Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty Six
Ben
I unlock the front door for the lunch rush, and the bell jingles as the door opens before I’ve even made it back to the bar.
That’s when it starts.
Two women push in with yoga leggings under jean jackets, sunglasses perched like crowns. They drop their voices at the host stand and glance toward me like I’m an exhibit. Charlotte is two paces ahead of me with menus; she flicks a look my way that says, ‘Heads up, it’s going to be a busy one’.
I give her a small nod. Wednesdays can be busy, but something about this one feels different.
The women take a high-top by the window, and one of them does an exaggerated casual lean to see across the glass toward Sweet Confessions. The other checks her phone and shows her friend something on the screen.
I know that posture too well: did you hear?
Gossip is the lifeblood and fuel of a town like this. I shouldn’t be surprised.
By 11:10 there’s a buzz in the room that isn’t coffee. Two contractors nurse pre-lunch beers at the far end and keep side-eyeing me.
Mark clocks in at 11:30, slides behind the bar with a clean apron and a smile I can tell is braced.
“You want me to run front?” he asks, low.
“I’ve got it,” I say, a little confused.
He starts wiping the already-clean bar and Charlotte walks out with a bin full of silverware to roll. She’s humming a little song, which makes me a bit suspicious.
She takes a seat at the bar and starts in on it before lifting her chin at me. “So, rumor mill is awake,” she says.
“Shocking.” My voice comes out flat. “I have an idea, but what’s the topic today?”
She purses her lips and tilts her head, sympathetic. Yup, I definitely know what it’s about.
“The economy of your love life, apparently,” she says. “Somebody saw you two through the bakery window last night.”
I feel the words in my gut. I knew they were coming. Obviously, people were going to find out, but I was really hoping it wouldn’t happen.
I picture us in that spill of warm pendant light, a cinnamon roll between us, heads bent over notepads.
Then the part where we weren’t bent over notepads.
“We were planning the film festival booth,” I say, because it’s also true.
“Interesting brainstorming technique,” she says dryly, but there’s no judgment in it. “Maybe I should try that next time I’m having writer’s block.”
“It’s no one’s business,” I say tightly.
“Come on, Ben. You know that doesn’t fly here.
” She sets the silverware down with a jangle.
“Look, I’m happy for you two. I’m also a bartender with ears.
Just letting you know that people are going to be in here with their whispers and looks all day.
Maybe all week. Until the next thing comes along.
Decide ahead of time how much you can tolerate. ”
I blow out a breath. “Thanks for the heads up.”
The lunch rush comes early, nosing in before noon like a tide. The room settles into its usual choreography—menus and water, orders and chatter, a little dance between kitchen and bar.
Twice, I catch a look that is both curious and pleased—locals who like a story with their sandwich.
More than once, I catch one that’s hungry for something messier.
An older woman with a bob leans across to her friend and says something with a look toward the bakery.
I don’t catch the words, but I don’t have to.
The soundtrack writes itself: Jason’s sister. Ben Hoffman. Did you know? I heard…
Mark’s lips flatten. He pulls two Hoffman Heritages and sets them on the pass with that satisfying thunk of glass on wood. “Heads up, boss,” he says without moving his mouth. “Table Twelve is trying to bait me.”
“What’d they say?”
“That they ‘heard the Heritage is sweeter this week.’” He rolls it off his tongue with just enough tilt that I hear what the guy meant. “I said the keg was fresh this morning. They said they’ll ‘see for themselves.’ And then Mr. Ballcap added, ‘wonder what else is fresh.’”
“Kick ‘em out,” I say.
“Just needed the okay from the boss,” he says.
“I don’t care about a little gossip,” I say. “But they say anything about Paige, they’re out. Got it?”
“My pleasure,” he says.
I want to laugh. I don’t. My hands are occupied with glassware because if I stop moving, I might start thinking, and if I start thinking, I’m going to crawl out of my own skin.
By noon, half my staff has found a reason to touch my shoulder in passing—here, present, we’ve got you. Which I’m grateful for. I just wish it didn’t have to be this way.
We make it through the hump, the big wave of sandwiches and sampler platters, the coffee refills, and the extra napkins. I start to believe the chaos in my head might tire itself out before I do. Then the group of three walks in, and something in me goes on alert before they even say a word.
They’re not tourists. Tourists wear the town like a souvenir—branded hats, the particular slow step of people with nowhere to be. These guys walk in like they own the place, which already puts my back up.
In their seventies, all of them, none of them regulars.
One wears a seed cap pulled low. One has a belt buckle that could be seen from space.
