Chapter 19 #2
“I don’t entirely know. We were supposed to meet the following Monday to begin the transfer paperwork.
He never showed.” Lionel shrugs, but there’s weight behind it.
“I called. Left messages. Eventually, the number was disconnected. I assumed he’d decided the property was too much trouble.
Too far from his life. Some people look at a fixer-upper and see possibilities. Others just see work.”
“But you said he seemed interested.”
“Very much so.” Lionel hesitates, then opens another drawer and rummages through it with less purpose than before.
“He left something behind, actually. Some notes about his finances and such. I hung on to it in case he came back to deal with his responsibility with the estate…” He trails off, still searching.
“It might be gone,” he admits. “Like I said, Baabara did a number on this place after Eugene’s funeral.
Ate client folders and soiled my carpet.
” Lionel sighs, closing the drawer. “I’m sorry, Eva.
It may be lost. But I can tell you what I observed, if that helps. ”
“Please.”
Lionel settles in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Your father struck me as a man at war with himself. He wanted Pierce Acres—I could see it in his face. But there was something holding him back. Fear, maybe. Or something heavier.”
“Fear of what?”
“Of failing, I’d guess. Of not being enough.
” Lionel meets my eyes. “He grew up without much family. I think Walter was the best of the bunch in that family, if I’m honest. Edgar had parents who weren’t present, no siblings to speak of.
He said he’d spent his whole life running from responsibility because he didn’t trust himself to handle it.
Said inheriting Pierce Acres felt like a test he was destined to fail. ”
The words land like stones in my chest. “He told you all that?”
“We had dinner at Lick Your Fork, wandered over to Tiddy’s. He’d had a few beers, and I think he was lonely. People tell me things.” Lionel smiles slightly. “Hazard of being the only lawyer in a small town. You become part confessor.”
I sit with the spreading sting of recognition that my father was here and then left because he didn’t have the support to stay. He had no one to hold him accountable.
“He ran,” I say quietly. “Instead of trying, he just… ran.”
“He did.” Lionel’s voice is gentle. “And he kept running, from what I understand. Year after year, I’d send notices about the property taxes and the maintenance issues. He’d pay just enough to keep the place from being seized, but he never came back. Never engaged.”
“Until he died.”
“Until he died and left it all to you.”
I think about the certified mail I ignored for months.
The way I’ve spent my adult life making myself useful to my sisters instead of building something of my own.
The comfortable smallness of being the baby, the helper, the one who supports everyone else’s dreams. I think about how easy it would have been to sell Pierce Acres to Ginny and go back to that life. To run like he did.
“Lionel,” I say slowly. “If you find that file—”
“I’ll bring it to you immediately.” He nods. “But Eva? I don’t think you need it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your father came here alone, and he stayed that way. Didn’t seek support.
Didn’t build community. He saw what Pierce Acres could be, but he couldn’t see himself as the person who could make it happen.
” Lionel leans forward. “You’re not alone.
” He slides a tissue box across the desk.
“Your father’s fear was understandable, but you don’t have to inherit it along with the property. You can choose differently.”
I take a tissue and press it to my eyes, breathing through the cramps in my chest. “I should go,” I say, standing. “I have work to do.”
Lionel smiles, the expression crinkling his whole face.
“That’s the spirit. Oh, and Eva?” I pause at the door.
“June used to make these maple chews. Soft candies…
extremely popular. I lost a crown trying to eat one back in ‘84.” He taps his jaw ruefully.
“Best sweets I ever tasted, though. If you get the syrup operation running, you might think about bringing those back.”
I file that away for future reference. “I’ll add it to the list.”
“You do that.” He waves me off.
I step out of Lionel’s office into the Fork Lick sunshine, and for the first time since Asher left, the tightness in my chest feels less like anxiety and more like anticipation.
My father ran.
I’m staying.
The next day, I drive back to Tiddy’s with renewed enthusiasm, fully prepared to eat crow. My father would have avoided this forever, let the embarrassment curdle into shame, the shame into distance, the distance into another place he couldn’t go back to.
I’m not doing that.
I push through the door.
The afternoon crowd is sparse; I recognize some of the same barflies from Sunday. Behind the bar, Mr. Tiddy wipes glasses with the same methodical energy as before. He looks up when I enter. His expression flickers with something I can’t quite read—surprise, maybe, or… guilt?
I approach the bar slowly, hands visible, like I’m trying not to spook a horse. “Mr. Tiddy. I know I’m probably the last person you want to see right now.”
“Now hold on—”
“Please, let me say this.” I take a breath. “I came to apologize. Properly. What I did was disrespectful. Not just to you, but to your grandmother’s memory, to this bar, to the whole town. I made assumptions instead of asking questions, and I’m sorry.”
Tiddy sets down his glass. His mustache twitches in a way I’m starting to recognize. “About that,” he says slowly. “There’s something I should probably—”
“I know I can’t undo it,” I barrel on, too nervous to let him finish. “And I know Alex probably told everyone by now, which means the whole town thinks I’m some clueless city girl who—”
“Eva.” Tiddy’s voice is firm enough to stop me. “Sit down.”
