Chapter 10
Bernie had always known the time would come when she would have to hang up her bar rag, but now that it was almost here, she found it to be bittersweet. Change wasn’t easy for a middle-aged woman who had lived with a six-to-two routine for too many years to count.
Middle-aged, my hind end. Her sister’s annoying voice popped into her head. Accept that you are old as dirt and that it’s time to age gracefully.
“You can have that crap about aging,” Bernie growled. “When I die, I’m going to slide into heaven right after my last breath, and I’m going to have used up every moment of the life the good Lord gave me. I won’t have wasted a single moment of it.”
Vernie Sue would never set foot in a bar, so why was she sending her spirit to argue with Bernie that evening?
Sure, her sister had done her fair share of mental aggravation through the years.
But if Bernie wasn’t allowed at the family reunion, then Vernie Sue should keep her sanctified butt on the front pew in church and off a barstool in the Chicken Coop.
She set the box of records on a table and pulled up a chair to go through the selection for the next time the jukebox needed to be changed out.
The millennials and Gen-X folks didn’t give two whoops and a holler about old records, so through the years she had managed to get her hands on whole stacks of them from online dealers.
“The kids could possibly draw a few younger folks to the bar, and they won’t even know who Merle Haggard and Willie Nelson are,” she muttered and wiped a tear from her eye.
She had vowed that if the right buyer came along, she would not get emotional when she gave up her life as a bartender.
But the one lonely tear flowed down her cheek and dripped onto her T-shirt said that wasn’t going to happen.
She was quickly wiping it away with the back of her hand when the door between the bar and storage room opened.
Clara came in and picked up two bottles of whiskey from a nearby box. “We are low on Jim Beam and Jameson. Is that the records we are supposed to use next time we change out the jukebox? I would be glad to help you go through things on Sunday afternoon.”
“I’ll get it done,” Bernie told her.
“Do you have a turntable?” Clara asked.
“What?” Bernie frowned.
“A… What do you call them? One of those things that you…” Clara shooed away a fly that buzzed around the room.
“A record player or a stereo?” Bernie chuckled. “Answer is no. I haven’t had one of those in years.”
“Maybe you should get one and then take a few records with you so when you get lonesome for the bar, you could play them,” Clara suggested.
“Darlin’, I can play anything I want on my phone,” Bernie reminded her great-niece.
“Yes, you can,” Clara agreed.
See there, I’m not getting old, Bernie sent thoughts northwest toward her sister. Can you even use all the apps on a cell phone?
“Besides”—Bernie shrugged—“I’m not taking much of anything with me. Since the trailer is furnished, it will give me a brand-new start. I will want to take my box of pictures and personal things from my bedroom. But I’m not loading up my truck with stuff that will have to be stored.”
“What about all your costumes? Don’t you think the folks at the Paradise would love to see you all dressed up for holidays?” Clara asked.
“I will take some of them, but I promise to leave at least one for you to wear at each celebration,” Bernie said, “and you are right. Dressing up makes me happy, and I should share that with Mary Jane and her girls. Did I tell you that Joe Clay has my trailer all ready for me and Pepper to move into? And from what you have been saying with your actions as well as your words, you do not plan to go with me to the Paradise.”
Clara set the bottles on the worktable and hugged her.
“That’s right. I didn’t see a single bar in Spanish Fort, and you have helped me figure out that this kind of work is what makes me happy.
So, I’m staying right here, but are you sure about this?
Sometimes, you look so sad that I have my doubts that retirement is what you are really ready for.
You’ve still got a few weeks to change your mind, and Aunt Bernie, living and working with you has been awesome beyond what words could say. ”
“I’m not ready at all, but I’m positive that it’s time.
I didn’t realize how frazzled I was until you two kids came along to help me,” Bernie answered with a long sigh.
“I want to have some quality in my life between now and the time I drop dead. Plus, Endora needs me to pull her up out of the doldrums, and Mary Jane needs at least one member of her family to show her some love.”
“Luna needs you, too,” Clara said. “I believe that she’s got some secrets that she doesn’t want Endora to know about.”
“Yep.” Bernie nodded. “I got the same feeling.”
Clara picked up the bottles and headed across the room. “It’s the end of an era, but the beginning of a new one for both of us.”
“And Nash, too,” Bernie said. “Remember, tomorrow night is our cigar and whiskey therapy session.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m looking forward to it.” Clara nodded and left the storage room.
Bernie pushed back her chair, left the records on the table, and looked around the storage room.
“I’ll miss all of this, but that’s normal.
I made the decision to keep this bar even through the tough times, and the Universe sent me a loud omen when Clara and Nash both walked into my bar the same night.
If I ignore that, then I might never get another sign,” she said as she headed back to the apartment.
She walked down the hallway and into her bedroom, where she opened her closet door.
She had to drag a ladder-back chair across the room and climb up on it to reach the boot box marked “Pictures” in fading ink on the end.
“I bet you can’t hop right up on a chair without falling on your chunky butt,” she fussed at her sister who was almost three hundred miles away. “So, don’t be telling me that I’m old as dirt.”
She carried the box to the kitchen, set it on the table, and made a pot of coffee.
“There is a whole lifetime right there in a box that once only held a pair of cowboy boots,” she told Pepper.
“And we are going to look at them tonight. Then we’re going to put them in the take-with-me pile of stuff.
I’ll add to the pictures as life goes on, but for tonight, I will enjoy the past memories. ”
The dog stretched out on the floor under the table and went to sleep.
