Graham continued with his busywork. He lost count of how many times he wiped the bar top down, stacked coasters, and quickly sopped up any inkling of a water drop. The old decking that made up the bar top was rumored to have come from the same pirate ship the door and floor had. Again, rumors spread like wildfire, and he had no idea if it was true, but it was in pristine condition as far as he was concerned. At the end of the summer, once business slowed, he had begged his friend Brooklyn to teach him how to strip and refinish the piece. He wanted to maintain the chunks of wood as long as he could, and the previous finish hadn’t held up over the years. He filled the bowls of nuts, restocked the beers he kept in bottles, checked the taps of the newly installed IPAs, straightened the liquor bottles, dusted the glass shelving, washed the glasses, and checked on the old cronies in the corner.
The Whale Spout was Cape Harbor’s only watering hole. Not that others hadn’t tried to open other bars; they just couldn’t compete and often closed within a year or two. Sure, the restaurants in town served liquor, but the locals preferred the one that had been in town the longest. “The OG,” as you’d often hear residents tell visitors. Since Graham took over, he’d made a few changes, such as the large-screen projector in the back that aired local sporting events, the smaller televisions at the bar, a better jukebox—because even he knew he had to cater to the women who wanted to dance while their men wanted to be at the bar. He wanted the place to be the hot spot, the happening joint, the place to be, and for the most part, he thought it was.
There were a few other patrons in the Whale Spout, two of whom sat at the bar and four or five guys in the back, playing darts. Each week, there were darts and billiards tournaments and, in the summer, beach volleyball. He always offered cash prizes, the amount determined by the number of entrants.
For the past fifteen years, Graham had been behind the bar. Before him it had been his father, and before his father, his grandfather. Graham wasn’t sure if it was his grandfather’s intention to create a Chamberlain legacy, but he had. It seemed almost like one hundred years had passed since Floyd Chamberlain bought the Whale Spout. A framed picture of him holding the driftwood sign sat near the cash register, along with similar pictures of the other previous owners. Graham never intended to take over the bar, and it really hadn’t been expected of him either. His parents never pushed and instead encouraged him to go to college in California. They secured the loans with the understanding he would pay them back once he landed his first job. His first, and subsequently only, job came in the form of a systems IT analyst and came with a nice Silicon Valley paycheck.
Living in California wasn’t exactly a dream but a stepping-stone to something bigger and better. His intentions were to either return to Washington or move to Oregon in ten to fifteen years and open his own security and IT company. Far too often, small businesses and the average computer user didn’t protect themselves from cyberattackers, and he had a plan to combat the rising epidemic. After college, he found a couple roommates, four to be exact, to share in the expenses of living in one of the most expensive areas. Carpooled to work to save on the wear and tear of his car, rode his ten-speed bike as often as he could, and opted to have people over rather than going out on the town. Paying his parents back was a priority, and when he wrote the first check out to them, he had done so with pride.
His life, like others around him, changed in an instant. It was one phone call about his brother and a childhood friend. Austin Woods was one of Graham’s closest friends. He grew up with the twins, along with Bowie Holmes and Jason Randolph; the five of them seemed inseparable. Austin was destined to be a fisherman. It was in his blood. Grady loved being on the open sea as well, and it only made sense for them to open a business together after they graduated from high school. From what Grady had told Graham, the Chamberwoods Fishing Company did well. They were thriving, at least until one fateful night when Austin took their boat out in the middle of a storm. It rained a lot along the coast of Washington, especially in the northern portion, but there had been a record rainfall that year, and the waterline had risen to new levels. Most everyone was smart enough to keep their boats docked during a storm—even Austin knew the risks. Still, he went out and took Grady with him.
Graham would never forget the way his father screamed into the receiver with his mother crying in the background—not only for her son, but for Austin as well. It was heart wrenching, and it made him nauseous. He never knew what true fear felt like until he was on the road, driving north. Swallowing had become difficult, his breathing labored. Graham’s hands ached from the death grip he had on the steering wheel, and his back screamed out in pain from the cramped quarters of his small car. Any other day, he would’ve been happy to have Rennie by his side, but not because of these circumstances.
The trip from Palo Alto back home took eighteen hours between traffic and stops to fill up, eat, and use the bathroom. They took turns driving, worrying about their friends, and sitting in silence because they ran out of things to talk about. The history between the two of them was palpable. They had an unmistakable attraction to each other and gravitated toward one another when they’d end up someplace together, which had also caused problems in Graham’s relationship with his girlfriend at the time, even though he had never been unfaithful. When neither he nor Rennie had a significant other, they were often together but never could quite break out of the friends-with-benefits zone.
