Chapter 3 Jack
“I ’M GLAD OUR BAND NEVER took off. I wouldn’t have been able to cope with the fame.”
I watch Tommy, patiently waiting for him to expand and give me some kind of idea what the hell he’s talking about. Not an unusual or infrequent reaction to my best friend. The explanation doesn’t come. He continues wiping down the beer taps with a cloth.
I rest my elbow on the bar, drop my chin into my hand. “What the fuck are you talking about? When were we in a band?”
“That summer Luke got the drum kit for his birthday. When we said we’d lie and say you were our brother so we could be the next Hanson.”
My brows pinch together. “Hanson?”
He throws the towel over his shoulder and leans against the bar, dragging his hand through his perfectly coiffed chestnut hair.
“Okay, it might have been the rock ’n’ roll version of the Jonas Brothers, I can’t remember.
We were going to practice every day in the barn.
But then… well, never mind, but my point is”—he looks down and fiddles with something behind the bar out of my view—“I’m glad we didn’t see it through.
I wouldn’t be good at being famous. Avoiding that news crew is giving me hives. ”
I have very vague memories of Tommy’s younger brother, Luke, getting a drum kit. I must have been thirteen, maybe? There are blurry images of me holding a guitar somewhere in the dark depths of my memory from twenty years ago.
I realize he’s avoiding looking at me, because he worked out before I did that he fucked up by bringing up that summer.
“I don’t think I’d be a good famous person either,” I say, moving past the awkwardness.
Even though we’re the same height at six foot four, there’s something that seems small about him when he puts his foot in it.
He lifts his head to look at me again, an unspoken apology in his dark blue eyes.
“I’d be one of those rock stars who punches a pap. ”
“I can see that happening,” he says.
The doors to the tavern open and we both quickly turn to look, breathing out a synchronized sigh of relief when it’s Melissa and Winnie and not the camera crew that’s been roaming Fraser Falls trying to talk to someone about the mess Flo caused over the weekend.
Melissa and Winnie run the florist, Wilde & Winslet, opposite my store.
Winnie grew up here in Fraser Falls. She’s younger than me and Tommy by a handful of years, but her father is the town pastor, which makes her the second most popular thing talked about every Sunday.
She met Mel at school and convinced her to move here and open a flower shop.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you two so happy to see us,” Winnie says as she heads to the armchairs by the fire at the back of the room.
A sweet floral smell follows her as she passes me and I notice a red rose tucked into the band securing her black box braids at the back of her head.
“Your sign is very direct. I don’t think you need to worry,” she calls over her shoulder.
The sign is the result of ten seconds, a piece of paper, and a Sharpie: “NO CAMERAS ALLOWED. REPORTERS WILL BE ASKED TO LEAVE IMMEDIATELY.” Despite being told not to, Flo posted a follow-up video this morning thanking people for their support and inviting them to visit us again.
It caught the attention of someone who, Winnie told me, was on Dancing with the Stars and their share made the original video take off again.
I love Flo like she’s my own grandmother, but she didn’t know what she was doing when she decided to air town business on the internet. She thought the public support would result in visitors and orders, but in reality the only visitors we’ve had so far are unwelcome.
The problem is, the Holly doll was originally my project.
Which means the website is now struggling with traffic, the customer service email is blowing up, and the new orders have all been dropped on me.
Flo didn’t even tell us she was posting a video, let alone multiple videos, which means I now have a ton of orders I don’t have inventory for because my na?ve and forgetful ass didn’t set the order cap when half of our existing orders got canceled a few weeks ago.
To put it lightly, Flo has caused a massive fucking headache, mostly for me.
But we love her, and she loves this place more than anyone I know, so we’re going to support her anyway, and grumble about it in private like adults.
Mel stands at the bar to my right and orders drinks from Tommy. “Still getting hounded?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes, drags her short brown curls away from her face with her hand. “Yes, all mostly time wasters. Three different influencers have messaged to ask if we want to do their wedding for free for the ‘exposure.’?” She emphasizes the word with finger quotation marks. “I’m tired.”
Tommy puts the two glasses of wine on the bar in front of Mel. “On me.”
“Thanks, Tommy,” she says sweetly, heading over to Winnie.
