Chapter Eight
Autumn
I shut the car door and make the stupid mistake of turning and looking around. It’s been a week since I’ve been in town, and it’s been a week since I’ve been seen. Which means the whispers are back, the finger-pointing, the leers from some of the old people who have been around for a long time. Also, who have an allegiance to the Cartwright family. A week of feeling like I’m about to crawl out of my skin, also a week since I’ve come to realize how much I missed having my brother and father around me daily. Even though we used to FaceTime each other often enough, it’s never the same thing as seeing the person in real life. Being able to hug them or glare at them is so much better face-to-face.
I try to pretend that it doesn’t bother me, but every single time it eats at me. If it wasn’t for my father being sick and them needing help at the distillery and the bar, I would be gone so fast. Fuck, I wouldn’t even be here.
I pull open the back door to the office, my flannel shirt I tied around my waist flows side to side. I have on a pair of black jeans, which have been in my closet here for the last eight years, with a white sleeveless bodysuit. The sound of the heels of my boots echoes in the big room. I stop in my tracks and listen to hear if someone else is in, but the sound of emptiness greets me. Looking at my watch, I see it’s a little past nine in the morning. I walk past the column stills to the office, dumping my bag on the chair in front of the desk. The office is enclosed, but it has windows all around showing you the distillery room.
I pick up my phone and text my brother.
Me: Early bird catches the worm.
I put my phone on the desk before I walk out and make my way to the front of the building where the bar area is. Down the long wooden hallway, the walls are stacked with pictures of when the company started. A picture of my great-grandfather standing with two of his friends is fading as the years go by. I always laugh when I see the picture because they look like three mob bosses. Then the pictures go from black and white to color. One picture is one that we all have displayed in our homes. The picture of Mom and Dad when I was born. She had just left the hospital, and my father had to quickly come here. They took the picture as soon as they walked into the distillery. My mother smiles with me in her arms while Dad held Brady. I smile at the picture as I walk through the swinging door that leads to the bar area.
The wood floor has been worn over the years but is still shiny. I walk past the area in the back where I thought it would be great to host private parties and maybe even tasting events. Something I was going to work on before everything happened. Walking into the bar area, the ceiling opens up and I take a look around at how pretty this bar is. The exposed red brick around the bar pops out against the dark metal cladding surrounding it. It’s a rustic feel but almost modern at the same time. The big brown square bar area is in the middle of the space, with the square metal piece suspended over it with different glasses all hanging in their place ready to be used.
Old wooden barrels that have been used over time also help with the decor. Dark brown leather stools are all around the bar area, while little round tables scatter against the outer wall area. I walk over to the side where the kitchen is, which is never used, and start to make a pot of coffee. I look around the kitchen, wondering why we’ve never offered food in here. I know it was something else I wanted to do. I had all these plans, excited to put them on paper, and then the accident happened. Nothing else mattered after that. I was frozen in time, sometimes I think I’m still frozen there.
“There you are,”
I hear from behind me and look over to see my brother walking in wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt. “I’ll take a coffee.”
“Is that your way of saying, ‘Autumn, can you make me a cup of coffee, please?’”
I ask him and he just smirks.
“Almost,”
he says, “just missing a couple of words.”
“Yes,”
I reply, grabbing two white mugs. I put them down and fill them with the piping hot black coffee. “Especially the word please.”
I put the pot down, handing him his mug before taking mine and smelling it before taking a sip. “Is there anything better than coffee in the morning?”
“Yes.”
He grins. “There is something better in the morning.”
“Can you be more gross?”
I ask, leaning my hip against the counter and putting one foot on the other, my eyes wandering around the room. “Why don’t we use this kitchen?”
I ask, and he looks at me. “We could offer some pub food. You know, drinks and food so they stay later?”
“They have to come in the door first. We had three customers last night. I closed up at seven thirty.”
He takes another sip of his coffee. “And I’m sure that they came in looking to see if you were here.”
I close my eyes, trying to tell myself that eventually, it’ll go away, but knowing it will probably be like this for the rest of my life. I’m a pariah. I knew it would come to that when I spoke up. I just didn’t think it would last so long. I still would never go back and change my decision to do what I did.
“It’s a good thing we hit up that little B and B outside of town and left them the two-for-one specials,”
I remind him of the little flyer I created. Luckily, the owner had no idea who the hell I was, so she was glad to put them at the front desk.
“We are going to need a lot more than that.”
He turns and walks out of the kitchen.
“Well, we have to start somewhere,”
I tell him, stopping in front of the bar. “Maybe we offer happy hour from five to seven,”
I suggest to him things he probably did over the years, but they didn’t work, “but with a food special. Like two-for-one, but you have to order a burger.”
“Why would they come here to order a burger when they can go to the diner?”
“Can you get a pitcher of beer or try the new whiskey flavors at the diner?”
I counter.
“I guess,”
he concedes, “but that’s just throwing money away we don’t have.”
“I have money saved up,”
I inform him. “Six years of living in a studio apartment and paying nothing for rent will make a good cushion.”
