Chapter 3
LUKE
That stunned look of disgust and anger on Hannah's face this afternoon is still fresh in my mind as I walk into the Wheelhouse and find a seat at the bar.
My leg is throbbing, and I massage it a few good times while I wait on old Hattie Anderson to look up and turn in my direction.
Her soft smile and full figure are so familiar, you'd think you were coming home to see your own mother.
She's a staple in this town, and it makes it feel like home.
"Luke Maddox," she says, sliding a coaster in front of me. Her hair has gone mostly gray since I saw her last, but she's still Hattie.
"Can I get a burger and whatever you have on tap?
" I ask her, easing farther onto the stool to relax my lower back.
I haven't sat around doing nothing for this many days straight since I was a kid behind a desk in school.
Keeping active is the only way to keep myself on track.
Dealing with all this paperwork and red tape is bullshit.
"You can," she says, pulling a pint glass from under the bar. "Heard you were back. Figured you'd end up in here sooner or later."
"Sooner, I guess."
She sets the beer in front of me and rests both hands on the bar.
"I'm sorry about Frank. He was in here every Thursday for twenty years.
We're gonna miss him." Her shoulders sag a little.
Dad wasn't much older than her, and I imagine when one of your own dies, you begin to wonder when it'll be your time.
I see that sadness in her eyes and find new respect for how kind she is, even after all this time.
"Thank you, Hattie," I say, and I mean it. She nods and moves down the bar to put in the food order. I take a drink and try not to notice the two men at the end of the bar who are very clearly talking about me.
They're not quiet about it, either. I catch pieces.
Maddox kid. The accident. Brooks boy. Navy.
The words drift over in fragments, and the men don't seem to care whether I hear them or not.
One of them is older, heavyset, with a beard that's gone white at the chin.
The other is younger, maybe my age, but I don't recognize him.
The conversation goes on for several minutes while I finish the beer and grow tired of trying to pretend I can't hear them.
Men like that act as if they've never made a mistake in their life. What happened with Nick was a complete accident which I shouldn't have to explain or defend this many years later.
Hattie comes back with the burger and sets it down in front of me. She follows my eyes to the end of the bar and shakes her head. Even she understands immediately what's going on and probably what's going through my head.
"Don't mind them," she says, keeping her voice low. "This town doesn't have enough going on to keep people from picking at old scabs."
"It's fine," I tell her. Though it's really not fine. But if I pick a bar fight, my CO will ream me. I'm not my own man yet, and everything I do reflects on the service.
"It's not fine, but it's how it is." She wipes the bar in front of me even though it's already clean. "You staying long?"
"I don't know yet."
"Well, if you are, you should know that people around here have opinions about everything and memories that go back to the flood.
Doesn't mean they're right." She straightens up and tucks the towel back over her shoulder.
"Eat your burger… I'll get you another drink on the house.
You know, 'cause your Daddy was a buddy of mine.
" Hattie winks, and I pick up the burger to have a hefty bite.
I'm halfway through chewing when the bullshit starts again.
"Hell of a thing," the older one says louder now. "Come back after twelve years and just step right into it. Must be nice."
Hattie comes back with my beer and sets it down. She glances toward the end of the bar and her lips purse like she's annoyed. "Don," she says. "Leave it alone."
Don grumbles something and turns back toward his plate of food, but the younger guy with him just can't seem to leave well enough alone. He turns toward me on his swivel stool and narrows his eyes like he's feeling cocky. I try to ignore him, but that weaselly glare is grating on my nerves.
"So, you gonna cut and run again? Sell that old marina and crawl back under whatever rock you've been living under the past decade?" He picks up his beer and gestures as he speaks, pointing it in the general direction of the waterfront.
I set my burger down carefully and finish chewing, wiping my face with the cloth napkin Hattie set next to me before licking my lips and responding. "I haven't decided yet."
"He hasn't decided," the man mocks, nudging Don with an elbow. "But he sure decided to hike tail and run when that judge said he weren't guilty, huh?"
I clench my jaw and duck my head, forcing my temper back down.
I like to leave the past in the past where it belongs, and in a small town like this, sometimes, that's difficult.
It's okay. I'll give him the easy jab, but if this jerk doesn't sit back and shut up, I may not be able to use self-control.
