Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Around Whynot, many people call him Pap as he’s grandpa to the Mancinkus brood of kids, but the regulars at Chesty’s switch between that and Gunny, a nod to his Marine Corps days. He’s a retired master gunnery sergeant, served two tours in Vietnam, and still carries himself like the Corps might call him back any minute. I think that might actually be his fondest wish.
His hair’s thick and regulation—short, silver shot through with a few stubborn streaks of black. His skin’s dark and weathered—part Lithuanian, part Polish, and a whole lot of years under the Carolina sun without a drop of sunscreen. He’s a Yankee who became a Southerner, rail-thin but wiry strong, and if he ever decided to hug me—rare as a snowstorm in July—he could probably crack a rib. Social graces have never been his strong suit, but somehow this old coot with the bark of a drill instructor and the charm of a cactus ended up a local legend. Whynot folks adore him and Chesty’s wouldn’t be half as full without him growling from that stool like it’s his personal command post.
“Evenin’, Pap.” I critically note his mug of draft beer is still half full and go on high alert to watch its progress toward empty. “How’s the world treating you?”
“World’s fine. This town’s gone to hell.” He jerks his chin toward the street. “Been eating gas station biscuits for three days. I am one mystery patty away from meeting my maker.”
“Yeah.” I sigh wistfully because the Kind bars I’ve been eating for breakfast aren’t cutting it for me either. “Can’t wait until Muriel’s well enough to open back up.”
“Goddamn broken hip,” Pap growls. “That woman’s tougher than shoe leather, but there’s no hope for us in the foreseeable future.”
That’s true enough. There’s no one else sane enough to step into Muriel’s shoes, so we’re all suffering right now. I only hope that she can recover after being closed for so long.
Pap glares at the foam head on his beer like it personally wronged him. “Whole town’s off-kilter. Can’t start the day proper without Muriel’s biscuits and people minding other people’s business.”
“So, you’re saying we’re down one biscuit and three hundred rumors.” I tap the bar solidly, twice for punctuation. “Tragic.”
“Smart-ass,” Pap mutters.
I spend the next fifteen minutes switching out with Larry, and an hour after that, I’m slinging beers for the after-work crowd. It’s mostly locals because, let’s face it… no one else really comes here. Two guys in dusty boots arguing about a fence line, a teacher with ink on her fingers and a stack of papers, and a handful of guys who are working road repair for the State DOT outside of town.
“Sam!” Floyd slaps a twenty on the bar. “Guess who found a coupon for half off wings at the bowling alley and tried to use it at the pharmacy?”
“Please tell me it was you.”
“Close,” he says, pointing at himself with both thumbs. “It was also me.”
Floyd Barbour is probably my favorite citizen in Whynot. He owns Floyd’s Hardware Emporium across Courthouse Square from Chesty’s. He’s in his late fifties and sports long, wiry steel-gray hair. His gray beard is striped with white highlights and hangs halfway down his chest. He watches you from behind intelligent eyes, threatened by bushy eyebrows, and is beloved by many, but not all. While he’s a business owner, his favorite job is to patrol the streets at night with his shotgun to help keep crime down.
Word of interest—there’s very little crime here, so his most important contribution is chasing raccoons out of alley garbage cans.
I bring Floyd a beer, pour a handful of others as the bar fills up, and let the rhythm settle into my bones. I’ve been working at Chesty’s for a handful of years now and it’s a part of me because it’s easy to love people from behind a bar. You can be part of their lives without having to take any piece home. Hear their stories, hand them a drink, make them laugh. Folks leave lighter and I very much like that.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket and I fish it out for a quick peek at a text from Derek. Bookstore in Raleigh still asking. Ready to confirm?
Pap’s leaning over to see my screen, being obviously nosy. I pocket the phone because no, I’m not ready to confirm. However, by not responding to Derek, I am now opening myself up to a slew of texts from him demanding an answer. I’m good at ignoring him.
Pap’s eyes narrow. “That your girlfriend?”
“Nah. Spam.”
“What kind of spam asks about Raleigh?”
“The pushy kind,” I say, reaching for a bottle opener. “Probably trying to sell me a time-share.”
He snorts, not buying it. Pap’s never met a secret he couldn’t worry at like a loose tooth. Lucky for me, Floyd distracts us by trying to feed a peanut into the jukebox.