Chapter 26
KENT
It was pretty obvious what I was dealing with. Old man Withers was shitfaced.
At first, I’d wondered if there might be some kind of dementia or cognitive issue at play.
The way he’d burst into the party and the aggressive confusion along with the general disorientation was slightly concerning.
But when I got closer and caught the heavy smell of liquor on his breath and saw the telltale haziness in his eyes, I knew the truth of it.
He was drunk. Very drunk. And from the looks of it, this wasn’t an isolated incident. Sylvie acted like this was a normal thing. How the hell did he manage to drive out here? He could barely walk, let alone operate a fucking car.
He was also clearly lonely, which made the whole situation even more depressing.
I stepped forward, keeping my voice calm and nonthreatening. “Mr. Withers, how about I pour you a drink to warm you up properly?”
Phineas blinked up at me, his anger seeming to deflate slightly as he processed my offer.
“Finally,” he said. “Someone with some manners.”
I guided him toward the bar area, one hand lightly on his elbow to keep him steady. I was worried he would fall over. That was not a lawsuit Sylvie needed. And we didn’t need Withers to start squawking again.
As we moved away from the center of the room, I caught the eye of several party guests and nodded toward the dance floor, silently encouraging them to continue with their evening.
The man didn’t need to be stared at. It would only piss him off more. Weirdly enough, I had plenty of experience dealing with drunk people. Rich people liked to drink—a lot. We all knew how to handle the situation with grace. Those of us that didn’t would end up in the tabloids.
The music resumed, and gradually people lost interest in the disruption, returning to their conversations and festivities. Everyone except Sylvie, who hovered nearby with worry written all over her face.
She grabbed my arm. “Kent, maybe we shouldn’t give him more alcohol. He’s clearly had enough already.”
I understood her concern, but I also recognized something in Phineas that she probably hadn’t encountered before.
I’d dealt with enough alcoholics in my social circle—not to mention Hudson’s struggles—to know that cutting someone off cold when they were this deep into their cups usually made things worse, not better.
“Trust me,” I told her. “I can handle this.”
At the bar, I ordered myself a water and gestured to Phineas. “Whatever you want, it’s on me.”
“Whiskey neat,” Phineas said without hesitation.
The bartender, a local woman who’d been helping out for the evening, looked as uncertain as Sylvie had. She shook her head apologetically. “I’m sorry, but I can’t serve someone who’s clearly been overserved already.”
Phineas immediately started getting agitated again. His voice rose as he began another tirade about people not minding their own business. I held up both hands and stepped in before the situation could escalate.
“Hey, it’s alright,” I said to both the bartender and Phineas. “Mr. Withers, I’ve got a bottle of really good stuff. How about we get out of here and go back to your place? We’ll leave all this obnoxious Christmas chaos behind, and have a proper drink together?”
Phineas studied me with eyes that were drunk but surprisingly shrewd. After a moment, he nodded slowly. “Fine, kid. But it better not be any watered-down garbage.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I assured him.
Sylvie was looking at me like I had sprouted a second head.
“Give me just a second, Phineas,” I told him. “I’m going to grab that bottle.”
A bottle I didn’t have. But I knew where to get one. I jerked my head, indicating I needed her to follow me.
“What are you doing?” Sylvie hissed.
“I need a bottle out of the bar.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to get him home,” I said.
“You can’t let him drink any more.” She crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. “He needs carbs and sleep.”
We walked out into the cold and across the way to the bar.
“I don’t think Phineas needs anyone telling him what he can and can’t do,” I told her. “Especially when it comes to alcohol. This guy is not interested in my opinion. Your opinion. He’s a grown ass man. He’s walking. Talking. Trust me I’ve seen way worse.”
“He’s pretty grouchy. I guess he’s not a fun drunk.”
I laughed. “No, I guess he’s not.”
We walked into the bar and she went behind the counter. “What do you want? How about we give him regular seltzer and just tell him it’s got alcohol?”
