papa telling fond stories of Logan’s dad, John. How much he saw him as a son. And I also remember seeing pictures of you and their mom, Laurelei, when you were high schoolers. You two seemed like friends then. What happened?”

  Dad slammed his fist on the desk, his face so red I thought he’d burst a blood vessel if he didn’t calm down. “That’s enough. What decisions I make for my business are just that — my business. I don’t owe my daughter an explanation.”

  “You do when it concerns me!” I argued. “When it’s my life, my job, my friends—”

  “Logan Becker is not your friend.”

  “You’re right. He’s more.” I stood tall, swallowing down whatever hesitance I’d had before that moment. “I love him, Dad. And I don’t care if that’s not permitted in your mind. And I also don’t care what you had in plan for me at that distillery, because I’m done. I’m quitting. And you’re going to give that position to Logan.”

  Dad watched me for a long, slow moment, blinking several times before he let out a bark of a laugh. Then, he gave in to a whole fit of laughter, swiping at tears coming from his eyes before he spoke again. “Oh, child. Your spunk is so adorable.”

  “You will give that position to Logan,” I said again, not backing down. “Because he deserves it. Because he’s the right one for the job. Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  “I will not.”

  “You will,” I said again, folding my arms. “Or I will go see your favorite journalist at the Stratford Gazette and tell her everything about that night when I was fourteen, when our police chief sexually harassed me and my father did nothing about it.”

  All the color drained from my father’s face.

  Miranda Hollis loved to publish scathing articles about my father and the distillery. It seemed her mission was to get Scooter Whiskey out of Stratford, to disconnect the town from what she thought was a garbage business. Since her father was involved in politics, Dad had never been able to silence her.

  Much to his dismay.

  And he knew as well as I did that if she got this story, there would be a shit storm for him, for our family, for the police chief and the entire town.

  He placed his palms flat on the desk, stood very, very slowly, and waited until he was towering over me to look me dead in the eye. “You will do no such thing, young lady. Now, I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you, but if you remember right, it’s me who pays the bills on that little studio you love so much. It’s me who bought that apartment above it where you sleep every night. And it’s me who can take all of that away,” he said, snapping to illustrate the point. “Just like that.”

  “Fine,” I said, shrugging. “Do it. Take the studio, take the apartment. I have my car, and my dignity, and that’s fine by me.”

  Dad laughed, shaking his head like I was delusional. “You’ve lost your mind, little girl. You’ll be excommunicated from this family, from our money, from everything — and that shop is gone. That’s not a threat. That’s a promise.”

  I shrugged, though my heart squeezed painfully in my chest. I knew this was how he would react, and I knew when I walked out of my studio this morning that the dream I’d built inside it would be gone.

  It was a sacrifice worth making, because this was the right thing to do.

  “That’s fine, if that’s your choice,” I said calmly. “But this is mine.”

  Dad shook his head, face screwed up in confusion like I was certifiably insane. And maybe I was. All I knew was I could never live with myself, playing a part in his game just to have a studio that I could maybe have on my own someday. It would take longer. I’d need a loan, and a business plan, maybe some investors. It wouldn’t be easy.

  But nothing in my life had been.

  I knew one thing for sure — I never wanted to be in debt to my father, and I never wanted to be a part of any plan that hurt the man I loved.

  “I know you don’t want another scandal rocking this family, and I definitely know that with everything in the news right now, with the way companies and celebrities are getting shut down by women coming forward with their stories, this is the kind of scandal you never want to leak. So, if you want me to keep my mouth shut, I will. But you have to do this for me.”

  Dad’s jaw clenched, face red. I gave him one last pointed look before I turned and crossed the office, opening the door that led to the hallway.

  “Make it right, Dad,” I said. “You have until New Year’s.”

  Then, I slammed the door on the devil, and vowed to never make a deal with him again.

  Logan

  A week off from work was too long when you were miserable.

  Having Christmas off was a blessing. The distillery was the absolute last place I wanted to be after the party on Christmas Eve, and spending time with my family was exactly what I needed. But that night, when I’d gone home, I’d realized it was going to be a long, lonely week.

  I was so used to filling all my time with Mallory, I didn’t know what to do with myself. My usual routine felt stale and suffocating now, like I was wasting time instead of making the most of it. I longed to reach out to her, to talk to her, to hold her — even with the sting of the burn she’d left fresh on my skin.

  My brothers said leave her be, let her go.

  My heart said go to her, hold on.

