Autumn Night Whiskey (Tequila Rose Book 2)

by Willow Winters

  “She’s beside herself.”

  Guilt worms its way in and I find myself adjusting in the chair uncomfortably.

  “I haven’t seen her.” The guilt eats away at me as my father’s eyes gloss over.

  “What did she say exactly?”

  “Mom? I didn’t tell her.”

  Before I can reply to that, my father shakes his head and says, “No, no, no.” He takes in a steadying breath before meeting my gaze to clarify, “What did Magnolia say when you asked her?”

  Although my father’s tone is gentle, my response is anything but. “She said no.”

  “I thought there was something … between you two?” His voice is low, his words careful and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a hint of loss in his gaze. He clears his throat, casually reaching into a drawer as if this conversation isn’t important. It’s a telltale sign that he’s anxious over my answer.

  “She said it was too soon.”

  “Too soon,” he repeats in a huff, as if he doesn’t like the taste of the words. I prepare for more, although nothing else comes but a stack of papers from the drawer landing with a harsh thud on the desk. He aimlessly riffles through them, but doesn’t really look at a single one, the corners of his lips decidedly turned down.

  “You should come to dinner soon.” His suggestion weighs down my already heavy heart. He says that when she’s worsened. I wish I could say I didn’t know how much worse it could possibly get. Unfortunately, that’s not the case.

  My first instinct when I finally leave is to tell Magnolia, but for the first time in years I hesitate. With the message waiting to be sent, I know I can’t hit that button. It’s my burden, not hers. When it comes to Magnolia, I’ve been selfish for too long.

  Magnolia

  Eight years ago

  “Is this the one?” Robert asks, a charming smile teasing me as he picks up his pace and rounds the angel oak tree. Ever since I was little, I’ve loved what people say about this tree. It’s the tallest oak in the center of town and I know there are prettier, larger trees in the world, but this one is my favorite.

  It’s a promise tree.

  “This one, right?” he asks again.

  “You know it is,” I answer Robert as he lets go of my hand. The roots poke out from the ground, and I take a moment to slip off my wedges rather than trip on them. We have at least a half hour until sunset, but the ambers have already taken over the skyline.

  With the straps of my shoes hooked over my left hand, it’s harder to adjust my cardigan.

  “You cold?”

  Even though goosebumps trail along both my arms, I shake my head no. This is exactly what I’ve dreamed of wearing for this very moment. A flowy white sundress at sunset. Literal dreams have led me here. My heart beats out of rhythm for a moment, taking it all in as I try to swallow down all the restless feelings. This is the start of our happily ever after.

  “All right then,” he says and Robert’s tone tells me he doesn’t believe me. He knows me better than anyone, so I’m certain he knows every little thing I’m feeling.

  Biting down on my bottom lip, I try to contain the heat that rises in my cheeks. I’m barely breathing when he asks me, “You’ll love me forever?” His right hand is touching the tree as I walk closer with bare feet.

  “Of course,” I answer him easily. There’s not a doubt in my mind we’ll be together forever. My wavy hair is blown back and I hope he knows how much this means to me. I hope he remembers it forever, because I know I will. To promise to love each other under this tree is all I’ve wanted to do for the last year.

  “Is that all we have to do?” he questions, a lightheartedness in his steps as the sun seems to dim on the horizon from soft yellow to warm amber. “Just say we will and the tree remembers our promise?”

  The boyishness of his grin and the way he cocks his eyebrow proves he’s making light of this.

  I stop in my tracks just a few feet shy of my first and only love. “Robert,” I protest, “stop.”

  “You have the prettiest pout.” He keeps up his teasing as he takes a few steps closer to me and the shade finds us both, hiding us beneath the oak tree from everything and everyone else. I can’t help but smile in return when he smiles down at me and steals a quick kiss that I wish lasted for longer.

  With my hands in both of his, I tilt up my chin and plead with him, “I’m leaving in just a few weeks and I’m scared things are going to change when college starts. Will you—”

  “Never,” he says, cutting me off. “Nothing’s going to change. I love you, Magnolia Marie Williamson,” he states as if he’s taking an oath.

  My heart skips a beat and a warmth flows through me as he peers down and rests his forehead against mine. He declares, “I love you, and I’ll love you forever.”

  Present day

  I truly love this one. My fingers itch to run down the layered hues of the oil painting. Its texture is achingly lifelike. Everything about it, from the weathered bark, to the dried leaves that fade to an autumn sky, reminds me of something that feels like a long-lost dream. I love it, but at the same time, I hate it. Dropping my hand to my side, I take a step back and forget any pretense of nostalgia. With a steady inhale, I remind myself I’m only emotional because … well, because all hell has broken loose on my life and I darn well should be.

  My mantra has changed a bit over the last few weeks. It’s always been: I am a strong woman, and I’m raising a strong woman as well. I am worthy and I am doing better with every day.

  Now I’ve added: I might be in love with two men, and that’s okay. One I’ve been in love with all my life, and I can’t see a world without him. The other is so new, so delicate and wanted, that it scares me to even think how much he affects me.

  I’m just not so sure about that last bit I’ve tacked on at the end.

