Better Luck Next Time

by Denise Grover Swank

  “Okay,” he said, casting her a playful look. “That guy at ten o’clock.”

  She glanced around. “I don’t see a clock.”

  “No,” he said with a groan. “I’m the center of a clock and he’s at my ten o’clock.”

  “Why are you the center of the clock?” she asked, biting back a smile. She shouldn’t encourage any playful banter between them, but she was finding it hard to resist. “Why can’t I be the center of the clock?”

  He groaned longer. “Fine. You can be the center of the clock. He’s at your four o’clock.”

  Her mouth twisted to the side. “I prefer twenty after, thank you very much.”

  She kept a straight face for all of a second before she burst into giggles.

  His expression seemed to ask, Are you for real?, but it slid into a grin. “Okay, you got me.”

  “I couldn’t resist,” she said, then turned slightly to see a man walking past them on the sidewalk. “Him?” she whispered as an elderly man in a Hawaiian shirt walked by with a leashed miniature poodle.

  He nodded, leaning closer. “Merv Singleton. Age sixty-two. Divorced.”

  “Divorced?” she countered. “He has a wedding ring.”

  “It’s still fresh,” he added hastily. “He can’t bear to take it off.”

  “Well, at least you didn’t make him a widower,” she groused with a grin. “That would be morbid.”

  “Hey, I’m new to this.”

  “Why the Hawaiian shirt?” she asked.

  He glanced over his shoulder for another look, then turned back to her. “Their honeymoon was to Hawaii.”

  “And he’s been wearing Hawaiian shirts ever since? No wonder they’re divorced.”

  He laughed, a full-throated laugh that brought a smile to her face.

  “And the dog?” she asked.

  “Fluffy belonged to his wife, Nancy. Merv won her in the divorce.”

  “He stole her dog?” she asked in mock dismay. “He’s a monster.”

  Finn sat back in his seat, accepting his defeat. “Yeah. You’re right. Merv deserved to be left.”

  She laughed. “And you left off the other part. Where’s he going?”

  “To his one-bedroom apartment so he can feed Fluffy lunch.” He thumbed behind him. “He’s returning to his miserable, lonely existence.”

  “Wow,” she said, shaking her head. “Remind me to never play this game with you again, Debbie Downer.”

  “At least my mind wasn’t in the gutter,” he teased. “Poor, poor Merv. I don’t know if he’ll ever get laid again.”

  “Oh, I think he will,” she said, nodding past him.

  He turned and they both watched as an older woman walked out of a knitting store, carrying a bag that read Knitters Come With Strings Attached. She gave “Merv” a saucy grin, and he swatted her behind. A woman came out behind her just in time to see it, and it was obvious she was swallowing laughter. With long, curly black hair and a bold red and blue skirt, she didn’t fit Adalia’s image of a knitter. Not that she had anything other than respect for knitters, but this woman looked like she should be dancing flamenco in the streets of Barcelona, not sitting with a cup of chamomile and a lap full of yarn. Sure, she was thinking of her mother’s knitting habits—for all she knew some people knitted to death metal—but she couldn’t help herself. The bulging bag the woman held said her habit was serious. Adalia was tempted to use her for another round of the game, if only because she was interesting, but she held back for some reason, her gaze returning to Merv.

  “I want to be like them when I get old,” she said wistfully.

  “And have as many knitting supplies as your heart desires?” Finn asked, his eyes dancing.

  She glanced at him, wondering if he’d noticed the lovely woman—hadn’t Georgie told her he was a well-known womanizer?—but his gaze was firmly on Adalia.

  “Maybe that’s your dream,” she countered. “And besides, Merv had Fluffy, so he wasn’t really alone. Dogs are man’s best friend, you know. Have you spent much time with Hops? He’s adorable. Who could be lonely with a little guy like that around?”

  “What, Beau’s cat doesn’t strike your fancy?”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I respect a lady who knows her own mind, but sometimes it feels like that house is too small for two ladies who fit that description. Dogs are different. Besides, she’s on another walkabout. River says the neighbors are blowing up his phone again.”

  He looked a little chastened, probably at the memory of the last time Jezebel had come home after an extended leave of absence. It had happened the night he spilled the details of the will. He opened his mouth to say something, but a buzzing sound came from his pants pocket. Pulling his phone out, he glanced at the screen, then stood.

  “I’ve got to take this call, but I’ll concede this round to you.” He tipped his head to the side. “Rematch sometime?”

  She stared at him like he’d grown tusks. Was he asking her out on a date?