“Lot of help you are,” she said as she poured a cup of coffee, added a shot of Jameson, and then removed the lid from the box.
“I haven’t done looked through these in years.
The least you could do is keep your eyes open and listen to the stories I planned on telling you.
Right along with photos of my sister up until I won this bar, I have a picture of every one of my lovers, and some of those who wanted to be, but I just didn’t feel the attraction.
Then there’s all the school photos that Mary Jane sent me of her girls, and the good times when we had our holiday celebrations here at the Chicken Coop. ”
Long after midnight, she put the box away and headed back to the bar at closing time to check on Nash and Clara.
She hummed along with Alan Jackson’s “Livin’ on Love” as she crossed the storage room and peeked into the bar.
If there had been a few stragglers left behind, she planned to hang back until they were all gone.
But the place was empty except for Nash and Clara, each with a mug of beer, sitting close together at the bar.
The scenario looked so intimate and sweet that not even the angels could have pushed her into that room.
She eased the door shut and went back to the apartment.
***
Friday and Saturday nights were always busy times in a bar, but not that evening.
There were only a handful of customers coming and going from opening until closing.
Clara would much prefer being so hectic that she almost had to make an appointment to catch her breath.
Being slow meant she had more time to relive that kiss that she’d shared with Nash a few days before—and get all tingly just thinking about the effects it had on her hormones.
That kind of thing did not help her keep the vow she had made to not date a coworker, and especially a boss who held her future in his hands.
“Won’t be much in the way of cleanup tomorrow,” Nash said when he flickered the lights fifteen minutes before closing.
The last customer paid his bill and left without a fuss.
Clara locked the door behind him and crossed the room.
She hiked a hip on a stool. Nash drew up two mugs of beer and set them both in front of her.
He rounded the end of the bar and sat down beside her—so close that their shoulders were barely inches apart.
Sparks sizzled between them like miniature lightning streaks.
This had to be an omen that she should go with Bernie to Spanish Fort.
Her willpower had bottomed out just sitting beside Nash.
There was no way she could work with him every day and quite possibly live in the same apartment with him and win the war against the attraction.
The sounds of the Pistol Annies singing “I Feel a Sin Comin’ On” filled the room. Down deep in her soul, Clara could relate to the lyrics saying that she had a shiver down to the bone and a buzz in her brain.
“What’s so funny?” Nash asked.
“Just a few thoughts in my head that would make me blush if I talked about them,” she admitted.
He took several sips of his beer, slid off the barstool, and held out his hand. “May I have this dance, please, ma’am?”
Clara recognized the song as soon as the piano prelude started to “Rest Your Love on Me.” She put her hand in his and let him lead her to the middle of the small dance floor.
He sang along with Conway Twitty and began a slow country waltz.
She had always believed in everything happening for a reason.
With that in mind, was this song telling her to listen to the words that said for her to lay her troubles on his shoulder and put her worries in his pocket?
Could it possibly be that Nash was the one?
The song ended and she tried to take a step back, but he hugged her to his chest even tighter. “One more, please,” he whispered softly.
Again, she recognized the tinkling piano music when it introduced “A Picture of Me (Without You),” an old Lorrie Morgan song.
If it was true that things happened for a reason, then the lyrics had to be telling her that she would be as lost as heaven with no angels singing if she had decided to leave the bar and Nash behind.
If she did, she had no doubt that she would always have regrets at not giving the attraction between them a chance.
Fate had brought her to Ratliff City for a reason, and the Universe had answered the questions that plagued her through the songs on the jukebox. Nash stepped back, brought her hand to his lips, and kissed her knuckles. “Thank you for a perfect ending to this night.”
She raised her head and got lost in his eyes.
They were mossy green with gold flecks in them, and she sank into them.
His dark lashes fluttered, and she barely had time to moisten her lips before his mouth closed in on hers.
Just like the last time he kissed her, she could feel his heart pounding and keeping time with hers through her palms that were pressed against his chest. When the string of kisses ended, they were both panting like they had crossed the finish line in a marathon race.
“Anything that wonderful can’t be a mistake,” he said.
“But what if the heat plays out with time?” she countered and thought of what Bernie had said about the fire being gone between her and Hershal. “A flash in the pan is hotter’n blue blazes for a few minutes, but then it dies and leaves nothing but cold ashes in its wake.”
“Then”—he shrugged and slung an arm around her shoulders—“I guess we’ll have to keep that steam going by kissing even more. My grandma says that a gentleman walks his date to the door, and…”
“This wasn’t a date,” she argued.
“And,” he went on, “my grandpa says if you get a good-night kiss, it is a date. So, technically this is our second date.”
“What happens on the third one?”
“We will see if we want a fourth one,” he answered.
The voices in her head shouted for her to walk away, even if she had to go back to Fritch.
Her heart yelled much louder that she should ignore everything and take a chance on Nash.
She blocked the first one and listened to the second.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night at six then, but it’s not a date. It’s called showing up for work.”
“That depends on whether there’s a good-night kiss involved after our cigar and whiskey therapy.” He chuckled as he walked her through the storage room to the door leading into the apartment.
He brushed a soft kiss across her bee-stung lips and said, “Good night, beautiful. I’ll be dreaming of you.”
“Is that a pickup line?” she teased.
“Only if it works.” He flashed a bright smile, turned, and walked out of the room—whistling the tune to “Rest Your Love on Me.”