Tequila Rose

by Willow Winters

  The sweet taste of hops is fresh and, more importantly, smooth.

  I take another swig, letting it sit for a moment before swallowing it and pushing my glass forward on the hard rock maple. “It’s damn good.”

  Griffin smiles as he pushes his hair out of his face. I swear when we were younger his dark brown eyes matched his dark hair perfectly. I guess the sun is making his hair lighter down South. His foot doesn’t stop tapping on the barstool even if he is grinning like a fool. The nervous energy about him is nothing but excitement.

  “You know it’s good,” I tell him and take in the place. We’re at the only table in the brewery. All the shiny metal reflects the lighting from above in the old storage center. It’s perfect for brewing. Tall, twelve-foot-high ceilings and a single open space. That’s all we need. A place to brew. “Now we just need to get it going and start selling.”

  “See, that’s the problem.”

  He bought this place and I love it. It’s only the first step of many for what we have in store, though. Nailing down the recipes for the beer doesn’t matter if:

  It isn’t a damn good beer.

  We can’t sell it.

  “The beer is good, but we still don’t have a license for South Carolina.” My best friend shrugs with his gaze fixed downward at the empty glass and lets out a long exhale. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look like this since he moved down here.

  “I thought everything was moving along right on schedule?” I ask him, feeling my back lengthen as I sit up straighter. “You set up shop, then I come down and we get to work on the brewery and the bar.”

  “I set up the brewery and we’ve got everything we need, but we don’t have a license to distribute.”

  My nod is easy and short as I rub the stubble at my jaw mindlessly. “I thought you got it last week?” With a pinched brow I stare at him, waiting for an answer as unease runs through me.

  I had the money, he had the knowledge, and together we had the same dream.

  “Just a license is all that’s standing in the way, right? We’re still doing good on budget.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he answers and leans back. That restless tapping comes back, though. “We’re good on the budget. They just aren’t reviewing the application and I don’t know why.”

  “I thought you knew people. Don’t you have connections?”

  “I’m hardly connected,” he tells me. “My uncle lives down here but not in this township. But this is where the money is. The tourism and lots of generational wealth are all here. This is where we have to sell it. I just need a way in so we can get this license approved.”

  “No connections … At least you have the accent, though,” I say, hoping the joke will lighten things up. Everyone down here sounds different from me. A hint of a twang is part of the Southern charm. It reminds me of a girl I hooked up with when I went to visit Griffin once. My nerves prick at the memory. I can’t shake the thoughts of her since I’ve been down here. I haven’t thought about Rose in a while, but this past week, she’s been coming to mind more and more. I tell myself it’s because Griffin and I came up with this plan back then when I met her.

  “All right, well,” I say and let out a sigh, my thumb now tapping on my jeans in time with Griffin’s foot against the bar. I guess the nervous energy is contagious. “Let’s get the hell out of here and see if we can’t make some headway at the bar?”

  “What are we going to do if we can’t get the license?” he asks with his voice low, true uncertainty written on his face. “You want to move the bar to my hometown?” He’s younger than me, fresh out of college. Broke as all hell and he spent the last eight months doing all this work, spending all my money. I can tell he needs the payoff. He needs something good to go our way.

  With my hand on his shoulder, I squeeze once. “We have the brewery and the recipes, so we can always sell somewhere else, it just means more costs and we’d have to sell the bar … which …” Which would be fucking devastating, a time suck, and a waste of money. I don’t finish the sentence. I’m not going to kick the man when he’s down.

  “We’ll do whatever we have to do. This beer is better than any of the shit in the liquor stores around here and on tap in their bars.” I slap my palm down on the table and tell him, “We worked too hard to go home now.”

  “You didn’t do shit,” Griffin says and finally cracks a smile as I slip on my jacket, ready to get the hell out of the brewery that ate up my savings and might have been useless to build down here. That sense of unease from earlier starts to eat away at me again and that tells me one thing: I need to get moving and focus on something else.

  “You’re going to stay down here, right?” Griffin asks as he stands up, the legs of his stool scratching against the concrete floor.

  “Yeah, I think so,” I say half-heartedly. My lease ran out when Gramps died and I have no desire to go back home. There’s no reason to at all, besides my mom’s cooking on Sunday family dinners. She gets why I had to leave, though. She understands how close I was to the old man.

  I answer him absently about whether or not I’m staying. “I’ll be here at least until we get the liquor license and make sure things are back on track.”

  Griffin scoffs as he takes the two glasses to a larger basin sink. “That could be a few weeks, or it could be a few months. They approve very few applications for those who aren’t from around here and given the lack of response I’m getting ...” he trails off and shakes his head, looking past me at all the brand-new equipment.

  “We have the state license. We can sell. Just not in a bar. We’ll make it work for now.”

  Standing straight up, Griffin’s my height. It was a running joke among our friend group back in high school that that’s why we saw eye to eye. We grew up the same in more ways than that. He’s leaner, though, and smarter than me in a lot of ways. I’m good with my hands and I’m willing to take risks that most people don’t. Together, we’re going to figure this shit out.

  “Stop worrying. Some things take time and we’ve got that. I’ll stay as long as it takes.”

