Getting Lucky (Asheville Brewing Book 3)

by Denise Grover Swank

  He made a face. “I’m not taking care of a stupid baby.”

  She smiled knowingly. “You were once a stupid baby, and I took care of you.”

  He sighed. “Okay. I’ll help take care of the baby.”

  Even if that was the last thing he wanted. He was biding his time until he turned eighteen and could escape. An infant brother or sister would only tie him down.

  Reaching over the small kitchen table nestled into a bowed window, she patted his hand, her eyes brimming with tears. “You’re a good boy, Jacques. Don’t let anyone ever tell you any different.”

  He wished she’d remind his mother of that.

  She took a breath, hesitating, then said, “I won’t always be here to protect you and your new brother or sister, so I need you to make me a promise.”

  “What?” he exclaimed, dropping his half-eaten cookie onto the old china plate. She’d always used her china, saying beautiful things were meant to be used, not put on a shelf and admired. “Don’t talk like that. You’re going to be a very old woman.”

  She smiled softly, as though she was keeping a secret. “That is my wish as well, but promise me anyway.”

  His mother took promises lightly, but his grandmother had taught him that a man’s ability to keep his word was one of the most important reflections of his character. For him, making a promise, especially to her, was akin to signing an oath in blood. Normally, he wouldn’t agree to a blind promise—she’d taught him that as well—but this was Mémère. He’d literally give her anything she asked for. “Anything.”

  A soft smile lifted her lips. “When I am no longer around—hopefully, years from now—I need you to protect this baby. Just like I’ve protected you.”

  He stared at her in surprise, realizing what she had said was true. She had spent the entirety of his life protecting him, but he’d just seen it as loving him.

  “I won’t need to take care of the baby since you’re going to live to be one hundred and two,” he insisted, “but I’ll help you. I promise.”

  Her gray eyes turned serious. “Not just help me, Jacques. If I am gone, I need your assurance that you’ll protect him or her. Your mother’s ten times worse now than when she had you. This child needs us.”

  He swallowed, realizing this was a grave matter. “I promise.”

  She sat back in her chair, relief flooding her face. “Thank you, Jacques. You are a good boy. I hope I can see you become a good man.”

  But she hadn’t. She’d died the next year, when Iris was just three months old. Later, he found out Mémère had been diagnosed with inoperable cancer right around the time she’d sat him down for their chat. She had been living on borrowed time.

  And that was how Jack had become responsible for his sister’s well-being.

  Iris’s father was married, and he’d been about as eager to have a child with Genevieve as Jack’s father had been, so he’d paid a small fortune to get her to sign a nondisclosure agreement. Which meant they’d lived fairly well when Iris was little. Not that Genevieve had changed overnight and become a good mother. Thank God she’d hired a nanny for Iris, someone who’d provided her with a bit of the stability that Jack’s grandmother had afforded him. But the well had gone dry after Iris turned four, and the nanny had left. Jack had found himself essentially raising his sister by the time he was fifteen.

  His mother had kicked him out the day after his high school graduation, telling him he needed to learn to make his own way in the world like her, which he’d found hilarious since she’d seemed to make her way mostly off the income he and his sister provided. He’d always wondered where the money had gone. His mother must have gotten thousands of dollars in child support a month, and she was a real estate agent who only worked with high-powered clients. Now he suspected she’d run through it all on alcohol and drugs and maybe gambling to self-medicate the bipolar diagnosis she refused to acknowledge.

  It didn’t take a genius to realize his eviction had coincided with his father’s last child support check. He’d wanted to tell her off, to confront her with the cold, hard truth of who she was, but he knew she’d cut him out of her life, which meant she’d cut him out of Iris’s life, which was unacceptable.

  So he’d bitten his tongue and suffered her highs and lows, all so he could be there for his sister.