I sit. He pours me a whiskey without asking, slides it across the bar, and then does something I don’t expect.
He laughs.
Not a mean laugh. A rueful, sheepish, caught-with-his-hand-in-the-cookie-jar laugh. “I was messing with you.”
I blink. “What?”
“The whole thing. The outrage, the grandmother speech, the how dare you.” He shakes his head, mustache quivering. “I was hazing you. It’s what we do to people we like around here. Ask Bacon about the time we convinced him the town had a man tax.”
I stare at him, my brain struggling to recalibrate. “But you looked so… your face was so red…”
“I was trying not to laugh.” He has the decency to look embarrassed. “You should’ve seen your expression. Like you’d accidentally insulted the Pope.”
“I thought I’d ruined everything. I thought the whole town was going to hate me.”
“Honey, I’ve been making Tiddy jokes since I was knee-high to a grasshopper.
You think you’re the first person to notice my name sounds like…
” He waves a hand. “Please. I’ve heard every variation.
‘Nice to meet you. I’m an ass man myself.
’ ‘Is the bar named after the left one or the right one?’ Your slogan was actually pretty clever. ”
I’m oscillating between relief and indignation. “I cried in my car for twenty minutes.”
Tiddy winces. “Yeah, Alex told me you were upset. That’s when I realized maybe I’d taken it too far.” He tops off my whiskey even though I’ve barely touched it. “I’m sorry. Truly. I didn’t think you’d take it so hard. Most people figure out I’m pulling their leg after about thirty seconds.”
“I was too busy mentally planning my exile from Fork Lick.”
“Which is my fault. I should’ve broken character sooner.” He meets my eyes, and there’s genuine warmth there. “For what it’s worth, the fact that you came back to apologize—knowing you’d have to face me—that says something. Most people would’ve avoided me forever.”
I think about my father. About running. About choosing differently. “I’m trying not to be most people.”
Tiddy nods like he understands more than I’ve said. “So… this marketing plan of yours. You want to tell me about it for real this time? Without me acting like a jackass?”
I laugh—a real one that shakes loose any remaining doubt and tension. “You actually want to hear it?”
“I do. Asher wasn’t wrong; I could use help getting more people through the door, and you seem to know what you’re doing.”
I pull out my phone, then hesitate. “For the record, I’m retiring the slogan.”
“Don’t you dare. That’s going on a t-shirt.” His eyes twinkle. “Grandmother Rose would’ve loved it. She had a filthy sense of humor.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I am not. Woman could make a sailor blush.” He gestures at my phone. “Come on, then. Show me what you’ve got. And this time I promise not to pretend to be mortally offended.”
I take a breath and start again, differently this time. Instead of launching into my pitch, I ask questions first. “Tell me about the bar. What works, what doesn’t. What do you wish people knew about this place?”
Tiddy’s expression shifts, approval flickering across his weathered face.
For the next half hour, he talks and I listen.
He tells me about trivia nights that are popular but poorly promoted.
About a loyal customer base that’s aging out.
About wanting to attract the agritourism crowd without losing the locals who’ve been coming here for decades.
“The prizes for trivia are crap,” he admits.
“Used to do gift certificates, but it’s not worth the hassle of trying to make them.
Now it’s just bragging rights and a free beer. ”
“What if the prizes came from local businesses?” The idea forms as I speak. “Cross-promotion. Winners get a basket of Fork Lick goods—strawberry milk from Udderly Creamy, produce from Bedd Fellows, apples from…” I try to remember. “Whoever grows apples around here.”
“That’ll be Sam and Diane. Pink ladies that’ll change your life.”
“Right. And once Pierce Acres is operational, I could contribute. Maple syrup, or…” I think of Eden’s beeswax, the skills I could transplant here. “Maple-scented candles, maybe.”
Tiddy is nodding slowly. “A prize basket showcasing the local economy. That’s not terrible.”
“And for promotion, we don’t need to change who you are. We just need to help people find you.” I show him some mock-ups on my phone. Nothing with slogans—just clean photos of the bar’s character. “People are tired of chains. They want places with history.”
“Sixty-two years of history,” Tiddy says, a note of pride in his voice.
“Exactly. You don’t need to become something new.”
He’s quiet for a moment, studying the mockups. Then he looks at me with an expression I don’t dare to interpret. “You know, when Asher first mentioned you, I figured you’d take some pictures, post some hashtags, move on to the next shiny thing.”
“And now?”
“I think Fork Lick got lucky.” He gestures at the untouched whiskey on the bar. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Eva Storm. For real this time.”
I hold up the shot, feeling pride bloom in my chest. “So we have a deal?”
“We have a deal. But…” He holds up a finger. “The slogan stays. I want it on merch by summer.”
I laugh. “I think I can manage that.”
“Good.” He picks up his rag and starts wiping the bar again, but there’s a smile hiding in his mustache now. “Now get out of here. I’ve got a bar to run, and you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
I down the drink and slide off the barstool, much more confident than before.