by Tessa Bailey
Piper took a lot of pleasure in handing Opal the mirror.
“So?”
Opal gasped. “Is that me?”
Piper scoffed. “Hell yes, it’s you.”
“Well.” Her grandmother turned her head left and right. “Well, well, well.”
“Considering that night out a little more seriously now, aren’t we?”
“You bet I am.” She looked at herself in the mirror again, then back to Piper. “Thank you for this.” Opal took a long breath. “Will you . . . come back and see me again?”
“Of course. And I’ll bring Hannah next time.”
“Oh, I would just love that. She was so tiny last time I saw her.”
Piper leaned down and kissed Opal on both cheeks, which she seemed to find inordinately funny, then left the small apartment, surprised to find herself feeling . . . light. Buoyant, even. She navigated the streets back to No Name without the use of her phone’s map, recognizing landmarks as she went, no longer unfamiliar with the friendly smiles and circling seagulls.
The envelope holding Henry’s possessions was tucked into her pocket, and that seemed to anchor her in this place. She stopped outside of No Name, taking a moment to look up at the faded building, and this time . . . she tried to really see it. To really think about the man who made his livelihood within its walls, once upon a time. To think about Maureen falling in love with that man, so much that she married and conceived two daughters with him.
She was one of those daughters. A product of that love. No matter what Piper felt for her past, it was real. And it wasn’t something she could ignore or remain detached from. No matter how much it scared her.
Feeling thoughtful and a little restless, she went to find Hannah.
* * *
Piper and Hannah stared down at the phone, listening to their mother’s voice through the speakerphone. “I reached out to Opal several times throughout the years,” Maureen said. “She’s as stubborn as your father was. She saw my leaving as a betrayal, and there was no fixing it. And . . . I was selfish. I just wanted to forget that whole life. The pain.”
“You could have told me about her before I came,” Piper intoned. “I was blindsided.”
Maureen made a sound of distress. “I was right on the verge and . . .” Maureen sighed. “I guess I didn’t want to see your faces when I told you I’d been holding on to something so important. I’m sorry.”
Twenty minutes later, Piper paced the scuffed floor of No Name while Hannah sat cross-legged on a barrel eating French fries, a thousand-yard stare in her eyes. Her sister was still processing the news that they had a freaking grandmother, but she probably wouldn’t reach full understanding until she could be alone with her records.
Reaching out to rub Hannah’s shoulder comfortingly, Piper looked around and surveyed the space. Was she suffering an emotional upheaval from the shock of finding a long-lost family member . . . or was she starting to develop an interest in this place?
They’d been so young when Maureen moved them. It wasn’t their fault they’d forgotten their father, but they couldn’t very well ignore him now. Not with pieces of him everywhere. And this disheveled bar was the perfect representation of a forgotten legacy. Something that was once alive . . . and now corroded.
What if it could be brought back to life?
How would one even begin?
Piper caught her reflection in a section of broken glass peeking out from behind a piece of plywood. Her talent for finding the most flattering lighting could not be discounted, but there were only a couple of cobweb-covered bulbs, with no light fixtures. It was basically anyone over twenty-five’s worst nightmare, because it highlighted every crevice in a person’s face. The place had a certain speakeasy vibe that could really benefit from some soft, red lighting. Moody.
Hmm. She was no decorator. Maureen paid an interior designer to come in annually and refresh the house in Bel-Air, and that included their bedrooms. But Piper understood atmosphere. What inspired people to stay awhile.
Some men went to bars to watch sports. Or whatever. But what packed a bar full of men? Women. Appeal to the ladies, and men started coughing up cover charges just for a chance to shoot their shot.
Where would she even start with this place?
“Just for the sake of argument, let’s say we wanted to pretty this place up. Considering we have limited funds, do you think we could make it worthwhile?”
Hannah appeared caught off guard. “Where is this coming from?”
