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)
“Don’t,” I warn.
“It looks hungry.”
“It’s a machine.”
“Machines get snacky too.”
I reach into my pocket and flip a quarter across the bar to Floyd, who catches it with surprising dexterity. “Play something good.”
I make a quick circuit down the line of drinkers, dropping off beers and a lemonade with too much sugar for the schoolteacher. She gives me a wan smile and returns to grading papers.
At the end of the counter, a couple leans in close, fingers twined, oblivious to everyone. Good for them.
Love is seriously underrated.
The sun extinguishes outside, allowing the red neon to light the way for thirsty customers. I top off Pap’s beer, noting he’s in his mellow stage of the night’s drinking. It’s where the grumpiness melts into a mixture of playfulness and sometimes, affectionate reminiscing.
“You ever think about offerin’ breakfast service here?” he asks.
“At a bar?”
“Grits, eggs, liquor.” He waggles his eyebrows. “A balanced plate.”
“I think that’s called a cry for help.”
He huffs, then squints at me again with that thoughtful look he gets right before he starts a debate. “You don’t fool me none.”
“About what?”
“You’re up to something.” He taps the bar with a knuckle, offering me a lopsided grin. “You got that look.”
“What look is that?”
“Like a man carrying a secret.”
I chuckle as I wipe down the area around his mug. “Only secret I got is my wing sauce recipe.”
“That and sayin’ a lot of unnecessary words.” He lifts his beer. “Can’t trust a bartender who says actually before pouring you a shot.”
He has a point. I am fond of actually.
By six thirty, the place doesn’t have a single seat empty, both pool tables are in full play, and the dartboard has been commandeered by the Ladies’ Junior Auxiliary. Judge Bowen is in, fresh off the bench from the courthouse that sits in the middle of town. He takes the barstool next to Pap, trading stories and looking like a true Southern gentleman in his bow tie and seersucker suit. The judge roars with laughter over something Pap says and I’d bet they’re exchanging bawdy jokes.
Laughter ricochets off the tin ceiling and I slide a whiskey to a wizened farmer who calls everybody “son,” whether you’re a man or a woman. A birthday group erupts at a corner table when I set down a shot tower and light a sparkler because I believe in showmanship. The jukebox spins Garth into Shania into something with too much bass that has Floyd attempting a bizarre dance.
My phone buzzes again. This time, the preview flashes a different message: The timeline’s tight. I need an answer, Sam.
I angle my body away from the bar and type back one word. Later.
Then I lock the screen and tuck it deep. The phone feels heavier than it should, but then again, it carries all the secrets I don’t want to say out loud.
By nine, the surge slows and people start to drift home to start the workday all over again. I wipe down the bar in smooth, practiced strokes. I clean a sink full of pint glasses and set them in a drying rack. The jukebox mellows into some old Kenny Rogers.
Pap is dozing alone at the end of the bar, Judge Bowen having long ago given up keeping pace with him. His chin is resting on his chest and I’m tempted to leave him like that forever, a permanent installation. But Pap isn’t a spring chicken anymore, and on top of that, he beat colon cancer last year and really has more business sleeping in his soft bed than on a bar top.
When I nudge his elbow to make sure he’s still with us, he snorts and blinks awake. “You hear the latest?” he asks, voice gravelly with sleep as he blinks, pretending he was coherent and awake the entire time.
“Nope.”
“Judge Bowen said Muriel’s niece is coming to visit.”
I toss the bar towel over my shoulder. “Penny Pritchard?” Haven’t thought about her in a long time. “Thought she swore off Whynot for good.”
“People also swear off carbs. Don’t mean they don’t still eat cake.” He cackles at his own joke and slaps the bar.
“Must be coming to check in on Muriel. I don’t recall her visiting much the last few years.” And I’d remember if she were here. Hard to forget a woman who could make half the male population of Whynot forget their own names.
“Mmm,” Pap hums, but not sure that’s agreement or skepticism. He picks up his mug, drains the last of the beer, and pushes the empty toward me.
“Another?” I ask.
“Nah… going to head home.”
Not a long journey as Pap lives in an upstairs apartment. “You feeling okay?”
He pushes off the stool and shoots me a look that says I’m a dumbass, although I’m not sure why. “Of course, I’m okay.”
I glance at my watch. “But… you’re leaving kind of early.”