  They’d continued to be close, very close. He kept her for occasional overnight visits, but most of the work he did was at night. Although he’d chosen his reading list from the syllabuses of his friends’ classes, he hadn’t gone to college. Instead, he’d worked his way up from busboy to waiter. Bartender to bar manager. It had paid off, and he was finally making decent money, a year out from Iris’s high school graduation—which would free both of them—when he got the call from an attorney in Asheville telling him his paternal grandfather had mentioned him in his will.

  And then his whole world had changed.

  Part of him still wondered if he shouldn’t have been so insistent about keeping the brewery, but it had felt like his chance to finally make something of himself. To live a life that was no longer dependent on his mother’s whims. To be his own man. Iris was leaving anyway, and after she left for college, he didn’t want to find himself in an empty existence that had suddenly lost its center. Then Iris had called during his and Georgie’s disastrous walk-through of the brewery, less than an hour after they’d signed the papers to keep it. Genevieve had gone off the deep end and hit Iris and then smashed up the house. Jack had caught the first flight out of Asheville and rushed home to get his mother admitted to a psychiatric unit.

  He’d spent the whole summer in Chicago, taking care of Iris, filing an emergency petition to get custody. His sister had been one hundred percent on board with the decision…until she found out Jack planned to take her to Asheville.

  He’d considered backing out of the brewery, but he could hear his grandmother’s voice in his head. A man’s word is the measure of his character.

  But which promise held priority? His promise to help run Buchanan Brewery or his promise to protect his sister? Surely the latter promise was more important—Georgie certainly didn’t need him—and yet he couldn’t find it in himself to step away. It wasn’t just about the opportunity that had fallen into his lap—part of it had been his need to know them, the half-sisters and brother he’d never met.

  His mother had been released from the hospital, now on medication to control her mood swings, and Iris had insisted that she wanted to finish out her senior year at home and look after her.

  “We can’t both abandon her,” she’d said in a snide tone, a dig at his intended move to Asheville.

  “You can come with me, Iris,” he’d insisted. “The judge said you can decide who you want to live with.”

  “I know who I want to live with,” she said sullenly. “And I know where I don’t want to live.”

  So he’d reluctantly moved to Asheville, waiting until the very last possible moment, praying Iris would change her mind.

  Then earlier this week, Iris had called crying, begging him to come home. Their mother had gone off her meds and was acting out worse than before, bringing men to their house and partying and drinking. One of the guys had made advances on Iris after she came home from a half-day at school.

  Beyond furious, Jack had insisted on flying home to Chicago to press charges. Iris had already gotten out of the house, thank God, and was staying with a friend, but she’d refused to press charges, saying the guy had only tried to kiss her.

  “I don’t want to live with her anymore, Jack. You win. I’ll move to Asheville. How soon can I come?”

  He hadn’t wanted to win. He’d only wanted to protect her, which was what he’d always wanted. His greatest hope was that she’d love Asheville as much as he already did.

  He’d talked to her friend Janie’s parents, whom he’d gotten to know well over the years, and they’d agreed to bring Iris to Genevieve’s house to pack the rest of her things. Then he’d arranged for an
eight a.m. flight out of Chicago to Charlotte.

  He pulled into the airport parking lot, his stomach a ball of nerves when he saw that her plane had been scheduled to land five minutes ago. They’d probably arrive at the luggage carousel at the same time, but he’d planned on meeting her at the security exit.

  He was late because he’d stayed with Maisie, which filled him with guilt, and then even more guilt because he wasn’t sorry. Even if he never got another day or night with Maisie, he couldn’t regret their night together. Which only proved it had been something special.

  But when he walked through the door, he saw Iris was standing next to the carousel, surrounded by three large bags and a couple of small carry-ons. She looked lost and bewildered, and his heart wrenched.

  He never should have left her with their mother.

  “Iris,” he called out, and her face swung toward him, her dark brown eyes brimming with unshed tears.

  Her face crumpled when she saw him, and she burst into sobs.

