I favored my mother, but I did have my dad’s hazel eyes.
It was a gorgeous day, mid-seventies with big, puffy white clouds rolling over us, giving us a brief reprieve from the sun before it’d beat down on us again. For all intents and purposes, it was the perfect day to be on the course.
But, I hated golf.
I respected it for the tradition it had in the sports world, and I figured that, had I been raised differently, I might have found joy in watching it or playing from time to time. But, as it was, Daddy had taught me as soon as I could hold a golf club that business deals were made on golf courses, and I needed a strong game to represent the family — especially once I was a politician’s wife.
Or, a politician myself — which Daddy had said he’d have been just fine with, too.
So, golf for me had always been a chore. It started with the pressure of learning, then, the pressure to be good. And once I’d achieved that, once I could hold my own with Dad and his buddies on the course? Well, by that time I was just so tired of golf I didn’t want to be there at all.
I hated golf.
But, I loved my dad.
So, when he’d asked me to spend the afternoon with him, I was excited — even if it was to play golf. Daddy was always busy, running around the town of Stratford and making sure every wheel and axle was in place. Any time I could steal him for more than a twenty-minute conversation at dinner, I was thrilled.
“How come your ears are steaming over there when I’m the one lining up a shot?” Dad asked, glancing at me with a quirked brow before he took a practice swing, stopping the club right before it hit the ball.
I tugged on the hem of my skirt — which was plenty long enough, by the way — with my eyes on the group of four older women eyeing me and whispering from the seventh hole.
“Mrs. Landish and her gaggle of geese are looking at me like I’m not a member,” I said. “Or like my skirt is so high my tush is showing.”
Dad followed my gaze, smirking as he turned back toward the ball. “Well,” he said, squaring up his feet and lining up the club with the ball. “You know they’re always looking for something to talk about — and you skipping off with Noah Becker in the middle of the night is worthy gossip.”
He swung, smacking the ball down the green. It flew high and arched, about two-hundred feet before it came back to Earth, and Daddy turned, a toothy grin of pride on his face.
My jaw was hanging — and not from his shot.
“What do you mean that I ‘skipped off with Noah Becker’,” I scoffed, neck heating.
“I don’t know,” Dad said on a shrug. “I just heard them saying something about you and Noah Becker at the Black Hole when we were checking in for our tee times earlier.”
“We were at the same bonfire party, yeah. But, so was half the town.”
I glanced at Mrs. Landish again, who shook her head with pursed lips, saying something to her passenger seat rider before cruising off in her golf cart of gossip.
I rolled my eyes. “Honestly. And Mrs. Landish wasn’t even there.”
“She doesn’t have to be — not with the way news travels in this town.”
“News,” I spat, plucking my driver from my bag and stepping up to the tee. “Stratford needs a craft fair or something to keep them entertained.”
Dad chuckled at that, putting his own driver away before he leaned an elbow on our golf cart, watching me line up my shot. “Don’t worry about them. Someone else will do something equally as innocent and have them drawing other dramatic conclusions in no time.”
I smirked.
“But, just to be clear… you didn’t skip off with Noah Becker in the middle of the night… right?”
I stopped where I was lining up my shot, leaning one hand on the butt of my driver as I leveled my face at my father. “Dad.”
He put his hands up. “I was just checking. You know the reputation those boys have. Gotta make sure my little girl is safe.”
I smiled, shaking my head as I got back to my shot.
My pulse ticked up a bit at the lie I’d told my father as I took a practice swing. Daddy was right — the Becker boys did have quite the reputation. But, if I was judging only by the Noah I was with Friday night, I would never understand why.
He was kind. And patient. And funny.
My smile widened remembering how focused he looked as he brushed his horse down and got him ready to ride. But, as soon as he’d popped into my mind, I shoved him back out.
Smack.
My own ball went flying down the green, landing about twenty-five yards shy of where Dad’s had. He cheered, clapping me on the shoulder as we watched the ball roll a bit.
“That’s my girl! Come on, you drive.”
The rest of the afternoon slid by easily, but I didn’t miss how Daddy was checking the time on his watch often. If I knew him, he’d likely scheduled out the precise amount of time it would take to get in a round of golf before he had somewhere else to run.
I was his daughter on his time, but it didn’t bother me. I knew I wasn’t the only one who needed him. When you’re the mayor of a small town in Tennessee, you’re pulled a million different directions. And, if I was being honest, he inspired me. He was the reason I’d gotten involved with volunteering, the reason I hadn’t stopped at just showing up there, but took it into my own hands to make our nursing home the nicest in the county.
Dad was a doer, and he’d raised me to be one, too.
“So, how is my little girl?” he asked when we were riding out to the ninth hole later that day. “Ah, I don’t even know if I can call you that anymore, now that you’re an engaged woman.”
I smiled, taking my sunglasses off to wipe the lenses as he drove. “I’m alright, Daddy. And I’m still your little girl — even after you walk me down the aisle.”
“Wow,” he breathed, and if he wasn’t wearing his own sunglasses, I’d have bet those hazel eyes of his were glossy. “It sounds so real when you say it like that.”