  “If we don’t get that license,” he starts to say, continuing to dwell on it as I walk past him toward the large steel double doors, not bothering to stress about something I don’t have control over yet.

  “Let’s head over to the property anyway and see how the construction team is doing.” Turning to look back at him I add, “I need a break from beer tasting.”

  Griffin grins slyly. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

  We shut the doors of my pickup truck without locking them and walk toward our soon-to-be bar. Just seeing it standing there, all wood and stone, but knowing what it will be … shit, it makes all this stress worth it.

  In downtown Beaufort, mom-and-pop stores dot the streets along with white-posted porches of antebellum mansions. A fresh spring breeze tinged with sea salt gently passes us as we pause to take in the location.

  The site is an old hardware store we bought with the intent to tear down and rebuild. Our property features a rare corner parking lot in the middle of the downtown area, where space is at a premium, so it was worth every penny. We were able to buy the brewery space and equipment, plus the building lot and construction costs. Up next is the décor and menu, and I sure as hell have a vision for that, plus an idea of the cash needed. But now the license is stalled for the lot to be a legal bar for alcohol, in other words, using the brewery we bought to make an actual income rather than small-scale distribution. With nearly all my savings in these two investments, I need that license yesterday.

  Griffin told me going into this that it was a high-risk venture and my answer back was that those are the investments that are high reward. I’m starting to second-guess my mindset going into this. I may have been blinded but I know one simple thing for certain: it’s always been my dream to open up a bar near the ocean.

  “Good location,” I say, keeping it positive as another gust of sea breeze goes by us. Griffin no
ds, turning to look around as if he’s seeing it for the first time when I know he’s been down here nearly every day for months.

  Shoving my hands into my jean pockets, and listening to the slow traffic running down the street, I pay close attention to this old street that used to be Main Street according to the details on the listing.

  Our bar, assuming all goes well, is right next door to an art gallery. Next to that is an event space used mostly for weddings, along with school and corporate events. At the other end of the block is a funeral home.

  Whether due to tragedy or celebration, people always need a spot to drink and this is the perfect location for a bar.

  The sound of a circular saw reverberates through the place as Griffin and I enter the wide wooden door with iron details. That door was the first thing I bought for this place. Before we even had an address or knew we’d be in this town. That door is what I want everyone to see. It’s smoked and worn down. A showpiece of what I want to feel like a modern Irish pub. We’ve got a simple design for the bar laid out, but we’ve still got to put those finishing touches on everything that will make it the vision I’ve had in my head for years.

  Griffin and I talk with the contractor and a couple of carpenters about next week’s work.

  Since he’s local, sun-kissed and has that southern twang with a constant charming smile, Griffin blends right in. I, on the other hand, look and sound like a Yankee, or so I’ve been told. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been asked, “What brought you down here?” in the week I’ve been here.

  As Griffin and I review the plans on the only installed booth with the smell of fresh paint and sawdust all around us, he stops in the middle of his sentence.

  “You okay?”

  I meet his gaze. “I’m fine. Just imagining this bar filled, with a TV right there,” I say and gesture to the far corner. “A college game on and this whole town in here, drinking our beer while they cheer on the home team.”

  Griffin comically mimics a roar of cheers and a huff of a laugh leaves me.

  “Everything’s coming together,” I say then raise an imaginary glass and click my tongue when he pretends to clink his imaginary glass against mine.

  “Missed you, bro,” he tells me with a grin.

  Nodding, I tell him that I’m glad I’m here with him. Glad isn’t the right word, though. I can’t shake this feeling that’s come over me since I got here. I don’t think I like it. But part of me is excited as all hell by it.

  It’s just nerves. That’s all this is. I’m sure of it.

  We head outside with the intention of checking out our competition in town, a.k.a. having a few beers around town, and lean on my truck for a few moments, taking advantage of the fresh air and catching some late afternoon rays of sun.

  The sound of keys jingling approaches up the sidewalk, and next thing I know a gorgeous woman, petite with long blond hair, walks by us, then waits on the corner for the light to change so she can cross the street.

  Griffin is saying something but his voice turns into background noise, my eyes drawn to her like she said my name even though I know she didn’t.

  The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and an eerie feeling of déjà vu comes over me.

  Long strands of blond hair cascade down her back. She wears a pastel floral skirt along with a simple cream tank top to match. I don’t recognize her as anyone I’ve run into since I’ve been in this town, but I feel like I know her.

  The light changes and as I watch her cross the street, something stirs from within me. Despite the fact that I didn’t get the closest look, the prick of familiarity with her is so strong.

  “You ever see that girl before?” I blurt out, interrupting Griffin as I tip my chin in her direction. It’s a small town. He told me once that everyone knows everyone.

  He turns his head to get a good look at her and his brow furrows. “Yeah, sure. She’s a few years younger than me, I think. My uncle knew her family, or at least he knew her father. Pretty sure everyone did. Magnolia Williamson.”

  “Magnolia,” I say, repeating her name so I can ease my voice over the softly spoken syllables. I don’t remember ever meeting a Magnolia. She disappears out of my line of sight and I turn my attention back to Griffin. “I don’t know anyone named Magnolia, but she seems familiar.”