  He ran to her, gathering her in his arms and holding her close as she wet his shirt with her tears. She sobbed and sobbed as he stroked her long dark hair. “You’re safe. I’m here. Nothing’s ever going to happen to you again.”

  “Where were you?” she asked, her voice muffled. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

  He tilted her head back and cupped her cheek. “I will always come, Iris. Always.”

  She hugged him tighter, as though hanging on for dear life, and he wondered once again if he’d screwed up by coming to Asheville, because he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’d screwed up by leaving her.

  He wouldn’t let her down again.

  Chapter Seven

  Three weeks. It had been three weeks since Jack Durand had spent the night at Maisie’s house. So why was she still dreaming about him? Why was she still smelling his scent, which had long since faded, on her pillows?

  She hadn’t seen him a single time in the interim. It was surprisingly easy to avoid someone when you really set your mind to it, something she’d already discovered in her months-long avoidance of River after he first hooked up with Georgie. But that had been a mistake, one that had hurt both of them, and her sister Molly was adamant that this was too.

  “You don’t know what the rest of that note said, Maisie,” she insisted. “He probably said that he wants to keep f—”

  “Little ears,” Mary interrupted, covering her toddler son’s ears.

  Maisie felt a press of longing. It was Thanksgiving morning, and the O’Sheas were all supposed to be together—they were all supposed to be here, at their family house—but Molly had been given an assignment about holiday dating that required her to go on five Tinder dates on Thanksgiving Day (a huge opportunity, she insisted), and Mary and her husband had decided at the last minute to bring Aidan along to visit his paternal grandparents. So instead, she was sitting at her dining room table, looking at them through a computer screen.

  “You might want to inform him he had another set of grandparents,” Maisie had snapped upon learning the news. “Or that, I don’t know, his aunt actually has a life outside of visiting him every few months. I promised to take him to the shelter. You said you were coming.” That last sentence had gotten a little more pitchy than she would have liked. Dammit, she hated showing her cards—she much preferred knowing what was in everyone else’s hands.

  Mary had just shrugged as if it was out of her control, but Maisie knew better. Just like she knew Molly didn’t have to do Datesgiving, as she was calling it.

  They didn’t want to come. And she knew they thought she was the one who needed therapy, that her wish to live at home, among their parents’ things, was weird, bordering on creepy.

  But her thoughts digressed.

  “How did you know I was going to say something naughty?” Molly complained.

  “Because I know you,” Mary said with an eyeroll. “What are you going to do when you see him, Maisie?”

  For a second, she almost asked Him, who?

  Because she was going to see both of them today: Jack and River. Which had to be the worst idea she’d ever come up with.

  But her sisters had bailed on her, and Adalia was hosting a big Thanksgiving extravaganza at Beau Buchanan’s old house, and she hadn’t really been allowed to say no. Adalia had told her in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t hear of it. Plus, she’d seen River and Finn on Tuesday night, and they’d agreed they would hunt her down like a couple of bounty hunters if she bailed.

  To her surprise, River still hadn’t told Finn about his engagement, which probably meant it hadn’t happened yet. But it was going to happen soon, and she’d feel like she was sitting on the edge of her seat until it did. Which was, all in all, a very good reason to stay home today.

  But you want to see Jack, a little voice insisted.

  She did. But she wasn’t sure what it meant, and they’d be surrounded by other people. By River and Georgie, Finn and Adalia, Dottie and whomever she’d been allowed to invite (although surely she’d gone rogue and invited some people on the Do Not Call list), as well as Jack’s kid sister Iris. It had all the hallmarks of an awkward situation.

  “Well?” Mary pressed. “What are you going to say to him?”

  “I guess I’ll start with hello.”

  Molly rolled her eyes. “Or you could pull him into the bathroom and lock the door.”

  “You seriously might have an s-e-x addiction,” Mary said, scowling.