“It’s pretty real,” I mused, putting my glasses back on. “I bet you’re tickled pink that your baby girl is marrying a politician, just like you always wanted.”
Something in Dad’s demeanor changed then, and he cleared his throat, switching hands on the steering wheel. “Yes. Anthony is a good man. He’ll do right by you.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
We both fell silent again, and I watched him carefully, wondering why the sudden shift in his mood. But, as soon as he parked the cart, he was out and lining up his last shot. He glanced at his watch as soon as he’d hit the ball, turning back to me with a smile that told me he was cutting it close.
“Daddy, it’s okay,” I said, plucking my driver out of my bag again. “We’re almost done here, anyway. If you need to go, go.”
His brows folded together. “Are you sure?”
“Of course.” I smiled, leaning my club against the cart before walking over to give him a hug. “I’ll see you at dinner sometime this week.”
He sighed when I was in his arms, wrapping me in a bear hug with a gentle kiss pressed to my hair. “You’re the best kid ever.”
“I love you, too, Daddy.”
I insisted Dad take the cart so he could get back faster, assuring him I wanted the walk. We weren’t far from the club house the way the course was lined up, anyway. And once he was gone, I swung my driver a few times behind where the tee was set up, preparing for the last long shot of the day.
As I lined it up, my thoughts drifted first to Dad, to his reaction when I’d brought up Anthony. He loved Anthony — he and Mama had both made that very clear just after one dinner with him. And, provided that he’d just asked me to marry him a month ago and we were six weeks out from the big day, it was safe to say they both approved.
So, then, why the odd response?
I shook it off, cracking my neck and focusing on the ball. But as I squared my shoulders, my thoughts drifted again, this time back to Mrs. Landish and her cackling crew
.
Which then led my thoughts to Friday night.
To Noah.
I wondered if he saw it that night at the bonfire — the stress I swore I was wearing like a choker. Annie didn’t seem to, nor did anyone else. But Noah… it was like he saw right through me.
I swallowed, let out a long breath as I cleared my mind once more, and hammered the ball down the green.
Noah
Everyone knew not to talk to me that Wednesday.
I showed up to work an hour early, desperate to get my hands dirty, my muscles fired up, my mind on anything other than the anniversary of my father’s death. That day marked nine years of him being gone, and I thought with time, that sting would fade. I thought I’d become immune to the pain, to the anger, to the aching emptiness I felt that no justice had ever been served in his honor.
But I’d been wrong.
Most of the week, I’d been fine. It was a normal weekend, a little partying and a little relaxing with the family. Church happened on Sunday, just like always. Once Monday arrived, I was back in work gear. And through all of that, my thoughts had been occupied by the Mayor’s daughter.
I didn’t like that Ruby Grace was on my mind, that when I was playing cards with my brothers on Saturday evening, I thought about the way her hair smelled as she sat on that saddle in front of me. I didn’t like that when I saw her at church, prim and proper in her lavender dress, I thought about how much I liked her better in the jean shorts and tank top she’d worn. And I definitely didn’t like that when I woke up on Monday morning, I had a hard-on the size of a sledge hammer after having a dream about her.
I wanted her off my mind. She was someone else’s fiancé. She was also nearly ten years younger than I was.
But now that my mind was taken over by thoughts of my father’s untimely death, I wished it was just her in my head again. I wished I could think about anything other than how badly this day would always hurt, for the rest of my life.
Marty, Eli, and PJ worked alongside me without saying a word that day. They didn’t even joke around with each other, sensing the mood I was in, the somberness that settled over the entire distillery.
The Scooter family and the board always glorified this day. The morning announcements asked for a moment of silence for the only employee to ever perish at Scooter Whiskey. They praised the safety plans they’d had in place, attributing the fact that there weren’t more deaths because of that plan they’d had in place. They praised the firemen, too, that they arrived so “quickly.” Then, they would read off my father’s accomplishments like a grocery list, have that one minute of silence, and then everything was back to normal.
Even though Logan was across the distillery preparing for his first tour when that morning announcement came, and even though Mikey was in the welcome center, getting the gift shop ready to open, I still felt them in that moment those announcements were read. I felt their hearts squeezing in pain the same way mine did, felt their anger, their hostility toward the company that paid their bills, that our grandfather had helped build, that we both loved and cherished but were also bound to in some sick, sadistic way.
I thought of them, of our family, all day long as I kept my head down, focusing on the task at hand. I built more barrels than my daily quota called for, but I didn’t care. As long as I was busy, I was okay. I just needed to get through the day.
I just needed to survive.
It was well after lunch when Patrick Scooter swung through the doors that led to the barrel raising warehouse. I hadn’t even noticed, hadn’t stopped working until I felt a number of eyes on me. I looked up at Marty first, who warned me with a stern brow fold, like he was worried I’d do something irrational. PJ and Eli watched me, too — their eyes flicking back and forth between the door and me. When I followed their gaze and saw Patrick talking to Gus, a clipboard in his hand, dressed like he was in an office in New York City rather than a distillery in Stratford, Tennessee, I clenched my jaw.
