by Riley Scott
“That’s the tricky part,” Bill cut in. “At some point down the road, you might have to realize these aren’t decisions per se. They’re ingrained in who she is. At least that’s what Chloe always told me and I never had a reason to doubt her word.” Bill looked up to the sky, as if searching for answers. “Has Amelia ever lied to you?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Well I mean she kept this pretty big truth, but it’s not something I can imagine having to talk to anyone about. I wouldn’t know how to have a conversation like that, one that I thought would change the way people who loved me looked at me. So I don’t blame her for that. But nah, she’s never lied to me. In fact she was the kid who would tell on herself before she ever got caught.”
“Then you might want to listen to her on what she’s telling you. I’m not sayin’ it’s going to be easy. Actually it might be the hardest thing you’ve had to do. Listen and try to understand. I’ll be honest,” Bill said, pausing to sip his beer, “it’s damn hard. I still don’t get it fully, other than I know Chloe fell in love with women. Always did. And I found ways to make sure our relationship never changed because of it.”
George nodded and Bill leveled his gaze, making eye contact. “It didn’t happen overnight,” he continued. “I can tell you that much. It happened after a lot of soul searching on my part, but I think you’re on the right road here. You sought help, so you’re already leaps and bounds above where I was that first day. Chloe came home from high school her sophomore year…I think that’s when it was. And, in true Chloe fashion, laid her soul bare at the dinner table. She was excited to have ‘figured out who she was,’ and I was devastated. I was supposed to be the hero of her life, the one who helped her find her way and figure out tough situations. Only she turned the tables on the life I thought we were supposed to have, and all of the sudden, I was in brand new territory. I didn’t have answers or advice, until I realized I did.”
“What do you mean?” George asked, throwing his hands up in the air in desperation. “That’s what’s been eating at me. I’m supposed to be able to guide my little girl in the right direction. I realize she’s not a little girl, but I don’t know how to help her or even attempt to be the one with the answers in this scenario.”
“What I mean is she’ll have the answers when it comes to who she is. You have the dad answers. You’re still her father and can still be her rock. You take your time in deciding when you’re ready to do that, but there are answers you do have.”
George looked at him, his brow knitting together in confusion.
“You know women—well, at least as well as anyone can know women.” Bill let out a small laugh. “And this is the part that takes time, but if you want to be there for her, you can be the one she turns to when she needs advice, when she’s had her heart broken. You can find little ways to still be that hero. It just takes time.”
George settled back in his seat, trying to process all he had heard today. It all felt so jumbled still, but he took comfort in Bill’s words. It would be okay.
“Think on it for a bit, and have another beer,” Bill said, handing another cold bottle to George.
George graciously accepted the other beer and popped the top, tipping the bottle up in the air and taking a long drink. “Thanks.” He nodded in his friend’s direction.
“I know it still seems weird, and it might not ever feel normal,” Bill said. “But for me it did after a while. I learned to remember that my daughter was the same girl she’d always been. Granted, she gave me a lot of time to digest the information. I thought she was being a rebellious teenager, but I was wrong. She told me, and then she let it slip to some others. Soon everyone knew. She was just being honest. That’s what Amelia is doing for you, too. And that honesty comes at a price for some.” Bill closed his eyes and looked down at the ground. Kicking the dust, he sighed. “It comes at a hefty price.”
“I’m so sorry,” George said again, searching for words that might make it hurt less.
“It’s done, George.” He shook his head. “It’s done, and I can’t change that. I think maybe that’s my best advice. Don’t try to change things you can’t. Instead, cherish the time you have with your daughter. I take comfort in the fact that she was there for Chloe, that they were happy.”
“You might not think that if Amelia’s fears come true,” George said, letting out a deep breath.
Bill turned his body in his seat. “What are you talking about?”
“Amelia said something about her prints being found around the house, and I’m not sure what that even means for her.”
“They don’t think she did this?” Bill rose. His cheeks shone red and he balled his fists up. “She had no part in this. I know as much. And yeah, I knew her prints were in that house. Why wouldn’t they be?”
George rose to his feet and placed a hand on Bill’s shoulder. “I don’t know what they think. I just know Amelia told us so we didn’t find out in some other way.”
Bill took a breath and shook his head. “They better not go after her. Then they’re just making a bad situation worse.”
George took his seat again, and Bill paced back and forth in front of him. Watching, George tried to understand why Bill was so protective of Amelia. He waited in silence, giving Bill time to chew on the information.
“My daughter already got killed for being who she was,” Bill finally said, spitting the words up into the sky. “Your daughter doesn’t deserve to be framed just because she was gay, too. We all know Amelia wouldn’t hurt a fly, and this is bullshit.” He kicked the ground again, and George wished he hadn’t said anything.
“I just thought you deserved to know.” George shrugged.
“No, I appreciate you telling me,” Bill said in a much deeper voice. “I tell you what, like I’m instructing you to do, I’m going to sit on this for the evening. But if they come after her in the slightest, I’m marching myself into that police station and telling them what I think.”