  Aidan had run off, and it felt like Molly was meeting Maisie’s eyes through the camera, the two of them sharing the same thought: why was their sister spelling it out if her son wasn’t there to hear her? They both burst out laughing.

  “It might not be a bad idea,” Maisie said, pretending to think about it. “We did have some pretty great s-e-x against the bathroom wall.”

  “Oh, you two,” Mary said, as if they shared an affliction and she pitied them. Truth be told, Maisie felt a little sorry for Mary, what with her husband Glenn’s dad jokes and endless stories about his boring job in middle management. Which was judgmental of her for sure, but she’d never pretended to be a people pleaser.

  “The truth is I don’t know,” Maisie said honestly. “I’m going there with no expectations other than to bring home some gross turkey for the dogs.”

  “And what are you going to eat?” Mary asked. “A dish full of potatoes?”

  Maisie rolled her eyes. “I’ll carve some delicate pieces of Tofurky, white meat only.”

  “It comes in different colors?”

  Her elder sister had to be the most literal person on Earth, God love her. Maisie had been a vegetarian since she was ten—when she realized where the chicken on her plate had come from—and Mary still worried about her protein intake.

  “On that note,” Maisie said. “I have to go get ready. We’re supposed to be over there at twelve, and I still have to make something.”

  “What are you making?” Mary asked.

  “Mom’s corn casserole, of course,” Maisie said. Because it was what she made every year, for every potluck Thanksgiving.

  A flash of something like sadness crossed her older sister’s face. She opened her mouth to say something, but Molly interrupted.

  “Wear something sexy!” she shouted, as if she needed to speak loudly to be heard through the internet connection. Given that she was the youngest of them, she really should know better.

  “How about pants with an expandable waistline and a shirt from the shelter?” she asked, raising her brow. “Sexy enough for you?”

  “Hubba hubba, ding-dong,” Molly teased.

  They exchanged their goodbyes and hung up. Aidan’s “Happy Thankthgiving, Aunt Maithie” almost made her cry—he had a bit of a lisp, and even though her sister had him in speech therapy, she secretly thought it was adorable.

  Einstein looked up at Maisie and whimpered. Chaco sat beside him, wagging her tail.

  “Yeah, I know,” she said in an undertone. “I
miss them too. And I wish I could bring you guys with me.” Einstein had taken an immediate dislike to Tyrion, Adalia’s dog, when she’d briefly brought him home as a foster. Chaco would have been fine—she liked everyone—but it felt unconscionable to leave Ein alone, even if he didn’t know it was Thanksgiving. Jack had been right. The dogs did better together.

  “You’ll get plenty of turkey.” The other dogs at the shelter would get some later this evening. Dottie always made enough for them, and she’d promised to bring over a Tupperware. The shelter was closed for the day, but they were never truly closed. Even if no one was on full-time duty, they still had someone come by to check on the dogs every few hours. Thankfully, Maisie had a couple of very diligent full-time employees, plus a volunteer staff that generously donated their time.

  Ein perked up at the mention of turkey, then followed her down to the kitchen while she cooked. She hummed to herself, startling when she realized what she was humming: “Dream a Little Dream of Me” by the Mamas and the Papas.

  Although it pissed her off that she cared, Maisie had spent a little longer on her outfit than usual, ending up in a green blouse—Jack had said the color made her eyes pop—a pair of black slacks and a knitted cardigan. But she’d gotten a call from the on-duty volunteer on the way to Adalia’s house, and she’d needed to stop by the shelter to give one of their anxious strays his meds. (The volunteer had been worried about getting bitten, which probably wouldn’t have happened with that particular dog, but at the end of the day, they were volunteers.) So now her pants were covered in fluffy white hair (amateur mistake), and she was half an hour late.

  The driveway was clogged with cars, so she parked a little ways down the block, did a half-hearted job of wiping the dog hair off with the roller she kept in her car, and grabbed her casserole dish.