When they arrived in Cape Harbor, they went to work. He down to the docks to aid the search party for Austin, and she to Brooklyn to comfort her best friend. Graham couldn’t quite remember when Rennie had gone back to California; he could only recall how much he missed her. He would make one more trip to Palo Alto, but only to quit his job on the spot and move his stuff out of the house he shared. The drive back had taken him half a week. He was going back to his hometown to help his twin and put his life on hold. He wouldn’t hear from Rennie again until the day she walked into his bar just a few months ago. Since then, whenever he had too much time on his hands, he thought about her. Everyone around him was happy for Bowie and Brooklyn, who had found their way back to each other after fifteen years. Their relationship was anything but a fairy-tale romance. For most of his life, Bowie had been in love with Brooklyn, who had been in love with Austin and Bowie. Years later, Carly Woods, Austin’s mother, enticed Brooklyn to return to Cape Harbor to renovate the inn she owned. Brooklyn returned with her fourteen-year-old daughter in tow, throwing everyone around them for a loop. Everyone, including Brooklyn, had believed Austin to be Brystol’s father, but Carly had known otherwise and had kept the child’s paternity a secret, until she made a deathbed confession. Not that it mattered. Bowie had a second chance with Brooklyn, and he wasn’t going to pass it up.
Graham wondered when his own moment of happiness would come. Sure, he could pursue any of the women in town, but none of them intrigued him as much as Renee Wallace. From the day he met her, many years ago, she’d always understood him. Unfortunately, time and distance forced them apart. For a moment, when Rennie returned, he thought they could reconnect. They did, but only as friends. She was happy, in a committed relationship, living in the city and doing what she loved, and he was a bartender with nothing on the horizon. He had nothing to offer her and was certain she knew this.
Still, when Rennie sent a text to their “CH Bitches” group chat, his hope spiked. She was on her way to the inn, coming for Thanksgiving. Graham looked at his phone and typed, Is Theo joining you? His finger hovered over the arrow that would send the question. Should he send it? He thought on it until the door to the Whale Spout opened, and a family walked in. He quickly erased his words, pocketed his phone, and sighed. The holidays meant more time at his parents’, a place he’d rather not be. His mother would fuss over Grady, and his father would pretend his sons had perfect lives. The Chamberlains had mastered the art of brushing problems under the rug, and because it was the holidays, Graham was expected to play his part as the dutiful
son and brother.
Graham tended to his customers, picking up on bits and pieces of their conversations. They were traveling north and took a wrong turn, ending up in Cape Harbor. They asked him if he knew of a place to stay. He told them about the Driftwood Inn and volunteered to send a message to the owners to let them know a family would be up after dinner. He retrieved his phone and looked at the group chat again. Someday, he would tell Rennie how he felt. But until then, he’d keep his feelings hidden.
THREE
With Thanksgiving being the next day, the last place Renee wanted to be was in a partners’ meeting, listening to some kiss-ass financial guy tell the staff of lawyers how to do their jobs. The bottom line: there wasn’t a single attorney who went into a case trying to lose, yet the man standing at the front of the conference room, with his pin-striped double-breasted suit neatly pressed and his jacket buttoned, had the gall to inform her and her colleagues how much the firm would earn if they were to come away with victories. She was being harsh but with good reason; she was ready for a minivacation, and she counted down the minutes until the office officially closed for the holiday. Not to mention, she handled divorce, not civil or criminal cases. Her fee was set by the firm and paid for by clients. As much as she wanted to leave at noon, she would wait until the lunch rush in the city died down before driving north to Cape Harbor. Now that Brooklyn and her daughter, Brystol, were so close by, Rennie wanted to spend as much time with them as she could.
Finally, the money guy closed his binder, and Renee did the same, only for the CEO, Lex Davey, to stand, button his suit jacket, and walk to the front of the room. He presented a rundown of cases he would like to see closed by the end of the year, and she had three of them. She thought about each one, mentally questioning if it were possible, and concluded that two could settle out of court, but the third was contentious. She represented an author who separated from her husband over a year ago, and he refused to sign the divorce decree until he was guaranteed a portion of his wife’s royalties, citing he was part of the creative process and had provided content for every book written while dating and throughout the marriage. He was even laying claim to novels written during the separation. Renee tried to get the couple to come to a peaceful resolution, but the husband refused and had since hired his own attorney. Still, she had hoped the four of them could come to an agreement, and when talks broke down, she knew court seemed increasingly likely. A hearing date had yet to be set, but Renee was ready. As far as she was concerned, it was her client who had created the content, put in countless hours of typing, stressed over queries with agents and subsequently acquisition editors, marketed herself on social media and in the public, and worried about sales, all while raising their family and maintaining her health. What had the client’s husband done? Told a few coworkers to read his wife’s book? To Renee, that did not constitute enough to take a percentage of earnings, past or future.
“Ms. Wallace, an update on the Soto case?” Lex Davey owned the firm but was not an attorney. His wife started the company many years ago, and when she passed away, he took over. Now he sat three floors up in an office big enough to be a house, worrying about laws he knew nothing about, courting women, and entertaining politicians.