“I don’t know. When I was talking to Opal, I started thinking how unfair it is that Henry’s own family never grieved him. Sure, it was mostly Mom’s decision, but maybe this is a way to make amends. To . . . connect with him a little bit. To have a hand in the way he’s remembered. Is that silly?”
“No.” Hannah shook her head. “No, of course it’s not. Just a lot to take in.”
Piper tried a different tack. “At the very least, this could be a way to convince Daniel we’re responsible and proactive citizens of the world. We could make over the bar, show him how dazzlingly capable we are, and get an early trip home to Los Angeles.”
Hannah raised an eyebrow.
“That’s not a bad idea. Not bad at all.” With a blown-out breath, her younger sister hopped off the stool, wiping her hands on the seat of her jeans. “I mean, we’d need a DJ booth, obviously.”
“Over there in the corner by the window?” Piper pointed. “I like it. People walking by would see MC Hannah spinning and trip over themselves to get inside.”
The sisters had their backs to each other as they completed a revolution around the bar. “This place isn’t big enough for a dance floor, but we could build a shelf along the wall for people to set their drinks. It could be standing room only.”
“Ooh. That’s totally an option for a new name. Standing Room Only.”
“Love.” Hannah pursed her lips. “We’d have to do a lot of cleaning.”
They shared a groan.
“Do you think we could fix these chairs?” Piper asked, running her finger along the back of a lopsided seat. “Maybe polish the bar?”
Hannah snorted. “I mean, what the fuck else are we doing?”
“God, you’re right. Can you believe it has only been five days?” Piper dug a knuckle into the corner of her eye. “What is the worst that can happen? We do a ton of work, spend all of our money, Daniel isn’t impressed and forces us to finish out our sentence, which should really just be my sentence?”
“Don’t split hairs. And the best that can happen is we go home early.”
They traded a thoughtful yet noncommittal shrug.
In that moment, the final shard of sunset peeked in through the grimy window, illuminating the mirror behind the plywood. There was a white corner of something on the other side, and without thinking, Piper moved in that direction, stepping over empty bottles to scoot behind the bar and pinch the white protrusion between her fingers. She gave it a tug and out came a photograph. In it, two people she didn’t recognize appeared to be singing in this very establishment, though a much cleaner version, their hair proclaiming them children of the eighties.
“Oh. A picture.” Hannah craned her neck to get a better look at the area behind the plywood. “You think there’s more?”
“We could pull this board down, but we’re either going to end up with splinters or a herd of spiders is going to ride out on the backs of mice, holding pitchforks.”
Hannah sighed. “After cleaning that upstairs toilet, I’m pretty desensitized to anything unpleasant. Let’s do it.”
Piper whimpered as she took hold of the plywood, Hannah’s grip tightening alongside hers. “Okay. One, two, three!”
They threw the wood board on the ground and leapt back, waiting for the repercussions, but none came. Instead, they were left staring at a mirror covered in old pictures. They traded a frown and stepped closer at the same time, each of them peeling down a photograph and studying it. “This guy looks familia
r . . .” Piper said quietly. “He’s way younger in this shot, but I think he’s the one who was in here Sunday night. He said he remembered Mom.”
Hannah leaned over and looked. “Oh my gosh, that’s totally him.” Her laugh was disbelieving. “Damn, Gramps. He could get it back then.”
Piper chuckled. “Recognize anyone in yours?”
“No.” Hannah took down another. “Wait. Pipes.”
She was busy scanning the faces looking back at her from the past, so she didn’t immediately hear the hushed urgency in Hannah’s tone. But when the silence stretched, she looked over to find Hannah’s face pale, fingers shaking as she studied the photo. “What is it?” Piper asked, sidling up next to her sister. “Oh.”
Her hand flew to her suddenly pumping heart.
Whereas the brass statue of Henry had been impersonal and the fishing license had been grainy, an unsmiling man making a standard pose, this photo had life in it. Henry was laughing, a white towel thrown over one shoulder, a mustache shadowing his upper lip. His eyes . . . they leapt right off the glossy photograph’s surface, sparkling. So much like their own.