  “Her father ran some faulty investment scheme that went downhill. He lost a lot of money for a lot of people. Then the asshole went and died a few years ago and left her to pick up the pieces. Gum?”

  Griffin holds out a stick of Wrigley’s gum for me to take.

  “No thanks,” I say and wave him off.

  He squints and looks at me as he shoves the piece into his mouth. “Why so curious?”

  I shrug and swing around to the door of my pickup.

  “She reminds me of a girl I once knew. But her name was Rose.”

  Magnolia

  Placing another sold sign on the original piece from a local artist, I let the sense of pride I’m feeling prance into a smile on my face. The new website is working like a dream.

  And that was my idea.

  A giddy little dance, one that lasts all of five seconds and ends with me looking over my shoulder to make sure no one passing by the empty art gallery was watching, is my reward. That and a bigger paycheck.

  The art in the gallery is stunning and photography can’t capture it. Video sure does a hell of a good job, though. My black heels go clickety-click on the old worn barn floors of the gallery as I make my way back to the counter. It’s the only piece of furniture in this place, bar the two simple white benches at the very front by the twin bay windows. We have art displayed both on the wall and on easels. No drinks are allowed in here so we don’t have a reason for tables, unless we’re holding an event.

  The twelve-foot-high ceilings are white, as are the walls. It’s stark and bare, which it should be if you ask me. The art is the point. The art should be everything. Those pieces are the only thing anyone should be looking at in here.

  Every square inch of this place is perfect … because the art is unique, exceptional and fully on display.

  It sells substantially better online, though. Especially now that we have videos of each individual piece and a strong social media presence.

  Nowadays, everything sells better online according to Mandy. My boss has a generation of experience more than me, complete with darn good taste. She also has a closet and a half of high-end clothes for all her trips up to New York that make me envious of her. And a husband who loves her and two perfect children who are my age but still in college. Graduate school for one, med school for the other.

  She’s the epitome of what every one of my classmates wanted to be when I was at UD for art history.

  Her own gallery, trips to every opening around the world worth mentioning in Aesthetica Magazine … and the well-rounded social life of a wife and mother. I’m nowhere near her level. I get her coffee, I crunch the numbers and manage the advertising, and in return, she lets me pick the art.

  My gaze wanders to the paper cup of coffee I got for her, knowing she’ll be in for the weekly meeting in T-minus five minutes.

  Mandy offered to pay my way to a handful of out-of-state galas this past year, but I always said no. Bridget is just a little young for me to feel comfortable leaving her for that long. Mandy knows, but she still always asks.

  It’s e-ver-y-thing when she comes back with pictures and stories about the events and artists. I may be working under her, but I still get to live the dream vicariously through her. One day, I’ll be in her shoes. I know I will. Years ago, I may have thought it would never happen, but I’ve clawed my way past that depression and now I know I won’t stop until I’m on top like she is. Until then, she’ll get me the new artists I’m dying to feature, and I get to learn everything there is to know about running one of the foremost galleries in the country.

  Gulping down at least a third of my far too sugary latte, I smile as I tally up this quart
er’s sales. She recruited me to get the new website online and trusted me to provide the videos detailing the art along with writing the copy for the website. And I freaking crushed it.

  Another five-second happy dance ensues, but this time someone walks by the front, their shadow preventing the afternoon sun from making its way back to me in the middle of the gallery. I plaster a sweet smile on my face, tapping at the keys and doing my best to look professional until the shadow passes.

  The silence and the wait remind me of when I first applied for this job. I was terrified to hand in my résumé anywhere in this town, let alone this place, my first choice for a job instead of settling for doing anything else here. It was a dream come true to have Mandy Fields move her art gallery to Beaufort. I didn’t have my degree, only three years of higher education under my belt. That wasn’t why I was afraid, though.

  My father ripped people off for a living. Every member of a board of directors, every family with any kind of financial influence, all lost money by investing with a crook. Said criminal being one Albert Williamson. My father, more than likely, stole from Mandy and her husband too.

  It was just as devastating as it was embarrassing. Even worse, it was damning in this small town.

  Everyone knew exactly who I was and my situation when I came home early from college to pick up the pieces of what was left. They all knew I’d never had a job and that I was his daughter. Who the hell was I to ask anyone to hire me? Let alone for my dream job.

  My worst fear was that they thought I didn’t fall far from the tree. Why would anyone employ the daughter of a liar and a thief?

  The news broke about my father, and he died the next day. Two weeks later, I learned there was no money. There was a single bank account with a few thousand in it but the cheat disguised as a bimbo that my father had been sleeping with ran off with it all.

  So I had nothing but a tainted last name and bills to pay. I had no experience, and no lifelines left. Mandy wasn’t my first option simply because of the shame. Renee convinced me to go for the one job I really wanted in this town. She said all the whispers and dirty looks were mistakes and the people around here would remember who I was and what I was made of. Fake it till you make it and all that. It’s her motto and she pushed me to do it. I’m so grateful she did. Robert gave me a place to stay so I could sell my family home and work on paying off debt after debt.