I watch him watch her walk away, a wistful look on his face that feels totally out of place. I finish my beer. “You’ve never given me a free drink. Why is that?”
“Because you’re an asshole. Next question.”
Before I can ask how long he plans to pine after Melissa before asking her out or what he thinks his odds of being shot down are, he’s saved by a customer at the bar ordering food. He disappears to tell the kitchen, putting an end to what could have been a fun night for me.
I slide off my stool and walk around the bar to the other side, immediately spotting a bag of chips that Tommy told me he was out of under the counter.
Serving myself isn’t something I’d usually do, but he gets into a long conversation about God knows what every time he goes to the kitchen, so who knows how long I’m going to be waiting for him to come back.
I grab a ginger ale from the fridge and a clean glass.
With my back turned to the rest of the room, I freeze when I hear the heavy wooden door open again.
Please don’t be a reporter. I turn reluctantly, and my eyes land on a woman standing near the entrance, taking off her gloves as her eyes drift across the room.
When they land on me, she smiles a full, beautiful smile. I almost look behind me. She walks toward the bar, unbuttoning the blue buttons of her coat as she does. With her free hand, she pulls her auburn hair from beneath the collar and shakes it until shiny waves cascade down her back.
She’s three steps away from a stool before I realize I’m standing in the middle of the bar area staring at her like I’ve never seen another human being before. The quick fire of embarrassment is enough to unstick my feet. I put my drink down in front of my seat as she reaches the edge of the bar.
“Hi,” she says, her voice soft. “Are you still serving food?”
I grab a menu from under the counter and hand it to her. “Yeah.”
What’s weirder—telling her I don’t work here or just walking back to my seat and saying nothing?
“Thanks,” she says, placing the menu down on the bar and climbing onto the stool next to mine.
“What can I get you to drink?” I ask. I don’t know why I ask. Tommy is going to kill me for asking.
Her eyes flit up from the menu, pale green and bright. “Can I get a—”
“What the hell are you doing? You know you’re not allowed back here!
” Tommy yells, nudging my shoulder to send me away.
He’s still shaking his head at me when I climb sheepishly back onto my stool feeling like a bad kid who got caught—a feeling I’ve grown to hate in the last fifteen years.
He turns his attention to the woman beside me. “Sorry about that. Are you a reporter?”
“Uh, no?”
“Definitely not undercover?” I frown at my best friend.
“Definitely,” she says slowly.
Tommy glares at me when I open the can of ginger ale and it cracks loudly. He turns his attention back to her. “Good. Sorry about that, can never be too careful. What can I get you?”
She orders a cheeseburger and fries with a lemon-lime soda.
Tommy makes her a drink and hands it to her before heading back to the kitchen.
She takes a sip and places it down gently on the coaster, twisting the glass so the bear emblem, the mascot of the local high school, is straight.
She turns slightly on the bar stool to look at me.
“So what’s the deal? Does everyone get to play bartender when the real one disappears?
” she asks, taking her coat off and letting it hang over the back of her seat.
She’s wearing a thick cream turtleneck sweater, dark blue jeans, and heeled boots.
When she moves her hair over her right shoulder, I get a glimpse of an expensive-looking watch and a cluster of diamond earrings.
I shrug. “Only if you have an unyielding passion for craft beer and don’t mind Mitch the Moose watching your every move.” She follows my eyes to the giant plastic moose head hung above the bar and pretends to consider the criteria.
“I guess I’m out. I’m not a beer fan, arts and crafts or otherwise.
” A sharp laugh bursts out of me. I study her more closely now, watching as she pulls a napkin from the holder and dabs her mouth gently where the ice from her drink has wet her top lip.
Each delicate movement has every ounce of my attention.
“But I’ve been stared at in bars by weirder things than a plastic moose. ”
Another laugh. Damn, what’s with me tonight?
Something about pillowy pink lips and high cheekbones on a beautiful woman makes me act up.
My cell phone buzzes on the bar. I reluctantly take my eyes off her and spot a text from Arthur reminding me I promised I’d help him fix his drainpipe tomorrow after his grandson smashed a hole in it with a hockey puck.
I lock my screen and focus back on her. “You just passing through?”
She lowers the napkin and starts folding it neatly. There’s no ring on her left hand. “Something like that. I’m on my way to Maine technically.”