“That’s our dad.”
“Piper, he looks just like us.”
“Yeah . . .” She was having trouble catching her breath. She took Hannah’s hand, and they turned it over together. The handwriting was faded, but it was easy to make out the words, Henry Cross. And the year, 1991.
Neither of them said anything for long moments.
And maybe Piper was just overwhelmed by the physical proof that their birth father had really existed, a picture discovered while standing in his bar, but she suddenly felt . . . as if fate had placed her in that very spot. Their life before Los Angeles had always been a fragmented, vague thing. But it felt real now. Something to explore. Something that maybe had even been missing, without her knowing enough to acknowledge it.
“We should pretty up the bar,” Piper said. “We should do it. Not just so we can go home early, but . . . you know. Kind of a tribute.”
“You read my mind, Pipes.” Hannah laid her head on Piper’s shoulder as they continued to stare down at the man who’d fathered them, his face smiling back from another time. “Let’s do it.”
Chapter Thirteen
Brendan watched through his binoculars as Westport formed, reassuring and familiar, on the horizon.
His love for the ocean always made returning home bittersweet. There was nowhere he was more at ease than the wheelhouse, the engine humming under his feet. A radio within reach so he could give orders. His certainty that those commands would always be carried out, no questions asked. The Della Ray was a second layer of skin, and he slipped into it as often as possible, anxious for the rise and fall of the water, the slap of waves on the hull, the smell of salt and fish and possibilities.
But this homecoming didn’t have the same feel as it usually did. He wasn’t calculating the hours until he could get back out on the water. Or trying to ignore the emotions that clung to the inside of his throat when he got his crew home safe. There were only nerves this time. Jumpy, anxious, sweaty nerves.
His mind hadn’t been focused for the last three days. Oh, they’d filled the belly of the ship with fish, done their damn job, as always. But a girl from Los Angeles had been occupying way too much headspace for his comfort.
God only knew, tonight was not the night for exploring that headspace, either.
As soon as they moored the boat and loaded the catches to bring to market, he was expected at the annual memorial dinner for Desiree. Every year, like clockwork, Mick organized the get-together at Blow the Man Down, and Brendan never failed to work his fishing schedule around it. Hell, he usually helped organize. This time, though . . . he wondered how he’d make it through the night knowing he’d been thinking of Piper nonstop for three days.
Didn’t matter how many times he lamented her glamorous internet presence. Didn’t matter how many times he reminded himself they were from two different worlds and she didn’t plan to be a part of his for long. Still, he thought of her. Worried about her well-being while he was on the water. Worried she wasn’t eating the right items off the menus he’d left. Hoped the hardware store had gotten his note and she was no longer bumping her head.
He thought of her body.
Thought of it to the point of distraction.
How soft she’d be beneath him, how high maintenance she’d probably be in the sack and how he’d deliver. Again and again, until she wrecked his back with her fingernails.
A lot of the men on board started checking their phones for reception as soon as the harbor was in sight, and Brendan normally rolled his eyes at them. But he had his phone in hand now, kept swiping and entering his password, wanting a look at her fucking Instagram. He’d barely been aware of the damn app a few days ago; now he had his thumb hovering over the icon, ready to get his fill of her image. He’d never been so hard up for relief that he beat off while on the boat, but it had been necessary the first damn night. And the second.
Three bars popped into the upper left-hand corner of his screen, and he tapped, holding his breath. The first thing he saw was the white outline of a head. Pressed it.
Piper had followed him back?
He grunted and looked over his shoulder before smiling.
There was one new picture in her feed, and he enlarged it, the damn organ in his chest picking up speed. She’d taken his suggestion and gone to the winery, and Jesus, she looked beautiful.
Making grape decisions.
He was chuckling over that caption when a text message popped up from Mick.
Call me was all it said.