“I think he’ll crack the can over my head if I try that.” I grinned. “Choose something good.”
She shrugged. “I have no idea what’s good. I like drinks with umbrellas. Bonus points if it comes frozen in slushie form.”
“While everyone loves a daiquiri, I suspect Ol’ Sassypants Withers wouldn’t be too thrilled.” I stepped behind the bar with her to survey the options.
“Please call him that once you’re back at his place for your little date.” Sylvie giggled at her own joke.
“It’s not a date,” I said, glaring at her playfully. “I just figure it’s the best way to make sure he gets home safe.”
I selected a bottle of bourbon. It wasn’t the best but it wasn’t the worst.
“This will do,” I said.
“Do you want me to come with you?” she asked. “I mean, I don’t want to cramp your style and get in the way of true love.”
I chuckled, unable to help myself. Taking Withers home was me jumping on a grenade for her, getting him out of the way so he didn’t ruin everyone’s night. Sylvie had worked too hard for that to happen.
“Nah, it’s probably best I go alone. I’ll get him home and make sure he’s settled.”
“I don’t think you realize what you’re in for,” she warned. “Phineas is no joke. He’s kind of difficult.”
“Can I borrow a car?” I asked. “If I drive him home in his car, that means his car will be there and he can make another escape.”
“I’m sure you can use Brom’s truck,” she said. “And good call.”
“Like I said, not my first rodeo.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
“You’re a guest. You shouldn’t have to be babysitting anyone—especially Phineas.”
“It’s fine. Go back to your guests. I better get the old grouch. I don’t want him causing trouble.”
We headed back inside, and sure enough, Phineas was doing all he could to stir up trouble.
“Got it,” I said and waved the bottle in front of him.
He frowned. “Looks like you’ve been into it.”
“Oh, you’re too good for an open bottle?” I scoffed. “I guess you don’t really want another drink.”
“Now, hold on.”
I heard Sylvie’s grunt, like she was impressed I could handle the old drunk so well.
Again, she had no idea. I had been attending parties, galas, and every other social event with people that loved to drink.
Our dad taught us early on how to appear to be drinking without actually drinking.
I could handle my alcohol and I knew how to help others keep from getting out of control.
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in Phineas Withers’ small apartment above the Northwood hardware store on Main Street. I was nursing a very modest pour of bourbon while he worked his way through what was probably his dozenth drink of the evening.
I glanced at the bottle and cringed. I would make sure he didn’t drink too much more. Sylvie hadn’t been entirely comfortable with me taking him home. She was worried I wouldn’t be able to find my way back and would be stuck spending the night with him.
I told her I would walk back to the lodge before I let that happen. That it was not a date. Her laughter was delightful, making my sacrifice feel worthwhile. Hanging out for a bit with a drunk old timer wasn’t so bad if it made Sylvie happy.
The apartment was small, dusty, and clearly hadn’t been properly maintained in years. The furniture was outdated but sturdy, and every surface was covered with the kind of accumulated neglect that spoke of someone who’d given up caring about his surroundings a long time ago.
I would never admit I pitied him but I did. The guy had it rough. I didn’t know what his story was, but something told me things were hard. Lonely. I wondered if his grouchiness had resulted in a lonely life or if his lonely life had turned a decent man angry.
Framed photographs hung all over the living room walls. Pictures of Phineas from what were clearly his younger, happier days. In most of them, he had his arm around a petite woman with kind eyes and a warm smile.
There was my answer. Life had done this to him.
I stopped in front of one photograph on the mantelpiece that showed the two of them at what looked like a wedding, presumably their own, based on her white dress and his proud expression.
“She’s pretty,” I said, genuinely meaning it.
For the first time all evening, the old man’s harsh expression softened completely. “That’s my bride, Tilly. Prettiest gal in the world.”
I used the sleeve of my shirt to wipe the dust off the frame, bringing the image into clearer focus. The woman in the photo had laugh lines around her eyes and the kind of face that suggested she’d been full of life and mischief.
