Michaela—
I stand in my office, open-mouthed, as the inspector from the county health department rips off a copy of his report and hands it to me. He peers through his round glasses, his mouth moving under his walrus mustache.
“You’re shut down until further notice. Get these violations corrected, then call to have the establishment re-inspected.”
With that, he hitches his pants up his round belly and waddles out.
I follow him, watching while he tapes the order on our front door.
Luckily, we only have one customer at the bar. I walk over to him and quietly explain. He wipes his face with a napkin, throws it on his lunch plate, and takes off without paying his bill. I lock the door behind him.
“Did I hear you right?” Phil asks. “Did you just tell that guy we’ve been shut down?”
I nod. “I’m afraid so. Until we can get the violations corrected.” I glance down at the report. There are eight violations. I slump against the door. I want to cry, but I have three employees staring at me. “You all might as well go home. Meet me back here at eight tomorrow morning, and hopefully, we’ll be able to fix most of these in a day. The refrigeration issue will require a service call. I’ll arrange that now.”
While I’m heading to my office, I can hear them all grumbling as they leave. I plop down at the desk and twirl through my father’s old Rolodex until I find a repair service for the kitchen equipment. I make the call and set up an appointment for their earliest available slot, which isn’t until tomorrow afternoon. After hanging up the phone on the desk, my hand lingers on the receiver while I wonder if I’ll have enough money to fix whatever needs repairs.
It’s all too much, and I suddenly need air.
It’s a warm day, so after deciding to take a walk, I lock up the back door and wander down the street for several blocks until I see St. Joseph’s. I push open the wrought iron gate but don’t go inside the cathedral; instead, I stroll through the adjacent cemetery and wander along the path until I find myself at Da’s grave. I sit on the nearby stone bench, aware of the fresh sod covering his resting place, a mismatched green patch from the surrounding growth.
Tears drift down my cheeks, and I whisper, “Oh, Da. I’m failing at everything. It’s all too much, and I can’t do it.”
I want the bar to be successful. I want to prove myself. But there’s just so much riding on it—the hopes of Ma, Granddad, and even Ryan and the twins—that I feel crushed under the pressure. I think of all that hangs in the balance if I fail. The stakes are so high.
I hear the distant call of a train leaving town, and I think about what it would be like to just up and leave, like that train, to abandon everything and run away from all my problems.
The unmistakable sound of a Harley pulses through the air, and I look up to see Sly riding past. He glances over and spots me, and the bike immediately slows down. He makes a U-turn and rolls back up to the curb outside the fence. I watch him dismount, hang his helmet on the handlebar, and then approach. After finding the gate, he walks to me but stops two feet away and studies my face. “You okay, Michaela?”
I wonder why he hesitates, perhaps he’s afraid to intrude. I nod.
“You don’t look okay, babe. What happened?”
I cover my face with my hands and burst into tears. In the blink of an eye, Sly’s next to me on the bench, his arms gathering me to his hard, protective chest.
“Kitten, I’m here. Tell me what’s wrong.” Big hands stroke soothingly over my thin blouse as the heat from his body warms me. I take in a slow breath and wipe the tears with my sleeve.
“I’m sorry. It’s not worth crying about. Really, it’s not. It’s just, the health department shut us down today, and everything sort of caught up with me. Maybe everything you said to me that first night we met is true. Maybe you’re right and this is too much for me.”
“Michaela, look at me.” Sly takes my upper arms in his hands, and I tilt my head up and meet his eyes. Those light green depths are way too pretty for any man to possess. They hypnotize me, even now … here of all places.
“I only said those things to push you, to challenge you. I didn’t mean any of it. I swear.”
My mouth drops open. “You didn’t?”
“No. I think you’re more than capable of running that place.”
I pull out of his arms and move to stand, rubbing my hands up my own. “I didn’t want this, you know. I didn’t want any of it. The bar, the responsibility of my family …”
He moves to stand next to me.
“Then don’t push yourself like this. You want a break? We could leave. Split. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Name it. You want to see Yellowstone, we’ll go. We can get on my bike and ride out of town right now.”
“You don’t really mean that.”
“Yeah, I fucking do, Michaela. Told you, I don’t say shit I don’t mean.”
He’s offering me heaven on a platter, and I want to take it so badly. I stare down at my father’s grave and then my eyes drift over one spot. The stone reads Fiona Mooney. My grandmother. And suddenly I turn to Sly. “I know where I need to go. Will you give me a ride?”
Twenty-One
Sly—
Michaela gives me directions and I take her up into the mountains. She taps my shoulder and points at a dirt driveway next to a beat-up mailbox. I slow the bike and make the turn. We ride up a rise through some tall pines, my fat tires crunching on the stones, dirt, and pinecones. A house that looks to be about a hundred years old appears in the distance as a wisp of smoke rises from its stone chimney. It’s a log home that was probably built by hand.
I park my Harley in front of the wide porch that runs the length of the structure, and we climb off the bike. After removing my cut and stuffing it in a saddlebag, I follow Michaela up the steps to find a handful of rocking chairs facing the view and scattered flowerpots that look like they’re growing herbs.
“Who lives here, babe?” I ask as she knocks.
“My grandfather and my aunt Kathleen. You met her last week. She never married, so after my grandmother died, she moved in to take care of him.”
The door opens and her aunt’s face lights up when she sees Michaela. While they hug, her eyes meet mine over Michaela’s shoulder, and she pulls back. “I didn’t expect you, dear. You should have told me you were coming. I was just serving your grandfather lunch, you must join us.”
We step inside.
We met last Saturday when we were packing up for Easter, so she knows who I am. I glance around. It’s a typical log home, warm and cozy inside. We step into a living room with a big stone hearth. There’s a dining room off to the side and beyond that, a kitchen complete with red gingham curtains in the window.
An elderly man sits at the head of the dining table with a bowl of soup before him—and his spoon paused in the air. His hair is white with widow’s peaks in the thick mane. His eyes are clear blue, and they drill into me before drifting to his granddaughter.
“Grandfather,” she greets him, moving to kiss his cheek.
I move to him, extending my hand. “Marcus Gates, sir. A friend of Michaela’s.”