  I sat in that tornado of thoughts all week, trying anything I could to keep my mind off things and failing. Working out didn’t help. Reading didn’t help. Cleaning didn’t help. Not even an all-day marathon of murder documentaries on Friday helped. The closest I’d come to feeling okay was Saturday night at The Black Hole with my brothers. Noah was back in town, and we’d taken him out to get his mind off leaving Ruby Grace. It’d been a night of Becker debauchery, and
then we’d ordered pizza at one in the morning and sat up all night trying to crack the password on Dad’s hard drive.

  It felt like old times, like when we were kids staying up too late during winter break, dreading the time when we’d go back to school.

  And that’s what it felt like, dragging myself back through the distillery doors on Monday morning — New Year’s Eve. As much as I couldn’t wait to get back to work, to have something to keep my mind off everything, it was a catch twenty-two.

  Because everything I wanted to forget about was inside those walls.

  The sympathetic looks started in the lobby, with Lucy, and they followed me all the way back to my office. A few people stopped me on the way, shaking my hand and holding my shoulder in sincerity when they said they were sorry, that it was all bullshit, that they were on my side.

  Like it mattered.

  My stomach churned, even after I was in the solace of my office, because I knew at any moment, Mallory would be there, too. I didn’t know if she’d walk in and go straight into Mac’s office, start working on transitioning, or if she’d be doing tours with me — business as usual. I didn’t know if she’d try to apologize again, if I’d be able to listen.

  If I’d be able to stay away.

  Again, I found myself at war with what my brothers had said at Mom’s. They urged me to stay, to not give up on the career I’d built, the reputation I had, the legacy our father started that we were keeping alive.

  But now that I was in my office, in a place that used to bring me hope, and fuel, and drive — I only found hopelessness.

  I sighed, staring at my desk for far too long before I actually sat down at it. I pulled up my emails, whipped out my highlighters and schedule and clipboard, and tried to get into the groove just like I would have any other Monday morning. And twenty minutes in, I found myself slipping away, into work, out of my mind.

  Until there was a knock at my door.

  My stomach dropped, heart leaping into my throat as I stared at the door. I didn’t know who was on the other side of it, only that if it was the person I thought it was, I wasn’t ready.

  But I had no choice.

  “Come in,” I croaked out, keeping my eyes on my schedule and pretending it needed my full attention. I started highlighting things that didn’t need to be highlighted, just so I wouldn’t have to look up.

  “A word, Becker?”

  My head popped up at the sound of Mac’s voice, and now he was playing the same game I had been, looking at his clipboard like he was on a tight schedule and I was just a stop along the way.

  “Yes, sir. Of course. Do you want me in your office?”

  “No, this is fine,” he said, closing the door behind him. He sat his clipboard on my desk, taking the seat opposite me. For a long while, he just looked at me — as if he were truly seeing me for the first time since I’d worked there. Then, he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I want to apologize for what happened at the Christmas party. None of us were expecting that, least of all me, but when my brother makes up his mind… well…” He shrugged, folding his hands in his lap. “I guess I don’t need to tell you that there’s no arguing with him.”

  I didn’t answer. I had nothing to say.

  “Anyway, I came in here today to tell you that we spoke this weekend,” he said, shifting uncomfortably. Mac was one of those men who was easy to read. He always had been. I knew when he was lying, because he could never look you in the eye when he did, and he fidgeted uncontrollably. “I argued that Mallory wasn’t ready for a leadership position, and after much convincing, he agreed. So, we’re offering the management role to you.”

  My jaw dropped. “You’re… what?”

  “I don’t know why you’re surprised,” he said, cocking a brow. “I think everyone in this town knows the position is rightfully yours.”

  I swallowed. “But, they announced at the party that the position was Mallory’s.”

  “Are you deaf, son? Did you not just hear me?”

  “I did,” I assured him, shaking my head — because it didn’t make sense. Patrick Scooter didn’t go back on his decisions, especially once he’d announced them to the entire town. “I’m sorry, sir. I guess I’m just a little confused.”

  “Yes, well, that makes two of us,” he murmured, standing. Apparently, the conversation was done. “Anyway, we’ve got about a month before I’m trading in this name tag for a life of golfing and fishing. So, we have work to do. Have Joseph take your tours today. I want you to figure out a transition plan, and then set up time for us to train.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He nodded, but before he could make his way out the door, I called after him.

  “Mac?”

  “Hmm?”

  I swallowed. “What does this mean for Mallory? I mean… is she… is she taking my spot, or?”