Patrick Scooter was a few years older than my father would have been if he were still alive. They grew up around the distillery together, almost like brothers until Patrick’s dad passed away, leaving the distillery to him.
Everything changed then.
I didn’t have any certified or blatant reason not to like Patrick, other than the fact that something in my gut told me he was a shit guy. Something in my gut told me he didn’t like my family.
Something in my gut told me he had something to do with my father’s death.
I didn’t know why, and it wasn’t ever something I’d speak out loud, but it was there, deep in my belly like an ache I’d never be rid of. And I’d learned as a young country boy that you trust that gut feeling.
Patrick signed something on Gus’s clipboard before his eyes scanned the warehouse, finding mine after one sweep. He gave a grim smile, saying something to Gus before making his way toward me.
I ground my teeth, lowering my head to the barrel I was raising in an effort to school my breaths and the rage I felt boiling inside me. If he knew what was best for him, he’d stay away from me today. But of course, he didn’t care. Part of me thought he actually reveled in the fact that he still had my father’s kids working for him, like somehow that meant he’d won.
But we weren’t here for him. We were here for my father, for the legacy he built — that my grandfather built. Patrick and his family may have wanted to erase us from their history books, but my brothers and I would make sure that never happened.
I had just shoved the last stave of wood into the barrel I was working on when I felt a clammy hand clap me on the shoulder, squeezing and staying there until I was forced to lift my head and take the orange sponges out of my ears. Patrick met me with sympathetic eyes, a sorrowful smile, like he knew my pain, spread on his face.
“Hey, Noah. How ya hanging in today?”
Do not punch him. Do not give him a reaction at all.
Patrick stood there in his suit, eyes surveying his surroundings like he was well above the men working for him. And I knew he thought that to be true. He was so much like my father — tall, stout, tan — but his hair was gray, where my father never had the chance to get there, and his eyes were smaller, beady and evil, his face too long, nose too big. He looked almost like a live action Frankenstein.
I wished I could put the bolts through his head to bring the whole look together.
“I’m well, thanks for asking,” I responded as politely as I could. “How are you, Patrick?”
“Oh, you know me. Just rocking and rolling through every new day,” he said, his smile showing his too-white teeth now. It slipped again in the next instant. “Although, this particular day is always a rough one on all of us.”
I swallowed down my pride, forcing the best smile I could muster. “Indeed.”
“He would have been proud of you, you know,” Patrick said, squeezing my shoulder where he held it. “Your father was such a close friend of mine, and my heart aches every day that he’s gone. But his boys are serving him well here at Scooter Whiskey.” His lip twitched a little. “We’re so lucky to have you.”
Liar.
It was all lies, all bullshit — and we both knew it. But this was the game we played. The Scooter family kept us around as to not stir up more trouble or gossip than they already had with the fire, and we stayed to avenge our father’s death, to ensure the Scooter family didn’t get what they wanted by erasing the Becker name from their history.
I simply nodded, lips in a flat line. I reached out my hand for his, shaking it once before I put my ear plugs back in and got back to work on the barrel. Patrick stood awkwardly at my side for a moment longer before he made his rounds to the other men, then he waved goodbye to Gus through the window of his office, and he was gone.
I tried to keep my head down, tried to breathe through the rage, tried to forget he was even there, but once he left the room, everything I’d been fighting down all day rose to the surface. I reared back, kicking the barre
l I’d just built and splintering the wood everywhere. I hadn’t tied it down with the metal rings yet, and the time I’d spent putting it together went to waste with one heavy heave of my boot.
No one tried to stop me as I continued kicking, hitting wood, equipment, whatever was near. The only thing that stopped me was when Marty placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, and when I looked at him, he nodded toward the tour group that had just walked in.
I locked eyes with Logan, his brows bent together in an understanding sympathy, and I felt shame wash over me.
I was his older brother, and I was acting like a child. I’d let Patrick get under my skin, and I hated it.
The tour group was still watching me, murmuring as Logan pulled their attention back to him, listing off his usual spiel. Gus came over to join Marty and me, excusing Marty before he pulled me to the side.
“I think you should take the rest of the day off, Noah.”
I just nodded, yanking off my work gloves and powering toward the door that led to our little locker room. My blood was still red hot as I grabbed my shit, and then I slammed my locker closed and barreled through the back warehouse door with only one destination in mind.
Eric Church blared from the jukebox, and I bobbed my head, singing along a little between sips of my whiskey. I’d had way too many for it to be only eight o’clock, but it was numbing my body, and my mind, which was exactly what I needed it to do.
“Noah, I love you, kid. But I’m cutting you off after this one,” Buck said. He was the bartender at my favorite watering hole in town — namely because it was the only watering hole in town — the neon sign outside flashing his name in a simple manner. He was also a longtime friend, and he’d saved me from my own drunk ass too many nights for me to count.
“Alright,” I said on a nod, not willing to argue. I was getting tired anyway, and was ready for the godforsaken day to be over already. I had half a glass of whiskey left and then I’d roll my ass home, crawl into bed, and wake up to a new day tomorrow.
On the Rocks Page 8
