3. Archer
Chapter three
Archer
Present
T here should be a law against requiring a person to listen to stodgy old city council members on the weekends, yet here I sit, beckoned by Mr. Brahm. After listening to the head of the council list all the reasons why I need to open the bakery, I’m ready to pull my hair out. He acts like I don’t know the historic, yet vibrant community of The Pearl is prime real estate. It’s the exact reason I chose to buy a building there.
Clamorous chatter about parking tickets thunders around the hall, and I take it as my opportunity to slip out the door and find an open bar to nurse the ache starting at the back of my head. Between managing my own employees and attending stupid meetings like this one, I almost missed the deadline to submit my application to the TV network looking for a carpenter to host a reality show.
You could be the next Ty Pennington, the agent who stumbled upon me giving a woodworking seminar my parents roped me into at the local college said. At this point, I’d sign up to become a rodeo clown if it meant getting out from under my father’s thumb.
“Wait a minute, Archer.” Mayor Stevens follows me out, stopping me with a hand on my shoulder. As much as I’d like to ignore him and keep walking, pissing off the mayor is probably not the best idea when he can make life more difficult for my businesses .
I grit my teeth and turn his way, nearly choking on the noxious scent of his Brut cologne. “What can I do for you, Mayor?”
He tilts his head, and a breeze lifts the back of his brown toupee. “We both know old man Brahm isn’t going to stop harping on you to get that location open.”
“Brahm can kiss my ass for all I care,” I reply, stretching my neck.
He sighs. “I don’t want to have to force you either, but having an empty building in the heart of The Pearl is the equivalent of a storefront in Times Square being empty. It’s bad for business.”
I throw my head back and run my tongue along my teeth, sucking in a calming breath. When I bought the building, I had big plans to expand my carpentry business. My hardware stores are already successful, and I wanted to open a woodworking shop where people can learn how to use tools to complete their own projects. But when your best friend needs a location for his wife’s bakery, sometimes you have to make sacrifices.
“I know.” I slide a hand into my pocket and ball my fist.
“I know you’ve had a rough year.” He winces.
I scoff. Losing your best friend, the man who saved your life, isn’t just a rough year. It’s the second worst fucking year of my life. Add in the fact that I messed shit up with Tilly years ago, and it’s pouring salt in the wound.
“I can give you until the beginning of the year—”
“It’s already September,” I nearly holler before I remember who I’m speaking to. Mayor Stevens might hold a soft spot for me solely because he loved my brother Sebastian and plays golf with my father, but to the people no doubt eavesdropping on our conversation from the other side of the door, I’m sure they’d take my disrespect as another reason to oust me .
“—or else I’ll have to heavily suggest that you sell the location. Unless you want Brahm and his crew to start picketing and riling up the community even further.”
My jaw aches as I stifle the retort about where Brahm can stick his picket.
“That’s only four months away,” I reply, pushing my toes into the soles of my work boots, trying to expel the anger bubbling to the surface.
He claps me on the shoulder with a grimace on his face. “It’s been more than a year since you bought the building.”
He’s got me there. In my defense, I didn’t expect that Jessie would die just as we made the deal. Grief takes a really fucking long time to deal with. It’s been years since my brother passed, and I’m still not over it.
“Fine,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
“Thanks, son.”
We shake hands and he returns inside to listen to the rest of the town’s dilemmas while I head three streets over and stand in front of the apparently offensive vacant building. My heart thumps a wild rhythm thinking of the last time I was here, a few weeks before Jessie and Tilly’s first wedding anniversary.
I shake the memory away before it has a chance to form. I should be relaxing in my garage workshop with a cold beer in my hand and rock music blaring through the speakers, not being forced to open wounds that have barely healed.
Damp, musty wood greets me as I pry open the plywood door with calloused fingers. I step forward and am assaulted by cobwebs. Silvery webs stick to my neck as I bat the woven strands away and spit out the pieces that got inside my mouth. Ensuring no spiders are hanging around to attack, I take stock of the place .
Outside of a thick layer of dust clinging to every visible surface, the place isn’t much different than it was when I first bought it. Exposed wooden beams, a beautiful bay window, and enough space to segment the place into a café with a full kitchen in the back.
Exactly what Tilly needs to open her bakery.
A pang strikes my chest when I think of my late best friend’s wife. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen Tilly, a fact my pseudo-mother, Nora, reminds me of every time I visit her. It’s not that I don’t want to see her, but every time we’re around each other I can’t help but push her away. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, a wall I subconsciously built when my two best friends ended up dating each other, but at this point, I’m sure I’m the last person she wants to see.
But you promised Jessie you’d help get her bakery in order.
I inwardly chastise myself. Jessie asked me to handle the construction aspect of Tilly’s bakery, but I’ve let it go to shambles—similar to mine and Tilly’s friendship.
My nostrils flare, and my nails bite into my palms. I have four months to keep my word to my best friend and get this place up and running, and I’ll be damned if I go back on that promise.
***
Hot water sluices down my body, warming my aching muscles and tinging the water pink from my blood-caked knuckles. After clearing all the cobwebs and dust, I pulled up the eyesore that was the puke-green linoleum flooring from the previous owner. I have a crick in my neck, but working with my hands helped me ignore the voice in my mind insisting I need to tell Tilly about this.
Jessie was supposed to do that.