  Mac shrugged. “Apparently, she’s not working here at all anymore. Once she found out we were giving you the position, Patrick said she quit. And is selling her studio, too, I guess. Said she’s done with this town, that she’s leaving and never coming back.” He shook his head. “I’ll never understand that niece of mine. Go through all that trouble to buy and build a studio, have a grand opening, just to shut it down a week later?” He scoffed. “This is why women shouldn’t run businesses. Too emotional, you know?”

  I kept my mouth shut, offering him an awkward smile and a nod before he let himself out of my office. When I was alone again, I blew out a breath, mind racing as I tried to piece it all together.

  Patrick Scooter would never go back on a decision he’d made. Never. Not without there being a very good reason.

  And Mallory wouldn’t give up her studio — not after all she’d done to bring that dream to life.

  Something was off. Something was wrong.

  I put an out of office email up before I stood, swiping my jacket off the back of my chair and practically running back out to my truck. Mac wouldn’t miss me for a day, not if this really was the new direction we were going. Hell, I could make a transition and training plan in an hour.

  And I needed to find out what the hell was going on.

  I needed to find her.

  If what Mac said was true, and the studio was being sold, I didn’t have a clue where to find her. That was her place — her home, her getaway, her sanctuary. I didn’t know where to even start, aside from hunting down her best friend, Chris. Maybe he’d tell me where she was.

  Then again, maybe he’d spit in my face. After the way I’d talked to Mallory, I deserved it.

  My stomach twisted into a tight knot as I threw my truck in drive and peeled out of the parking lot, wondering what had happened, what Mallory’s father had done.

  Suddenly, the only thing that mattered was making sure she was safe.

  And finding her before she left Stratford — and me — forever.

  Mallory

  Crying was disgusting.

  I remembered now why I had avoided it at all costs during my adult life. I was snotting all over myself, my eyes were red and puffy, lashes wet and clouding my vision as I added in the final details to the painting I’d been working on all day. I kept wiping my nose on the back of my wrist because I was too engrossed in what I was creating to get up and get a tissue, and besides, what did it matter? I was alone in the half-empty studio that would soon be completely bare again, just like I’d found it, and then auctioned off to the highest bidder.

  I knew I looked like a complete wreck in my baggy black sweatpants and oversized Nine Inch Nails t-shirt, my hair piled on top of my head, and now, an ugly cry face, too. At least I hadn’t bothered to put on makeup, so there was no scary mascara streaking down my face.

  Again, not that it mattered, since I was very, very alone.

  It was, perhaps, the loneliest I’d felt in my entire life, sitting in that studio with my hands creating art in an attempt to remind myself there was something worth breathing for. And as another wave of tears hit me, my face tw
isting with the gut-wrenching arrival of them, I tried to pinpoint what had set them into motion — but I couldn’t.

  It had all hit me at once.

  I’d been holed up in my room upstairs all morning, not packing — though I should have been, and reading the end of All the Light We Cannot See, instead. Maybe it was because I wanted to escape my new reality. Or maybe it was because I wanted to feel some sort of tie to Logan again — no matter how small.

  Regardless, when I finished, I closed the book, stared at the wall, blinked several times, and then, I sobbed.

  I cried for Maurie-Laure, for Verner, for the horrors and tragedies of war and for the beautiful victories of life lived after. I cried for the man who had given me that book, who I wished I could call and talk to about it, who I wished I could laugh and play with like I had just weeks before. I cried for my art studio, for the dream I’d barely seen brought to life before I’d forfeited it. And I cried for my family — or rather, my lack thereof — for the little girl who had her innocence stolen and for the woman who realized maybe no family was better than the family she had.

  Not that I had a choice. My father had made that for me.

  Just like he threatened, I was excommunicated from the family. He didn’t even let me talk to my mom or my brother again, and explained to me that they were already told what I’d done, and that they had no interest in speaking with me, anyway. I figured it was true for my brother, who believed whatever Dad said, but I couldn’t stomach that Mom felt the same. And I knew even if she didn’t, she was too scared of my father to come find me, to try to make it right.

  And so, I was alone.

  I had roughly a week left to get out of the studio before Dad would have me formally evicted. Chris had offered his couch for as long as I needed, but past that, I didn’t have a plan.

  I didn’t have anything.

  Something inside me surged, like a warm, bright burst of morning light, because that wasn’t true. I did have something — my pride. My dignity. My moral compass, pointing due north.