“I’m not taking your money.”
He shakes his head. “And Dad sure as fuck is not going to take your money.”
“What choice do you have?”
My voice goes higher than I want it to be. “You are literally drowning right now.”
I shake my head. “And that is putting it mildly.”
“Autumn,”
he says my name softly, “if you put everything you have into this, then what? You could end up with nothing, and then what?”
“And then I deal,”
I tell him. “I go back to work and start over again. It won’t be the first time. And we can always sell my house.”
“Absolutely not.”
He slaps the bar with his hand. “No fucking way. That’s nonnegotiable.”
“We can take a mortgage on it.”
“And what if you can’t pay it?”
he asks me. “Then what, you lose Mom’s family home?”
“Well then, I guess we are going to have to go with plan A.”
I try to cover my smile with the mug.
“Which is?”
His eyebrows pinch together when he knows he just agreed to something without knowing he agreed to something.
“I’ll write you a check. A loan, and when we make it back.”
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “I want it back.”
“Fine.”
His words are laced with annoyance. “But”—he then smiles—“you get to tell Dad.”
“Or we don’t tell Dad.”
I start to walk away from him. “Then he is none the wiser.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s going to ask questions when we start serving food.”
He follows me to the back.
“Well, until then, we keep it to ourselves.”
I push open the swinging door and look over my shoulder at him. “Now, I have some other ideas I want to run by you.”
He immediately groans. “Aren’t you happy I’m back?”
I fake smile at him, walking into the office and sitting behind the desk.
“So happy,”
he says, sitting down. “Now, what else did you have in mind?”
he asks, and I lean back in my chair, giving him a grin. “Ugh, I hate that face.”
“Get ready to work.”
I wink at him and proceed to tell him about my ideas.
Ten hours later, I’m behind the bar while he’s on the floor. It’s Friday night, so a couple more people are in. I try to ignore the whispers coming from tables, which is why I’m behind the bar and not out on the floor. “Table four wants another round of Midsummer Night,”
he orders. “Good idea, offering samples.”
I walk over to grab the bottle, plucking the cork out, and pouring two fingers into the small glasses.
“See, my ideas are already working,”
I gloat to him as I place the glasses on his tray and look at a man come in the door. A man I’ve never seen before, wearing jeans and a button-down shirt with a sweater over it. His black hair is combed back as he walks straight to the bar and pulls out a stool. “Hi there.”
I smile at him. “Welcome, what can I get you?”
“What do you recommend?”
He folds both hands on top of the bar, tapping his finger.
“I can give you a little sampler you can choose from there,”
I tell him, and he nods.
“Sounds good,”
he says with a smile.
I turn away, walking to the side, taking five little shot glasses out and filling each with a little bit of whiskey before going over and placing them in front of him. “Let me know which one you would like.”
I walk back over to grab a rag and wipe down the bar for the millionth time. “I’ll take the second one.”
He holds up the glass and finishes it.
“Neat or on the rocks?”
I grab the glass in my hand.
“Neat,”
he replies, so I pour two fingers into the glass before walking over to him and placing a square white napkin down, then putting the glass on top of it.
“Let me know if you need anything else,”
I tell him, and I’m about to walk away.
“There is something you could help me with, actually.”
He picks up the glass, brings it to his mouth, and sips.
My back goes up, and my neck tingles at his voice, and I feel Brady at my back. “My name is Darren Trowel,”
he starts, and my body goes on high alert. I just don’t know why yet. “I’m a reporter for a New York magazine called The Future and the Past.”
I swallow down, but something is lodged in my throat. “We are doing a follow-up segment on the Cartwright accident.”
I put my hand on the bar. “I’d love to ask you some questions about it.”
“Not interested.”
I try to remain calm on the exterior, but inside, my whole body is shaking.
“It’s just a couple of questions.”
He takes another sip. “About the accident and what you have been doing since. How your life has changed.”
He places it back down in front of him.
“I said I’m not interested.”
I grab his glass from in front of him. “That one is on the house.”
“I don’t want to—” he says.
“You heard her,”
Brady declares from behind me. “You can show yourself out.”
The man looks over my shoulder and nods before reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a fifty-dollar bill, placing it on the bar. “Here is my number.”
He leaves a card on top of the money. “Call me if you change your mind. I’ll be in town for a few days.”
He turns and walks out of the door, and only when he’s out and I don’t see him do I let go of the breath I was holding on to.
“You okay?”
Brady asks. I shake my head and make the mistake of glancing around the bar at a couple of people looking over at us. Knowing that this little scene will be all over town by the time I walk into my house.
“I just need a minute,”
I tell him, turning and walking away from the bar and toward the back. My knees shake as I walk through the swinging door. Taking a couple of steps into the room and leaning against the wall, I let it take my weight. I let my eyes close and tip my head back, and I take a deep breath through my nose and out through my mouth. Putting my hands on my knees, I try to steady my breathing.