Brendan’s smile dropped, and he pushed to his feet, pulse missing a few beats as the call to his father-in-law connected. Dammit, Piper had gotten herself in trouble again, hadn’t she? She’d probably started another fire or broken her neck falling down the stairs while trying to escape a mouse. Or—
“Yeah, hey, Brendan.”
“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “What happened?”
“Whoa, there.” Mick laughed, music playing in the background. “Nothing happened. I just wanted to remind you about tonight.”
Guilt twisted like a corkscrew in his gut. Here was this man preparing for a party to memorialize seven years without his daughter, and Brendan was worried about Piper. Could think of nothing but her. That wasn’t right. Wasn’t he a better man than that?
Brendan looked down at the wedding band around his finger and swallowed. Seven years. He could barely remember Desiree’s voice, her face, or her laugh anymore. He wasn’t the type to make a vow and easily move on from it, however. When a promise came out of his mouth, it was kept to the letter. She’d been woven into the fabric of his life in Westport so thoroughly, it was almost like she’d never really died. Which might account for him getting stuck on the till death part of his promise.
Remnants of her surrounded him here. Her parents, her annual memorial, people who’d come to their wedding. Taking the ring off had struck him as disrespectful, but now . . . now it was starting to feel even more wrong to keep it on.
Tonight was not the night to make big decisions, though.
He had a duty to be at the memorial and be mentally present, so he would be.
“I’ll be there,” Brendan said. “Of course I will.”
* * *
The first few years after Desiree passed, the memorial potlucks had been reenactments of her funeral. No one smiling, everyone speaking in hushed tones. Hard not to feel disrespectful being anything but grief-stricken when Mick and Della plastered pictures of their daughter everywhere, brought a cake with her name in bright blue frosting. But as the years went on, the mood had lightened somewhat. Not completely, but at least nobody was crying tonight.
The venue probably didn’t do much to cultivate an easy atmosphere. The basement of Blow the Man Down hadn’t seen renovations like the upstairs. It was a throwback to the days of wood paneling and low, frosted lighting, and it rem
inded Brendan of the hull of his ship, so much so that he could almost feel the swell and dip of the ocean beneath his feet.
A collapsible table and chairs had been set up against the far wall, laden with covered dishes and a candlelit shrine to Desiree, right there next to the pasta salad. High tops and stools filled out the rest of the space, along with a small bar used only for parties, which was where Brendan stood with his relief skipper, trying to avoid small talk.
Brendan felt Fox studying him from the corner of his eye and ignored him, instead signaling the bartender for another beer. It was no secret how Fox viewed the yearly event. “I know what you’re going to say.” Brendan sighed. “I don’t need to hear it again.”
“Too bad. You’re going to hear it.” Apparently Fox had taken enough orders over the last three days and was good and finished. “This isn’t fair to you. Dragging you back through this . . . loss every goddamn year. You deserve to move on.”
“Nobody is dragging anyone.”
“Sure.” Fox twisted his bottle of beer in a circle on the bar. “She wouldn’t want this for you. She wouldn’t want to be shackling you like this.”
“Drop it, Fox.” He massaged the bridge of his nose. “It’s just one night.”
“It’s not just one night.” He kept his voice low, his gaze averted, so no one would pick up on their argument. “See, I know you. I know how you think. It’s a yearly nudge to stay the course. Stay steady. To do what you think is honorable. When the hell is it enough?”
Goddammit, there was a part of him that agreed with Fox. As long as this memorial had remained on the calendar, Brendan kept thinking, I owe her one more year. I owe her one more. Until that refrain had turned into I owe it one more year. Or I owe Mick one more. For everything his father-in-law had done for Brendan. Making him captain of the Della Ray. Would that faith and trust go away if Brendan moved on?
Whatever the reason, at some point the grieving had stopped being about his actual marriage, but he had no idea when. Life was a series of days on land, followed by days at sea, then repeat. There wasn’t time to think about himself or how he “felt.” And he wasn’t some selfish, fickle bastard.