“What’s in Maine?”
She tilts her head, a soft smile on her lips. “Lobster. Rain. People who mind their own business.”
I raise my hands in surrender. “Fair. You won’t find people who mind their business around here.”
It’s her turn to laugh. Tommy is going to be back any minute and will take over this conversation with something interesting and fun. He has that barman charm that makes him able to talk to anyone about anything that I’ve never managed to replicate.
I’m the practical one. The one you call when your internet isn’t working or, if you’re Flo, when you need hundreds of lights hanging a month early to impress a travel blogger. Sure, I rope Tommy into helping, but he’s the one you’d go to for a good time.
The tavern is quieter tonight, everyone staying home to prevent being accosted in the street by the rogue news crew I’d guess. Aside from the crackle of the fire, the only sounds in the tavern now are Winnie and Mel whispering in the corner and the gentle thud of people playing darts in the back.
“I’m Clara, by the way,” the woman beside me says, snapping me out of my daze.
“Jack.” She rotates her body so she’s fully facing me and rests her elbow on the bar. Her heels are hooked on the foot rail, her long, slim legs angled between my open ones. “Has your visit to Fraser Falls been enjoyable so far, Clara?”
“Let’s see, I’ve encountered someone impersonating a bartender, been accused of being an undercover journalist by the real bartender, and on my way here someone offered me her condolences for an unknown reason.”
“That tracks,” I say, gesturing to her outfit. “Usually anyone arriving in town dressed in anything above casual is here for a funeral.”
Her eyes widen like it suddenly makes sense. “You’re local then?”
“Born and raised. Never left. Although, I did go to sleepaway camp in Rhode Island one summer when I was ten. If that counts.”
She nods assuredly. “That definitely counts. It’s practically Euro summer.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “What brings you to Fraser Falls? On your route to Maine where people mind their business.”
“Heard good things about it. Rumor is there are really nice people here.” I nod knowingly. “I can’t say I disagree so far, and it’s just as pretty as it looks online. Prettier, in fact. I love the lights. You should keep them up all year.”
“You’re lucky. They’re not usually up this early, but don’t give Flo any ideas. They’re nice to look at but the wind tangles the stars and I’m the one who gets the call to fix it.”
Clara’s eyebrow creeps up. “Flo?”
How to describe her. “She runs a café and bakery over on Main. Technically owns the building. Spiritually owns the town. Think of her as the unofficial mayor, the town crier, and the neighborhood watch all rolled into one.”
“Oh my God,” Clara says, clapping her hands. “Florence! She’s the one who posted the doll videos, isn’t she? With the very serious background music and the finger pointing?”
I smother a groan. “Unfortunately, yes.”
She laughs. “No offense, but from the Fraser Falls social pages, this whole town seems… aggressively quaint for all the drama. Internet fame and reporters? That’s a lot.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” I don’t add anything more. The last thing I want to talk about is Dollgate and Flo’s recent internet fame. “There’s so many other things we could be talked about for. Better things.”
I think Clara senses my reluctance because she changes the subject. “Is the school mascot really a bear wearing overalls?”
Not one of the better things I was thinking of, but sure.
“Yup. Fraser Falls Bears. Our one and only victory was the ’98 regional football championship.
The town still celebrates it every year.
It was our moon landing, but we can’t call it that openly.
There’s a guy who thinks the moon landing was faked and it sets him off. ”
“Ohhh.” Her eyes widen. “One of those people who think it was all filmed on a soundstage?”
Also not one of the better things I was thinking of. “Kinda. He thinks the moon is a hologram.”
Clara twirls the ends of her hair around her finger as she nods slowly, absorbing. “I saw someone trying to catch a drone with a net earlier today. Like an actual net. Like he was a butterfly catcher. Same guy, by any chance?”
“Yeah! That’s him, Donald. Huge conspiracy theorist but excellent landscaper if you ever need your garden fixed up.
The drone’s lucky it got away. He’s wicked fast with that net.
Caught Tommy in it once.” I nod toward my best friend over by the fire.
“Accused Flo of being a CIA operative, too, and only narrowly escaped with his life.”
Clara chokes on her soda laughing. “This place is wild. Aggressively quaint, but also wild.”
Her food appears as I take the last sip of my drink. “You don’t know the half of it.”