  “You know I hate raffles, but this is a charity I can stand behind,” Mandy says from behind me while she looks at the computer. The clicking and clacking of the keys hasn’t stopped since she’s come in to check on the upcoming gala. I knew she wouldn’t be able to give up full control. Nerves battle within me as she goes down her list.

  “It was smart to include it and to really push the artist’s wish.” The tapping stops for a moment and my lungs stall, praying the typing didn’t stop because she’s found something she doesn’t care for. “It made her that much happier to come.”

  “Agreed.” I step back, adding, “And she’ll be less nervous if the conversation is about her passion and not selling the paintings.” We’ve commissioned four from an artist named Ellie Fields. One she’s designated just for charity and we’ll be donating our end as well. It’s for an excellent cause and the publicity we’ll garner as a result means it’s a win all the way around. I could talk for hours about it, but Mandy’s ready to move along. Her perfectly pointed upturned nose directed at me, she questions, “What else?”

  “That was all. So long as you’re happy with everything.” I clear my throat, and move back to the center of the screen, shifting the laptop back to its normal place … back in my custody. “Martin has moved the stock all safely wrapped to the back room, and only the features will stay.” She nods along, her cheeks hollowing as she sips her latte.

  “Should I come in tomorrow morning?” she asks and I offer her the most confident smile I can muster. “Only if you’d like. I promise this event has my full focus, and it will have every bit of attention it deserves.”

  “Love is in the details,” she says and wags one perfectly painted pointer in my direction. The scarlet red is so her color. Red has always been synonymous with the word confident in my mind ever since I read something about the Romans and the color red. Peeking down at my flats, I wish I had time to get my nails done for tomorrow. At least my flats will cover up the evidence that I haven’t had them done in months.

  But that’s because I’ve been busting my butt. That reminder brings up a renewed sense of pride.

  “In twenty-four hour
s your gallery will be packed, the raffle will support art programs, the artists will livestream on social.” I bite down on the very tip of my tongue, holding back the one thing I haven’t told Mandy about. In the back of the gallery there’s a small slate path to a garden. It’s overgrown and far too small for any party guests to venture — but — it’s perfect for a painting session from Ellie and with the projector along the back wall, bids can take place during a live event. It’s a show and the guests can dictate colors and participate in a way that most will never have an opportunity to do in their lifetime.

  Waves of excitement threaten to have me giving away the surprise, but luckily for me, Mandy turns her attention back to the laptop.

  As she silently goes through the event listing in the promotional features online, I can only focus on what will be, hopefully, everywhere online the day following our event.

  The social media views of live paintings are far higher than anything else we’ve done on every platform. So the surprise is twofold: another unique art edition, as well as a viral catch for bidders who aren’t attending in person but purchased virtual tickets. I want to ride that wave of interest for as long as we can.

  “I’m in love with the stained glass fixtures. I must say they’re my favorite.” Apparently she’s gone back to the layout plan for the event. Pride makes me stand a little taller and I have to suppress the giddiness that comes over me.

  “They’re for sale as well,” I tell her. “Everything except for the plates and glasses will be sold at auction, and most items already have bids from the online attendees.”

  Mandy’s sharp gaze narrows on me, but then she gives me a friendly smirk along with her compliment. “You can certainly throw a party.”

  “Thank you. Hopefully it will be a moneymaker and educational at the same time. We’ll have media hype for weeks, if not months, to share as well.”

  “I know Samantha, the artist flying in from Sacramento,” she lowers her voice in a conspiratorial whisper although she doesn’t need to. Samantha Pratt is by far the biggest star who will be in attendance as far as I’m concerned. “Sam’s impressed, so let’s keep her smiling.”

  “Of course,” I say and nod, my hands tucked behind my back and playing with the small ribbon that’s tied around the waist of my shift dress. “I spoke with Chandler earlier and the inn already has everyone’s welcome baskets and the reception cards.”

  This time, Mandy positions the laptop facing me, in its normal placement without me touching it. She scoots it there and then turns her attention back to her latte.

  “Anyone coming from out of town will be catered to and of course the usuals from in town will aid in wining and dining the way a small town knows how.”

  Mandy sets down her coffee which now seems empty, judging by the hollow thud of the cardboard cup, and says, “I’m not going to lie, there’s been talk and gossip about you.” My anxiety ramps up, but not too intensely. Her tone is far too cheery for that comment to be taken negatively. Then she adds, “It’s been excellent for ticket sales from people in town,” and it all makes sense.

  “This town is never out of fodder for good gossip.” I smile over my nerves and keep my gaze steady on hers. Although I’d like nothing more than to reach for my bottle of water and take a large gulp, I stay perfectly still in my black and white tailored dress while keeping a straight face. I’m certain my cheeks give me away, stained with red, but my focus is professionalism.

  “Well, you are right about that,” she says and hums in agreement, although her perfectly plucked brow is far too arched for sincerity.

  “I believe everything is all set,” I conclude, rocking on my heels.

  “You believe?” Her brow somehow arches higher. If she hadn’t done it, I wouldn’t think it was possible.

  “It is. Everything is all set.” I’m quick to correct myself and when she smiles broadly, so do I.