These days I can barely get more than twenty words out of my mouth around her without finding a way to drive the wedge between us even further. It’s my own fault. I’m a coward who managed to turn one of my best friends into an enemy because I couldn’t handle my own feelings. But the fact remains that I want to see Tilly happy and thriving—as I always have—and right now the only way I can do that is to make good on my word and get her shop ready to open.
I just need to find the courage to tell her about it.
I will…after I finish some work.
Shutting off the water, I towel dry and run a comb through my hair and beard. I grab my journal from the dresser and write a quick note to my brother about the day before dressing and heading outside to my workshop. My cell rings the second I flip on the lights, illuminating the various tools in disarray on the countertop and Mr. Johnson’s car propped up on the ramps, ready for an oil change.
“What’s up, Shanti?” I ask Jessie’s sister, putting her on speaker as I organize the tools.
“Tilly knows about the bakery,” she blurts out without a hello. Ice pours into my veins, and I curse the council for causing a stink. That’s got to be the reason she found out about it. Before I have a chance to ask, Shantel continues rambling. “I didn’t know what it was when she opened it, and I didn’t see it when we were going through the clothes to donate. I’m sorry, Arch. I should’ve found it first.”
“Whoa, Shanti. Calm down.” I lounge against the table, propping myself up on my elbows. “Take a breath and repeat what you said but slower.”
Her gulp of breath is audible, and I find myself seeking the same calming breath I’m coaching her to take.
“I was helping Tilly sort Jessie’s clothes for donation when she found a black box that had a bunch of legal paperwork with yours and Jessie’s names on it. I didn’t tell her what it was for, but she said she was going to call the firm to find out.”
“Fuck,” I exhale. I thought for sure it would’ve been Brahm and his cohort that ruined the surprise.
A surprise Jessie should be giving her.
I slide a hand along my beard, tugging at the stray strands. This bakery was his gift to her for their anniversary, but he didn’t make it. It was my responsibility to make sure what needed to be finished was completed.
I failed him.
I’m no stranger to being a failure—at least in my parents’ eyes—but knowing I let down my brother, and also my best friend, stings in a way I can’t describe.
“Arch?” Shantel’s wavering voice grabs my attention. “What are you gonna do?”
“What I have to,” I reply, pulling a large sheet of draft paper down to start a blueprint for Tilly’s bakery.
“How can I help?” she asks just as the network’s entertainment agent’s number flashes across the screen. Goosebumps raise the hair on my arms. What could they possibly be calling about? Did I mess up something on the application for the carpentry show?
I snap from my daze, sweat forming on my brow. “You can’t, but hey—”
“There’s gotta be something I can do.”
The vibrations in my hand continue.
“Listen, Shanti. I gotta run. Love you”
“No, Ar—”
I swap to the other line, hoping and praying I didn’t miss the call. “Hello?” My heart thunders in my chest, and a few beats pass where I hear nothing but silence. I hold my breath, cursing myself for not hanging up on Shantel sooner.
“Hello, Mr. Wilson?”
A rush of air releases from my lungs. “Yes, I’m here.”
“Oh great! We’ve read over your application and would love for you to come in and do a live audition for the show. Any chance you could be here this weekend?”
I rear back, surprised at her offer. I hadn’t expected to even get a call, seeing as I was so close to the cut-off time. Flying out to Tennessee on short notice isn’t ideal, but I can make it work.
“Yes,” I reply, already tapping out a message to my hardware store employees letting them know I’ll be gone. “I can be there. What time and where?”
As I’m sending the message, another one from Tilly comes in. She texted earlier saying we needed to talk, but I thought it was a perfunctory message spurred by Nora’s meddling. I start typing out a response but stop myself—again. Now that I know she found the sale paperwork, I need to make sure I have my story in order before I talk to her.
“I’ll send you an email with all the details,” the woman says with a chipper voice before hanging up.
All the tension releases from my body, and I sag into the aluminum chair in front of the worktop. This opportunity could be my big break, a way to prove I don’t need to be a doctor—like the rest of my family—to be worthy of the Wilson last name.
Her email comes through five minutes after the call ends. I open the attachments, noting the outgoing flight they booked for me on Saturday and a return flight for Monday morning. I’ll miss Sunday dinner, and Tilly’s birthday celebration, but I need this. She won’t care that I’m not there, and I’m not sure I’m ready to see her yet either. At least not until I can think through what I need to say to her.
My footsteps are lighter as I stroll into my office, drop my phone on the desk, and unroll the draft paper along the surface. Photos of me, Jessie, and my brother Sebastian are hung on the wall, memories of laughter and the chaos of three young boys growing up in the suburbs of South Texas. My gaze slides to another picture—one I hate looking at yet can’t manage to let go—of me, Jessie, and Tilly. The Three Musketeers. Jessie’s in the middle of us—like he’s always been—but while they’re both staring at the camera with big smiles on their faces, I’m captivated by Tilly’s effervescent charm.
A knot lodges in my throat as I stare down at the picture, and shame washes over me. It’s been more than five years, but my heart still does that funny thing when I think about what could’ve been years ago had I not felt this overwhelming debt to Jessie.
My ribs squeeze tight, and disgust pours into my sternum. I shake my head, lip curling at myself for letting envy seep into my thoughts. Jessie saved my life. And I made him a promise long ago that I wouldn’t interfere, that I would let these feelings I’ve had for Tilly since we met dissolve.
Just because he’s gone doesn’t mean she’s meant for me now.
Blinking away the wetness on my lashes, I grab a pencil and get to work on a blueprint, ensuring I can at least keep the promise of constructing Tilly’s bakery by the beginning of the year.