“Mind if we sit and think on it all together?” George asked, pointing back to the chair and untouched beer beside him.
“Okay.” Bill took his seat again. “I need to drink this beer anyway.”
“Helps you think, right?” George said, trying to add some good-natured humor back into the evening.
“Something like that.” Bill nodded.
Sipping their beers in silence, they caught the last bits of the sunset in all its glory. When darkness fell, Bill reached behind him in the cooler and pulled out two more beers. “One more and then we’ll all go home, just like the old days,” he said, handing one to George.
George laughed. “Yeah, those were some good old days.”
Bill nodded. “And there will be good days up ahead too. It’s all a little cloudy right now, but it’ll make sense again.”
“You think so?” George asked, not for his sake but for Bill’s. He knew he could do his best to maneuver the situation at hand for his family. Bill’s was going to take more than just a little time, though.
Bill shrugged. “I have to think so. Otherwise I would have followed right after her. I couldn’t be here if I didn’t think there was something worth sticking around for. As it is, life is different. But hell, that’s life. Life changes every single day, sometimes in big ways, sometimes in small ways. We roll with the punches, though. That’s what we’re made for.”
“I think you’re onto something there.” George laughed, as it occurred to him they’d never had a conversation quite this deep. “Hard to believe we’re those same old boys who never thought we’d get emotional or sit out here talking about feelings.”
“Yeah, those good old boys from the good old days are gone, and they left two crazy old men in their place.” Bill laughed. He turned to face George once more. “For what it’s worth, that Amelia of yours is good as gold.”
George raised his bottle in the air, clinking the glass against Bill’s. “To our girls, both good as gold.”
In the silence that follo
wed, George contemplated his next steps. Whatever it took, he was going to heed Bill’s advice and enjoy whatever time he might have with his daughter. Life was too short to live any other way.
Chapter Seventeen
Garth Brooks played out from the old jukebox in the corner, singing about having “friends in low places,” and the lights of the bar gave a comforting glow to the afternoon. Louie wiped down the counters and set out the stools, the same daily routine he had practiced for over twenty years. Looking around the place, he smiled. Everything looked perfect and even the pool table edges seemed to gleam in the glow of the light. He looked to the bar, satisfied to see it fully stocked and ready for the evening.
Maybe it made him a bad bartender considering this was his favorite time of the day, when the bar was completely empty and he didn’t have to worry about anything other than preparation. There was nothing around but good music and a man dedicated to making sure people had a good time.
It was the time when this place still held hopes. It seemed to be a realm of possibility. Maybe today someone would come in, looking for encouragement he could offer, or maybe someone would walk through those doors lonely and find a friend or perhaps the start of their love story.
He smiled and shook his head. At the core, he was still the same damn dreamer he had always been. But it had worked in his favor. If this place were his only legacy, he would still be pretty proud of that fact.
Through those front doors, he had watched as hopeless and depressed folks had come in looking for someone to talk to, someone to help them forget. More often than not, they’d left happier. He was no therapist, but he did seem to have a knack for helping people through the difficulties of crummy situations. He smiled as he reminisced over first kisses he’d witnessed and people deciding to go home for the night because talking through their problems was better than drinking them away. For the most part, he’d seen positive things come from his days here, although he’d seen his fair share of fights, angry drunks, and devastating alcoholism.
In the back room, he cleaned and readied the engraved mugs he’d had made for his most loyal customers, the ones he knew would most likely be coming through his doors after work tonight.
He lined them up one by one on the cabinet, laughing to himself about some of the antics pulled by his regulars. At the back on the top shelf, one mug caught his eye, and he winced.
“Chloe the Cowgirl,” it read. He had engraved it himself. She had been so thrilled when he presented it to her brimming with her favorite stout from the tap last Christmas. Every time she came in, he’d fill the glass and present it anew, as though it was a surprise every time.
Between her dazzling, genuine smile and her contagious laughter, she alone had the power to light up an entire room, and more often than not, she had turned this old bar into a full-fledged party. She’d play wingman for the young cowboys coming in for a drink after work, convince people to get off their stools and dance, play deejay at the jukebox and dedicate songs to people in good-natured ribbing, and make sure everyone had the time of their lives each time she entered the bar.
Laughter bubbled up inside him as he remembered the time one of the guys had challenged her to an arm wrestling contest. When she beat him with ease and grace, he challenged her left-handed. Again, she slammed his arm to the table, this time teaching him a lesson and rising with a cocky grin. Still undeterred, he decided he could at least outdrink her. The poor old sap had been wrong. Louie shook his head. That woman had been a pistol.
He looked up at the ceiling, wishing he could hear her voice just one more time while she regaled him with her lively stories or pour her another drink and offer her a kind smile.
He pulled her mug down, wiping the single tear from the corner of his eye. Gently polishing off the dust the mug had collected over the past few months, he ran his fingers over the engraved area.