  “Wonderful, then.” She prepares to end the meeting and just then my phone dings and buzzes with a text, distracting me. Thankfully she doesn’t notice, already busying herself by gathering her empty coffee cup and slinging her cream vegan leather hobo purse over one shoulder. “I’ll be in two hours before.”

  “I’ll be there before then so everything is prepared when you arrive.” My assertion earns me a warm smile.

  “Thank you, Magnolia.” Mandy dismisses me warmly, taking her leave with her keys jingling in her hands.

  The second the chime goes off at the front door, I shake out my hands and exhale. Nerves are still making their presence known through every inch of my fingers. With my lips in a perfect O and my eyes closed, I breathe in and then out. I need Renee’s freaking whistle that’s not a whistle.

  If all goes well, I’ll be promoted to manager and Mandy will hire another two employees to help me with, and I quote, “whatever it is I need.” There’s nothing like getting a heads-up via email five minutes before your boss walks through the door to shoot your heart into overdrive.

  I could run this place.

  Both of my hands reach for the bottle of water as if it’ll steady me at the thought. She said that. She said I could run this place.

  Again, I breathe out and shake off the nerves by checking every spotlight once again. The last thing I need tonight is poor lighting. I went to college thinking one day I could restore art or maybe be an artist myself. More than a handful of times Renee’s suggested I go back and finish my degree. Every time I’m given more responsibility from Mandy, each time I dive more into the business side of the art realm, I stray farther and farther from what I used to want. I crave more of this: the planning, the marketing, and sharing the art I love so much with others who want the same. Life has a funny way of shaping a person and giving them what they never knew they needed.

  It isn’t until my phone dings again that I remember I had a text. I’m in my own world far too often these days. Grabbing my phone, I check my messages.

  How did it go? Both Renee and Robert sent the same question.

  Reading those texts makes me feel like I used to. For a very small moment in time, everything is how it used to be. As I text both of them that it went perfectly, it’s just like normal. The everyday ebbs and flows. Until I remember Brody and everything else. It all collides into that bit of familiarity and makes me want to loosen the ribbon around my waist.

  The town is talking. I remember what my boss said. I opt to leave that bit out as I fill Renee in with the details, including the bit about Mandy loving the stained glass features.

  Give yourself a pat on the back … and a mimosa at lunch, Renee texts back. After texting her Cheers to that, I check Robert’s message, which steals the smile from me.

  I miss you.

  I almost tell him something he’s said for years. It’s the same thing he’s told me when I’ve been low: I’m right here. But I delete those words as quickly as I typed them. With my throat tight, I’m blunt in my next message: Are you mad at me?

  Never, Mags.

  I hesitate to text him the truth, but it is the truth and so I do it: I miss you too.

  As if they heard me, a group thread lights up at the top of my texts.

  Don’t forget, playdate tonight, Autumn messages all four of us, Renee included. Even though not all of us have kids, we all need each other to help us hold on to sheer sanity in this town.

  Part of me thinks I shouldn’t be drinking the night before an important event. The other part of me knows I need a drink the night before an important event. A little venting won’t hurt either.

  I’ll be there. Sharon answers first, quickly followed by Renee: Me too!

  Mags, you’ll be there, right?

  Unless she’s seeing your man, Sharon responds in the group chat before I get a chance to say anything. My heartstrings are pulled in every direction at that. Autumn questions, Which man? Before I can even think of clarifying, Renee pipes up in the chat.

  Brody’s gone for the next two days. He’s taking a trip up to his hometow
n to get some things.

  I’ll be there. I offer my short response without giving an opinion or insight into the above texts. Not until Sharon asks, Will he be back for the gala?

  A short Yeah does the trick and the chat is filled with glasses of wine and baby emojis, from the singles and the mamas in the chat, respectively.

  One glass of wine and I know I’m going to spill it all tonight.

  Breathing out all the pent-up tension yet again, all I can think is: What the hell am I doing?

  Brody

  I still haven’t told her, because I’m chickenshit. The more my palms sweat along the leather steering wheel, the more I’m convinced I won’t be telling my mother anything until I have the results back and I know without a doubt Bridget’s my daughter. Maybe there’s some kind of telltale genetic sign when a father meets his kid. I don’t know. I don’t know how to explain it, and that in and of itself is a reason to not breathe a word of it to my mom.

  “You can roll down the window if you really want,” my mother comments with a hint of humor in her tone. As she pulls back her hair into a braid she adds, “I was only joking when I said it would mess up my hair.”

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “Then I’m turning on the air,” she tells me lightheartedly.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Well, if you aren’t hot … are you sweating because you’re nervous about something?” she pries. My mother is good at prying, if nothing else.

  Thump, my pulse races, not liking where this is going. I’ve never been a good liar and when it comes to my mom, I haven’t gotten away with a single one. This isn’t sneaking out or causing a fight at a bar … this is something I’m not ready to talk about.

  “I know I told you I wouldn’t ask,” my mother starts before I can answer her question.

  “Then you should probably stop while you’re ahead,” I offer her with a tilt of my head toward the sign on the side of the road. I’m eager to change the direction of the conversation. “You need to make a pit stop?”