“How did an old fart like you get a woman like that?” I asked, grinning at him.
To my relief, Withers grinned back a bit.
“I wasn’t always old, and I wasn’t always such a fart.
” He stared down into this bourbon. “But you know, I asked myself that question a lot. Why a woman like that would ever look twice at a man like me.” He took a drink, and when he put the glass down, his eyes were watery.
“She gave me the best years of my life.”
I raised my glass. “To Tilly.”
He wiped his eyes quickly and lifted his drink. “Damn straight, to Tilly!”
We drank.
I studied the photograph for another moment, taking in the obvious love and happiness captured there. Then I looked back at Withers with a slight smile. “She looks like the sort of woman who would have beaten your rear end for pulling the stunt you did tonight.”
I expected him to get defensive or angry again. Instead, Phineas surprised me by throwing back his head and laughing—really laughing, for what sounded like the first time in years.
“She would have, at that,” he said between chuckles. “Tilly never did put up with any of my nonsense. Used to tell me I was too old to act like a fool. And that was twenty years ago.”
Soon we were both laughing as we swapped stories. I realized that underneath all the anger and alcohol, Phineas Withers was just a lonely old man who missed his wife and didn’t know how to cope with the world without her.
Which was something I could understand, even if I’d never experienced that kind of loss myself.
I found myself settling back into the worn chair, genuinely curious about this woman who had clearly been the center of the man’s world.
“Tell me about her,” I said, gesturing toward the photograph. “What was Tilly like?”
His eyes took on a distant look, and for a moment I could see glimpses of the man he must have been before grief had hollowed him out.
“She was trouble from the day I met her,” he said, but his voice was warm with affection.
“Caught her trying to steal apples from my neighbor’s tree when she was sixteen.
Little thing, couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds soaking wet, but she had more fight in her than a wildcat. ”
I chuckled. “Did you turn her in?”
“Hell no. I helped her fill her basket.” He took another sip of his drink. “Turned out her family was going through a rough patch. Her father had been injured in a logging accident and couldn’t work. She was trying to help feed her younger brothers and sisters.”
“So you were her knight in shining armor?”
Phineas snorted. “More like her partner in crime. That woman got me into more mischief than I care to admit. We used to sneak into the old movie theater through the back door when we couldn’t afford tickets. Tilly would distract the usher while I held the door open.”
I found myself grinning at the mental image. “Sounds like you two made quite the team.”
“We did. For forty-three years.” His voice grew quieter. “She used to say I was the gasoline and she was the match. Separately we were harmless enough, but together?” He shook his head with a rueful smile. “Together we could set the whole world on fire.”
I studied his weathered face, seeing traces of the young man who had fallen in love with a girl stealing apples. “What’s the worst trouble she ever got you into?”
Phineas’s eyes lit up with mischief. “Oh, that would have to be the Christmas of seventy-eight. Tilly decided she wanted to give all the neighborhood kids a special Christmas surprise. Problem was, we didn’t have any money for presents.”
“Uh-oh.”
“So she comes up with this brilliant scheme. We’re going to ‘borrow’ Santa’s sleigh from the town square display and fill it with homemade cookies to deliver to all the houses with children.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You stole Santa’s sleigh?”
“Borrowed,” he corrected with mock indignation. “We fully intended to return it. The plan was foolproof. We were going to sneak out after midnight, make our deliveries, and have everything back before dawn.”
“I’m sensing this didn’t go according to plan.”
Phineas laughed, the sound rusty but genuine. “The sleigh was heavier than we thought. Took us two hours just to get it and we got caught.”
His mood soured almost immediately.
And just like that, I understood why he hated Christmas. Tilly had made it special and her absence was more painful around this time of year.
I quickly steered the conversation away from Christmas. It was pretty clear it was a sore subject.
He told me stories about Tilly, about the hardware store in its heyday, about what Northwood had been like when it was a thriving community instead of a place people were slowly abandoning.
By the time I told him I needed to go, I understood a lot more about the cantankerous old man.