She sat up straight, opened her binder, and dragged her finger down the color-coded tabs until she reached a red one marked “Soto” and flipped to the section. She knew the case by heart, but for some reason, Lex Davey shook her to the core. Maybe it was the way he leered at her when they made eye contact or how he would make comments regarding her clothing. His words often bordered on harassment but were never enough to fully cross the line. Telling her she wore a nice skirt or saying she looked good in a particularly colored blouse was technically harmless. Words were words, but it was the looks he gave her when he said such things that made her feel uneasy. Thankfully, she only had to converse with him minimally and normally only during meetings. She cleared her throat and gave a recap of how the case had progressed.
“Any chance for a settlement?” Justin Baylor asked, another junior partner who was about five years younger than Renee but surprisingly made partner in his second year with the firm.
She tilted her head slightly, as if she would signal no, but stopped. “My client, as you can imagine, would like to protect her assets. She was the one who put in the work and doesn’t feel her ex is entitled to anything at all. We have offered him one percent; he has countered with fifty-one, which would give him full control over Mrs. Soto’s artistic work, and this is out of the question. The man has done nothing to improve or contribute to my client’s business, and—not that it matters—Mrs. Soto writes under a pen name and has very rarely spoken about her husband in any public manner. She is not damaging nor enhancing his reputation, and therefore he should not benefit from hers.”
“What about thanking him in acknowledgments?” one of the partners, Donna Pere, asked. She and Donna had a good bit of history. They met at Santa Clara Law when Renee was in law school and Donna was teaching a summer course on ethics. They stayed in touch, and when Renee needed an internship, Donna brought her on at the firm she worked for. Rhoads PC enticed Donna with a job in Seattle, which opened the door for Renee to return home. The interview had gone well, and Donna had raved about her ability, but the wait to hear whether the firm would hire her kept her on her toes. It took two months for the board to decide her fate.
“Only if he can make the claim that she included him in ‘Many thanks to my family.’ If the judge agrees, we’re going to see a lot of people coming out of the woodwork to sue for royalties.”
“Sounded like an open-and-shut case when you signed on,” Lex pointed out. Renee wanted to ask him what he knew about open-and-shut cases, but she held her tongue. Another time, another place for outbursts such as those. Instead, she smiled, nodded, and shut the binder, hoping to convey she was done talking.
Lex then asked, “Anyone have anything we should know about?” He made eye contact with each senior and junior partner sitting at the table. All were quiet until he came to Donna, who sat upright. She cleared her throat and looked down at her notes.
“A friend of a friend asked me to look into a civil case as a favor. There was a car accident over the summer in which the driver ended up paralyzed. The parents of the driver want to sue the bartender that served their daughter alcohol, saying they never checked her ID. They admit she was already drunk when she entered the establishment and contend the liquor served made her more impaired, and therefore she shouldn’t have been served nor allowed to leave without someone taking her keys or a car being called for her.”
“Was she with friends?” Renee asked.
“She was.”
“Are they being sued?” Renee shocked herself with her question. One reason she went into law was to fight for injustices. She thought she would practice criminal law and spend her life defending the innocent, but after one of her internships, family law had captured her attention.
“They aren’t,” Donna responded.
“If the young woman had friends with her, why didn’t one of them drive?” Lex asked. Renee wanted to know the same thing.
“A joyride gone bad?” The way Donna spoke made it sound like a question and like there was more to the story, and it seemed Lex felt the same way.
“Let it go; it sounds like a loss for us.” Lex stood and abruptly ended the conversation. “Happy Thanksgiving,” he said in a cheery voice. “By the way, Christmas bonuses will come earlier than normal this year.”
She gathered her things in her arm and held them precariously as she read the messages on her phone. Emails from clients complaining about missing child support payments or spousal support. There was a hint of desperation in each email, and her heart went out to her clients. The holidays were upon them, and people counted on those monthly payments. She also had a slew of text messages, mostly from Brooklyn, who was, per her typed words, OMG SO EXCITED TO SEE YOU! The message made Renee smile. Once she was in Cap
e Harbor, she could relax and let the stress of work drift out into the ocean. Four days of nothing but her friends, shopping, wedding talk, and Christmas decorating were exactly what she needed.
She stopped at her secretary’s desk. Ester Singer had been with Rennie since she started at Rhoads, and she insisted Ester come with her when she was promoted to junior partner. Ester looked up as Renee approached and, as coyly as possible, slid the ad she was perusing under her keyboard.
“Any good sales?” Renee asked. She never wanted to be that boss, the one who chided their employees for taking mental health breaks, and yes, she considered looking at Black Friday ads a mental health break.
“Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“My niece is fourteen. What do teens like these days?”
Ester pulled the hidden advertisement out from under her keyboard and flipped rapidly until she came to the page she was looking for. She turned it toward her boss. “I get one for my daughter every year, and she loves it.” Ester pointed to a box of sample perfumes. “You get thirteen of the most sought-after fragrances, all designer, and the best part is they get a full-size bottle of their choice, all for sixty-five dollars.”
Until Then Page 3
