Chapter Three
Brew
I stand out on the pool deck with a cup of coffee, watching the waves roll in. It’s good to be home. As much as I love race season—the travel and the fast pace of the sport—I always look forward to the reprieve I get in Sandcastle Cove.
Stock car racing has one of the longest seasons in professional sports, with its top-level series—the NASCAR Cup—running from February to November.
The year includes a significant number of races, between thirty-six and forty, and culminates with a multi-week playoff elimination to determine the champion.
As the chief operating officer of Cartwright Motorsports and Carolina Automotive LLC, I oversee the day-to-day operations of both companies and report to my grandfather, Brewster Cartwright, the CEO.
Along with my father, Brewster Cartwright Jr., who serves as our CFO, we are the majority shareholders of the multibillion-dollar empire that my grandfather started over sixty years ago as a teenager in the garage of his parents’ home.
My role within the organization often keeps me on the road. I own a luxury condo in uptown Charlotte, which I call home for most of the racing season, while weekends are spent in hotels across the country as our team travels from speedway to speedway.
Cartwright Motorsports owns several speedways while Carolina Automotive supplies drivers and teams with the latest innovative equipment and gear.
Our top-notch research and development team handles innovation while I focus on building relationships within the sport.
It’s a rewarding job, but it can also be exhausting.
By the time November arrives, I’m more than ready to settle into my beautiful beachfront mansion on the gated eastern tip of Sandcastle Cove—my hometown.
It’s the place where my sister and I ran around barefoot, soaking up the sun every summer.
It’s where I went to school and played football and where my lifelong friends still live and raise their families.
Even though I spend only a small fraction of my time here, I still consider it home.
I founded my side passion project here over a decade ago—a small restaurant and bar called Whiskey Joe’s, located just across the east bridge on the mainland.
I named it after my maternal grandfather and aimed to create a laid-back atmosphere where locals could enjoy a meal, drink a local brew, unwind, and listen to good music.
Since its opening, the place has grown and expanded significantly.
Today, it is one of the largest country-themed bars and music venues in the Southeast, attracting tens of thousands of visitors during peak season and hosting some of the best country bands in the nation.
It’s ripe for expansion, and my grandfather has been urging me to scout properties near several of our speedways across the country.
I have no doubt it would be profitable, but I don’t want more money—I have more than I could ever need.
Additionally, taking on a project of that size would be a significant time burden, and I’m unsure if I want to sacrifice more of my time for the sake of financial gain.
My grandfather doesn’t understand this perspective; he thrives on business and success.
Even at his age, a calm, quiet life doesn’t seem to appeal to him, and the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
My father is quite similar; he’s spent his life trying to keep up with my grandfather, attempting to fill every footprint left by Brewster Sr. in the sand.
As a result, we barely saw him when we were growing up.
I don’t want to be that husband and father—the one who is a ghost in his own house. My mother never seemed to mind—or if she did, she hid it well—but my sister and I felt it; his absence was a living, breathing part of our childhood.
That’s not something I have to face anytime soon. My lifestyle hasn’t really been conducive to maintaining any romantic relationship. I don’t have time to date; I’m always at a track, on a jet, or in a hotel room, trying to catch a few winks before heading to the next destination.
Don’t get me wrong; I have a group of beautiful women who are more than willing to spend an evening on my arm at an event and a night in my bed.
But that’s where it ends. I haven’t had the focus to build a deeper connection.
It’s not for lack of trying on their part, but I’m not interested in being in a relationship of convenience.
If I ever take that step, I want what my friends have—genuine love, not just another business transaction.
There’s no urgency at the moment, and right now, I need to focus on deciding whether to pursue the next steps in making Whiskey Joe’s a national franchise or to keep it as my personal retreat at home.
It’s a big decision to consider, but for now, I’m just happy to roll up my sleeves and pitch in for a few months.
I have a great, loyal, and trusted staff that keeps the bar running smoothly while I’m occupied with race season, but nothing beats coming home and getting involved in the day-to-day operations.
The year’s final race took place last weekend, which means I now have three glorious months to do just that. I’ll be spending time at Whiskey Joe’s, reconnecting with family and friends, and soaking up the tranquility of the island.
It’s exactly what I need to get my head together and decide what my future will look like.
Music pulls me from my thoughts, and I fish my phone from my pocket and look at the display. Audrey . I tap the green button on the screen.
“Good morning. How’s my favorite general manager doing today?”
“She’s freaking out!”
The screeching reply causes me to pull the phone from my ear and transfer the call to speaker.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Leena fell last night.”
“Fell? Is she okay?”
“No! I mean, yes. Apparently, a pipe burst at her house last night. When she returned home from the bar, she slipped in the water and took a hard fall. The good news is, Dennis was on patrol nearby. The bad news is, she now has a broken ankle and a flooded kitchen.”
Audrey is my right-hand woman at Whiskey Joe’s and one of the main reasons for its success. The woman is a godsend. She runs the place like a well-oiled machine. Leena is one of our full-time bartenders, and her husband, Dennis, is a local police officer on the island.
“Okay. I’ll be sure to stop by and visit her and see if there’s anything I can do to help,” I say.
“That’s nice, Brew. But I’m leaving tonight, remember? What are we going to do about the bar?”
Shit .
“I can handle it,” I assure her.
“You can handle it? Mark turned in his notice last week. Cindy is back at school, and the new girl isn’t trained to handle the front bar yet. Leonard can’t do it all on his own.” She huffs out a breath and continues, “I should stay.”
What? No.
Audrey’s boyfriend and my buddy, Parker, is taking her to New Orleans for two weeks. She thinks it’s for the Bar and Restaurant Expo, but he plans to propose while they are there. He’d kick my ass if I let her back out of this trip.
“No, ma’am. I want you at that expo,” I tell her.
“I know, but honestly, you’ll need me here. I can have them send me all the material and videos from the event,” she says.
“Audrey, I can handle the bar.”
“It’ll be too much. You know the lead-up weeks to Thanksgiving can be busy, and we booked Cody Banks’s band. It’ll be a packed house next Thursday through Sunday. And your backup plan will be with me.”
Parker is the one we usually call when we need a fill-in bartender.
“I can handle it,” I repeat. “I’ll be the fill-in. I know it may be hard to believe, but I still know my way around a bar, Audrey,” I assure her.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do, and I’m technically the boss, so …”
She laughs. “Sure you are.”
“I am. And I’m telling you to get your ass on that plane. I will handle things here.”
“Fine. But know that I’m going under protest.”
“Noted. You guys have a safe trip. Learn all the things and try to have a little fun while you’re there too.”
“Okay, boss.”
I click off the line and run a hand through my hair. I guess the relaxing I planned to do will have to wait a few weeks.