"Tommy, shut it," Hattie snaps, walking over to slap the bar top hard. "Now eat your food and don't be causin' no trouble in here." She's mad as a hornet, but I'm not gonna be the one to interrupt her and tell her I don't need her protection. "Have some respect. The man's father just died."
Tommy scowls, but he shrinks back to his plate like a wounded puppy and Hattie slides my way. "You just ignore them boys, Lukey." The old nickname has definitely outlived its time, but I chuckle when she uses it.
"You always so bossy?" Picking up the beer, I slurp it and suck in a deep breath to calm myself. I don't want a bar fight to get me all riled up. I might take out too much of my anger on one of them. They'd never know what hit them.
"I just like peace, is all." Her warm smile as she pats my arm puts me at ease. "You need another beer, you just wave me down. I gotta go remind those boys that I don't like drama in here. If they start that shit again, I'll throw 'em out. Alright?"
"Miss Hattie, you're God's angel in disguise tonight.
" It's my turn to wink at her and have another sip of my beer.
When she's not around, I hear them grumbling shit again, but neither of them is brave enough to say anything that might piss off the pub owner. I bet they’re glad Mike's not here, or they'd be on the street already.
When I finish, Hattie refuses to let me pay, but I leave her a thirty-dollar tip and head out. It's pouring down rain as I drive back to the marina, where I slink behind Dad's old desk and try sorting through paperwork again, but Hannah's words come back to me.
She wants some dumb festival, and as part of it, she wants to use Dad's land—my land, whatever it is now.
And she has some budget to help with repairs, which isn't even a problem.
I know Dad's business is self-sustaining and can manage all the repairs needed, even the pricey ones Hargrove's paperwork pointed out.
What it can't manage is a liability, and some festival that tracks a jillion people onto unsteady piers that cause an accident where people get hurt would bury us.
And just like that, I'm thinking of this place as mine now, not just my father's.
It makes my chest knot up and tears prick my eyes.
Dad is gone, and all of this is my responsibility now.
I can't be weak and break down crying over grief.
I have to get this place back to functioning properly and figure out what to do with it.
I sort through the warnings and notices, then log on to his online banking and pay a few bills, reminding myself to bring his death certificate and a copy of the paperwork Hargrove made me sign into the bank next week.
In order to get things put in my name, I have to start the ball rolling.
No matter what I do, I have to have things done legally, which means time.
I may have to ask my CO for a few more weeks. Three just won't be enough.
When I get done with all of that, I find a large manila folder with Dad's name written in fancy cursive on the front.
Inside it is a letter addressed to my father on fancy letterhead that looks like it could be a lawyer or a banker, but the name Dorsey Investments sticks out.
It's such a familiar name, but I can't place it.
It lingers in my mind, however, as I start reading.
Turns out this man has offered to purchase Dad's whole plot of land for twice the going rate, and that's a hell of a lot of money. Just seeing the number makes my eyeballs bug out of my head, and I sit back in my chair and scrub my hand over my beard.
The things I could do with that amount of money. I'd never have to work again, or if I did, I'd have a massive retirement fund for when I retire early. Or I could start a college fund in Nick's name, send a few kids to college right out of Bandon high school or…
Sadness hovers overhead, pulling me back to the reality that my father is gone. This was his life and his livelihood. He lived here and raised me here. He watched my mother die here when I was just five years old, so young I don't remember her at all. And he put everything into this business too.
Who am I to think I should come in here and sell it off to the highest bidder as if it means nothing?
Dad's legacy is more than just the piers or the land, or the home he lived in.
His legacy is the life he created for this town by building all of this and allowing trade to happen right here in small Bandon, Oregon.
And his legacy is my life, and everything I do with it.
I can't sell this place, even if I want to. It means too much to this town, and I think it means too much to me, if I really got real with myself.
Sucking in a deep breath, I push the fancy letterhead away and sigh.
I don't think I can sell, but I sure as hell know I can't have a festival, either.
Hannah might have had Dad's verbal agreement, but he never said a damn thing to me.
And while I want to preserve his legacy, I don't have to feed into the foolhardy belief that the only way to keep this town alive is to have a big, fancy, expensive festival.
Hannah will just have to find somewhere else.
This property is not up for debate.