The third has a crisp, short-sleeve button-down tucked tightly into his jeans and the posture of someone looking for trouble.
I don’t clock any other signs of trouble—no slur to their walk, no volume too loud.
It’s a quieter kind of trouble, the kind people who want you to prove yourself bring in with them.
I hope to keep them far away from me.
I see the host gesture to the bar and have to bite back my sigh. Of course.
They take three stools with their bodies angled outward toward the room rather than the taps.
Their eyes go everywhere first—the chalkboard, the crowd, the window—before they land on me.
I know that look. It’s the look of people who think they’re better than you for whatever reason they can summon up on a given day.
I’ve seen that look before.
“What can I get you?” I ask.
“Three of the Hoffman,” says Seed Cap. He doesn’t use the second word. Something about the way he cuts it makes the hair on my arms stand up.
“Hoffman Heritage?” I confirm, because clarity is my friend.
“Sure,” he says, like he’s agreed to something beneath him.
I pour. The amber runs clean and bright, a glow that still hits me. The smell kicks up—caramel, a toasted edge, that whisper of spice when the yeast throws just right. I set the pints down in a neat line.
Belt Buckle takes a sip, sets the glass down, and looks at it like he’s never seen one before. “Huh,” he says.
“Problem?” I ask, still neutral.
He turns the glass by a quarter-inch, eyes on the logo. “Just familiar, that’s all.”
I wait. He doesn’t say more.
Belt Buckle lets the silence stretch like he wants the whole place to feel it. Then he lifts his chin at the chalkboard where I’ve lettered HOFFMAN HERITAGE in block caps like I always do.
“‘Heritage,’” he reads, mouth flattening around the word. “Big word.”
“Bigger than your manners,” Charlotte mutters under her breath as she passes. I make a small motion with my hand. I’m good. I’ve got it. Stay in your lane.
Short Sleeves is studying me the way a person studies a bug on the windowsill—curious, a little mean.
“Where’d you get it?” he asks.
“The beer?” I say.
“The name,” he says, and his mouth smiles while his eyes don’t. “The story. The… brand.” He makes a little swirl with his hand that lands somewhere between polite and obscene.
“It’s my grandfather’s,” I say, because it’s the simple truth I’ve always told. “William Hoffman. He brewed in Paducah a long time ago. A family thing.”
The man studies me for two slow beats. “Family,” he says softly. He takes a drink, swallows, sets the glass down with precise care, and then turns to Belt Buckle. “We’re going to need a fresh pull on these.”
“They’re fresh,” I say. “Keg went on at 10:00.”
“Then this one’s off,” Seed Cap says. “Too sweet. Watery.” He taps the side. “Maybe you’re cutting it.”
Mark laughs, a single clean note. “We don’t cut beer, partner. This isn’t Prohibition.”
Short Sleeves smiles without any humor. “We’ll try three more,” he says. “On the house. Since the first round’s not right.”
“Okay,” Mark says, voice still bright but with a new undertow. “That’s enough.”
I hold up a hand to him—let me. I look at the men.
“Mind telling me what’s wrong with it?” I say tightly.
“Tastes like a sham,” he says.
It’s not shouted. He doesn’t throw the beer. He doesn’t sneer or make a scene. But the words slice at me like a fingernail on the skin.
“Excuse me?” I say slowly.
“Not much heritage,” Seed Cap offers, voice lazy. “More like theft.”
It’s quiet in a way that’s not quiet at all. The room inhales. To my left, Mark’s shoulders go tight. To my right, a regular at Table Four sets her fork down so carefully it doesn’t make a sound.
My blood goes cold and hot in the same second. “You can leave,” I say, very calmly, because if I let anything else into my voice, I might not be able to pull it back out. “Now.”
Belt Buckle lifts his palms. “We’re customers here,” he says, all innocence.
“You’re not welcome here,” I say, braced for whatever they’re planning on throwing next.
Because they did plan this. From the moment they walked in.
Seed Cap smiles small and mean. “Touched a nerve, did we?”
“Door’s that way,” I say, nodding toward it. “Mark,” I call without looking away from them. “Would you open the door and show these confused gentlemen the way out?”
Mark is already moving. He’d have had it open if I hadn’t said a word.
Button-Down stands. He leaves his beer exactly half-full and aligns it with the coaster. “We remember things in this town,” he says conversationally. “Some of us were here back when men were honest.”
“I brew my own beer,” I say. “In a building you can see from this seat. If you’ve got an accusation, make it like a man. If you’ve got nothing but empty words, use them somewhere else.”