The door swings open and then closed, and I know Brady has followed me in. “Why don’t you go?”
he suggests, coming to squat in front of me. “It’s not like it’s crazy busy.”
“I’ll be okay in a minute,”
I tell him, and he gets up and rubs my back.
“It’s been a long day, go home.”
His voice is soft. “You are doing too much too soon. You literally came back and didn’t even test the waters. You just jumped in with both feet.”
“So dramatic and bossy.”
I try to make light of the situation, but the last thing I want is to go back out there. “I’ll close up tomorrow,”
I tell him, and he just laughs.
“You’re on.”
He shakes his head, about to turn around. “I know this week has been rough, but”—he runs his hand through his dark hair—“it’s good to have you back.”
I listen to the settling of my heart, as the thumping in my ears eases. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this.”
I laugh nervously. “It’s good to be home.”
The tears well up in my eyes as I lift my hand and pinch my fingers together. “But only this much.”
We both have our laugh before I turn and walk to the office to grab my stuff, picking up a bottle of whiskey and tossing it in my black bag before walking out the back door.
I drive home with the windows down, the hot night feeling like the world is on hold. I don’t bother with the lights when I get home. I kick off my shoes before placing my bag on the floor next to them and grabbing the bottle of whiskey. Going straight to the counter, I put the whiskey on it before walking over to the cabinet on the side and grabbing a shot glass. I pour the whiskey to the rim before taking a shot, which leads to two, then slowly leads into three before I open my eyes. My breathing becomes easier, and the burning down my throat goes numb. My head hangs forward, and I hear the voice of the reporter fill my head, “follow-up segment.”
I shake my head, grab the bottle as my hand shakes, and take another shot. I untie the shirt from around my waist and toss it on the table before walking to my bedroom and grabbing a pair of shorts and a tank top.
The moonlight comes in from all the open shades as I grab the bottle and head out to the back to sit in the swing. Sitting in it, I listen to the deadness of the night. Some chirps are going on here and there as I stretch my feet on the bench and put my arm on the back of it, laying my head down on it. Taking a pull of the whiskey, I try to forget the day.
My eyes watch the fireflies in the distance as I put one foot on the wooden deck to push myself back and forth gently. Minutes turn into hours, and I take a pull from time to time. I look at the clearing as I see a figure there, but I’m not sure if my eyes are playing tricks on me. I watch him move closer and closer to me, his white T-shirt sort of shining in the darkness, his jeans dark as the night. He looks down as he makes his way to me, and I take another shot of the whiskey to brace for whatever it is Charlie wants to throw my way. The last time I saw him at the cemetery I made sure that I avoided him like the plague. It wasn’t hard since I went to work and then home. I never ventured out anywhere, especially at the two places he told me never to go.
He must feel me looking at him because he glances up and his eyes see me, and I know because his body goes tight. I take a deep inhale as I turn on the swing and put the bottle of whiskey on the floor before getting up on my feet and walking over to where the three stairs are. My head spins just a bit. “Seriously?”
My mouth is talking before my brain can even realize it is. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Seriously,”
he replies when he’s standing at the bottom step, looking up at me. His hair is longer than I remember it ever being. “What the fuck are you still doing here?”
I swallow down the lump in my throat. “Fuck you, Charlie.”
Everything is building up inside me.
“No, fuck you!”
he roars, and I can smell the alcohol rolling off him. “You ruined my life.”
I shake my head. “Your life is ruined?”
I ask him and laugh bitterly. “Your life is fucking ruined? I lost everything that night. Everything,”
I hiss at him.
He takes a step up. “I lost my whole life that night.”
“Really?”
I ask, baiting him. In the past eight years, I’ve never, ever challenged Charlie, but tonight after a whole fucking week of feeling like a pariah, I’m done with it. “You look to be doing just fine.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You have a thriving business. You have no one trying to run you out of town, and if talk is still right, you have your choice of girls lining up to pick up those pieces.”
I shake my head, knowing I’m probably hitting him below the belt. “You lost Jennifer that night. You weren’t the only one who lost her. But I lost more than just my best friend. I’m the one who lost it all.”
I point at my chest. “Me, not you.”
I exhale. “And trust me, every single time I turn a corner, someone is always there to let me know exactly what I did that night. I don’t need it coming to my fucking house.”
I turn on my feet and walk to the door, opening it, but it’s being slammed before I can step inside. His hand is over my head, stopping me from opening it. His chest is to my back as I close my eyes, telling myself he’s going to go away if I don’t move. But the anger in me makes me turn to look at him. “Go away.”
I push at his chest, and he moves back, but he’s a lot bigger than me. “Why can’t you just go away?”
I shout at him, going to push him again when he grabs both my wrists in his hands, pushing them into the door beside my head. My chest rises and falls as we stare at each other with hatred. “I hate you,”
I whisper. “I hate you.”
His head comes even closer to me. “Not as much as I hate you,”
he retorts, the both of us pant, and I don’t know who does it first. I don’t think either of us is ready for what is to come. I know I’m not.