Making It Right. Kathy Altman
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Briggs stood in the doorway, in worn jeans and a maroon thermal shirt. His color was high, his eyebrows low. His disbelieving gaze traveled from Eugenia to Kerry to Snoozy. His massive chest swelled as he inhaled.
“Traitors,” he growled.
Slam.
Eugenia stared at the door, Snoozy at the ceiling and Kerry at Mitzi’s pen. An elongated, V-shaped head with obsidian eyes stared back at her through the plexiglass, and Kerry could almost hear the snake wondering what a North Carolina girl might taste like.
Panic baked the inside of her mouth. No way she could stay in Castle Creek. Her plan had always been to pay her literal dues, then return to blessed urban anonymity, not become part of a community where everyone would know not only her name, but every one of her failings, too.
It took her two tries to get the words out. “Sure you don’t need me to demonstrate my cocktail skills?”
“Good idea,” Snoozy said hoarsely. “I’ll take one of those margaritas.”
“Count me in,” Eugenia said, and marched toward the nearest wooden stool.
Kerry hoped Snoozy carried a decent cider, because she was opting for a Snakebite.
Might as well get it over with.
* * *
HER FIRST SHIFT at Snoozy’s, and Kerry started out doing everything right. She exchanged her usual heels for comfortable, nonslip shoes and wore a sleeveless top with her black jeans, in deference to the bar’s subtropical temp. She showed up early and immediately checked her stock. The bar was astonishingly low on pineapple juice and mint, but when she mentioned it to Snoozy, he snickered and said they’d be in good shape until the order arrived the following week.
She made the sour mix, refilled the ice well and wiped everything down while familiarizing herself with the setup. She gave the bathrooms a once-over and verified drink prices with Snoozy.
But she couldn’t help feeling she was doing it all wrong. With every lime she sliced, cabinet she explored and pour spout she inserted, shame nagged. Slowed her thought processes, and made her fingers clumsy. She couldn’t stop seeing the wounded look on her father’s face when he’d walked into the bar that morning.
Traitors.
She was doing it again. Dragging the innocent down with her.
“Easy there, barkeep.” Snoozy put a finger on the tip of the stainless-steel spoon she was using to stir a Brass Monkey. “You’re mixing a drink, not calling in the ranch hands for dinner.”
With a feeble chuckle, Kerry surrendered the bar spoon. She garnished the drink with an extra cherry, set it on a cocktail napkin and slid it across the bar to a woman who, fortunately, was paying too much attention to a man at the corner table to care how much time the bartender had taken with her drink. Or how much of a racket she’d made.
“Enjoy,” Kerry told her.
The woman nodded distractedly and turned away.
Kerry offered her boss a rueful smile. “Good thing it’s not as busy as you thought it might be.” Especially since Ruthie had called in sick. Kerry couldn’t help wondering if the server was staging some kind of protest, but Snoozy didn’t seem worried.
The bar had been empty when she’d arrived, and still smelling of chili, with the biggest noisemaker the lazy, rattling hum of the overhead fans. Ninety minutes later, a mere half-dozen customers were enjoying The Very Best of Neil Diamond crooning through Snoozy’s surprisingly advanced Bluetooth speakers. Still, a french fries and grilled onions haze had overtaken the smell of oregano, and Snoozy kept Kerry sufficiently busy to prevent her from scoping out the lock on Mitzi’s pen every ten minutes.
A glance at the Yuengling clock over the bar showed it had been closer to thirty. Her chin jerked toward the pen. Yep. Padlock in place. She turned back to Snoozy, who rolled red-rimmed eyes.
“We’re only slow because no one knew you’d be here tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow night it’ll be a different story.”
Kerry’s stomach dropped. Which of her customers would stare, or shake their heads in disgust, or even walk out if they knew she was an ex-con? All of them? None of them? Did they know her father? Would it make a difference?
Or would they slide onto one of the scuffed wooden bar stools, lean in and ask if she’d ever met Piper Kerman of Orange Is the New Black fame and did she get any tattoos and not that they wanted to be nosy, but did she really go without sex the entire time she was behind bars?
Nobody wanted to hear about boring ol’ home detention.
She pulled in a breath. She had no business thinking of Snoozy’s patrons as her customers, anyway.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “For causing trouble between you and my father.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be dependable.”
She suppressed the urge to protest. If there was one thing she’d learned from her dealings with the court system, it was when to keep her mouth shut.
A pang of regret darted through her chest. The best way to fight it? Motion. She opened the refrigerator and peered in, took stock again, made sure the pour spout on the half-and-half was closed. Then she faced her new employer, a question about whether he allowed customers to run tabs hovering on her tongue.
But instead of keeping an eye on her, Snoozy was tossing lingering glances around the bar, as if filing away memories to call on during his time away. Or maybe he was gauging how much damage she could do. Kerry used the bar spoon to straighten the orange wedges in her garnish tray. Either way, it was clear he was having second thoughts.
Who could blame him? She was, too.
Her gaze followed the path Snoozy’s had taken, from the giggly girl smoking two guys at pool, to the middle-aged couple sitting side by side in a booth, nursing their drinks and staring more at each other than the menu, to the nerdy-looking dude in the corner, who appeared more interested in his laptop than the beer Snoozy had set him up with an hour ago.
Or maybe he was trying to make it last so he wouldn’t have to get his refill from Kerry. They’d made eye contact once, and he hadn’t looked impressed. Not that she’d expected him to. Or wanted him to.
Just as well. No guy would be interested in a woman with a past like hers. Anyway, she needed to focus her energy on one thing.
Atonement.
The door opened, and the bar quieted as all eyes landed on a thin teenage boy with pale skin and shoulder-length red hair. He wore faded yellow high-tops and a long-sleeved tee over shiny black basketball shorts. Just as Kerry was wondering with a sinking feeling if he was chasing down a missing parent, Snoozy gestured for her to follow him to the end of the bar, where he waved the boy over.
“Kerry, I want you to meet Dylan. He’ll be looking after Mitzi for me.”
“You will?” She grabbed the teen’s hand with both of hers and laid a fervent shake/squeeze combo on him. “My hero,” she said.
He blushed so hard, his freckles disappeared. “No big deal,” he muttered. “Mitzi’s cool.”
“Heroic and humble.” Kerry smiled, leaned in. “Truth is, Mitzi freaks me out a little, so I’m glad you’ll be around.”
She was laying it on a little thick, but the purple shadows under the teen’s eyes made her heart hurt.
Dylan’s blush deepened. “I can take out the trash. Do other stuff you need.”
“That would be great. I can see you’re going to be a huge help.”
He dipped his head. When his phone pinged, he hustled off into a corner and started typing with his thumbs, stopping every now and then to shoot a glance back at the bar.
Snoozy gave Kerry a considering look. “That kid’s