“We miss you around here,” he whispered, hoping there was some way she could hear him. “We all do—especially me. And I’m sorry I didn’t do better that night. I didn’t have all the answers, but I damn sure thought I was protecting you the best I could. I see the error in that judgment now. I wish I could go back and figure out a way to make it right, but I want you to know we miss you. And I’ll be damned if I’m ever going to let someone else get hurt the way you did.”
He shook his head, anger seething through his veins at what had happened, as he put the glass back in its place on the top shelf. That’s where it would remain. A top shelf gal deserved a top shelf space.
The sound of footsteps in the bar area caught him off guard. He opened the doors at two o’clock in the afternoon every day, but never had people in before three. With it being a quarter after two, he thought he still had time. He laid down the rag in his hand, placed his palms on the countertop for support, and took a deep breath, allowing himself just a moment to gain composure after the onslaught of memories.
Righting himself, he headed for the front. “Good afternoon,” he called out before he could even see who had graced him with their early afternoon presence.
“Good afternoon,” a young man said, tipping his hat in Louie’s direction. He was wearing a black polo with the FBI logo emblazoned on the right breast pocket.
“What can I pour for ya?” Louie asked, noting the way the young man’s face was contorted in concern. “That’s a whiskey face if I’ve ever seen one,” he added when the man didn’t respond.
“Wish I could,” the man said, stepping forward with a frown. “My name is Clayton Turner, and I’m here on business, so I guess that whiskey drink will have to wait until the end of the day.”
“Bummer,” Louie said, adding a laugh to keep the mood light. “Well, in that case, what else can I do for you, and would you like a water?”
Clayton smiled and let out a sigh, taking a seat on one of the center barstools. “A water would be great. Thank you.”
Louie filled the glass with ice water and set it in front of Clayton. Pulling up the stool he kept behind the counter, he sat down, eye level with Clayton. “What’s going on? What kind of work brings you to a bar?” he asked, even though he figured he already knew the answer.
“I’m sure you’ve probably got a hunch, judging from your tone,” Clayton said, taking a drink of his water and letting out another sigh.
“That cop training did you some good, didn’t it?” Louie laughed. “I guess I won’t try to bullshit you on anything else. Yeah. I can guess why you’re here.”
Clayton nodded. He cast his eyes downward, looking defeated. “Same thing cops have been working on around here for the past few months. Same reason I’m in this town in the first place. Anyway, I need to talk to you about something a little different. I’m sure you’ve had your share of cops in and out of here, detectives asking you questions, and I’ve read your testimony. I already know where you stand on it, who you think did it, your evidence and more. I’ve read it all, and I’ve studied it. I’m not here to drag you back into that hell.”
“I appreciate that,” Louie said, shaking his head. “It is hell going back over all the details, wondering if it could have been prevented, remembering her in her last moments, and knowing the things that son of a bitch did.” Even though Clayton had promised not to drudge it up, the memories came back full force. Bile crept up the back of Louie’s throat and he swallowed hard.
“I understand that,” Clayton said. He let out a deep breath and took a drink of his water. “It seems like everyone around here feels that way, even though few are willing to go all in and place blame.”
“I’ve placed blame, and I’ll do it again. I don’t give a damn what position that boy thinks he holds in this town.” His voice was rising, so he shut his mouth.
Clayton waved his hand through the air. “I know,” he said. “But like I said, I’m here on another issue about the case today. You mentioned to the other detectives that Chloe was a regular here.”
Louie nodded, wanting to keep his words minimal so he d
idn’t have another outburst of passion.
“How regularly would you say she came in here?”
Scratching his head, he looked around the room, visualizing her here, walking around talking, joking, dancing and singing. He propped his elbows up on the counter. “I would say she was here a couple of times a week. Sometimes more, sometimes less. It all depended on what was going on with work and her personal life.”
“What details can you give me on her personal life?” Clayton asked, reaching over and grabbing a napkin from the pile stacked on the bar next to the wooden support beam.
When Louie didn’t immediately answer, Clayton fished a pen out of the breast pocket of his shirt and looked up to make eye contact with Louie. “People confide in bartenders all the time. What did she disclose about her personal connections?”
“What do you mean?” Louie wiped his sweaty palms on his pants’ legs. He hated open-ended questions geared to make him betray the confidence of his customers. Even if it was a dead customer, she deserved some respect instead of having her life ripped apart by vultures in the name of the law, especially when they already had the guilty party in custody. “Why don’t you ask what it is you want to know?” he added when Clayton didn’t reply.
“I want to know if she talked to you about things.” Clayton took a moment to scratch a few notes on the bar napkin. “I want to know if she was dating anyone.”
“She didn’t talk too much about those things,” Louie said with a shrug. “She kept her love life to herself a lot. At the time she passed, I didn’t know of anyone she might have been seeing.”
“But she did talk to you about those types of things in the past?” Clayton tapped his fingers on the bar top. “Did she tell you about other women she dated? Was she open about those things, or did she just bottle it up? Seems to me a woman so confident and happy to be who she was wouldn’t have been shy. And if I’ve heard anything about Chloe Stanton, it’s that she wasn’t a shy type of person.”