  No…she didn’t get that vibe. Just a casual sometime if I run into you kind of thing.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  He grinned, his blue-green eyes lighting up. “I’ll take you up on that.”

  Then he turned around, answering his phone as he walked away.

  She was surprised by how much emptier her table felt without him.

  Chapter Six

  Finn had spent half the night thinking about all the ways he’d screwed up with Adalia, only to find her in his path. Dottie would call that fate, he was sure, and he had to admit he liked the idea. He’d approached her table thinking he should apologize and maybe take a different tack, the kind where he didn’t attack her life choices and act like her self-appointed guru. The thing was, seeing her in Dottie’s workshop had done something to him he didn’t fully understand, and he didn’t just care about Adalia accepting his offer—he also wanted her to do what was best for her. And there was no denying she was an artist, through and through.

  Sometime in the middle of the night, he’d looked her up on social media. Not the Buchanan account, hers. And the pieces she’d created were all nearly as evocative as the one he’d watched her tear apart.

  But it had taken him all of five minutes to realize the direct approach wasn’t going to win him any favors. And another five minutes to discover he liked sitting and talking to her too much to fight with her. Yet. Because he hadn’t given up.

  Truthfully, the reason he was downtown in the first place was because he’d met with a realtor friend to discuss which warehouses were available for lease in the next few months, something he’d known better than to mention to her. It wasn’t that he intended to strong-arm Adalia into the idea—clearly she was not the kind of person who could be strong-armed—but his plan had grown on him enough that he intended to follow through even if she’d meant it when she’d said, “It’s never, ever going to happen.” Plus, a part of him thought the temptation might be too great for her to stay away if the show was already a go.

  No appropriate spaces were available, which had brought him to his next idea: Gretchen wanted an image rehab for Big Catch. Why not open there? They had an event space, which would eliminate the need to pay rent, plus the charity angle would do wonders for their rep. So he’d texted her to call him, saying he had something good for her.

  But then Adalia had mentioned Jezebel, and it had propelled him back in time a few months to that awful night he’d broken River with some hard truths and a handful of supposition.

  What the hell was he thinking? River had only just forgiven him (mostly) for making the decision to push forward with the sale without first discussing it with him. There was no way Adalia would jump on board the Bev Corp train, and truthfully, River wouldn’t be pleased either. No, if he was going to open the show anywhere, it should be at Buchanan. Maybe the suggestion would even be enough to get Adalia on board. Dottie would certainly be pleased.

  But first he had to think fast and throw another idea at
Gretchen.

  “Hello,” he answered, striding away from the coffee shop. He’d been heading back to his car, parked in one of the public garages, when he’d spotted Adalia.

  “Slay me with your brilliance,” Gretchen said. “Your former employees woke up this morning to a spray-painted wall. ‘Big Catch STDs.’ Real smart.”

  Well, that one was easy.

  “There’s your first opportunity for some good community engagement. Why not hire a local artist to paint a mural? Something that beautifies the street.”

  She made a hm sound. “Okay, not bad. Not that they deserve it. Do you have anyone you can recommend?”

  Not off the top of his head, but he could ask Dottie.

  “I’ll send you a couple of recommendations later today.”

  “Good deal.”

  An old man sitting at an outdoor table at a restaurant, about the age of “Merv” from earlier, scowled at Finn like he’d trampled his daisies. He grinned at the guy, and the man threw a half-eaten dinner roll at him. That was a first. He kept right on walking like nothing had happened.

  “And this idea you wanted to talk to me about?” Gretchen said. There was an eagerness in her voice, and he knew a moment of panic. What was he supposed to tell her?

  He flashed to River again—to the devastation on his face the night he’d learned about the bizarre terms of Beau’s will. The outright fury that had bloomed in his eyes after being informed of the sale of Big Catch. And it was River who made him think of what to say next.

  “How about holding a beer festival? Heavily discounted tickets for locals. You can give tents to all of the breweries in town without charging them. It would send the message that you’re not here to shut them down. You just want to peacefully coexist.” He’d met River at a beer festival, and Bev Corp certainly had the money to put on a good one.

  “Interesting. As much as I hesitate to reward these ingrates for their behavior, you might be on to something. Put together a proposal for me and get it to me by early next week. Tuesday would work. Monday would be even better.”

  “Will do,” he said, lingering outside the car garage in case the signal died when he entered it.

  “Good work, Finn.”

  She clicked off, and he felt a rush of warmth. Handing the art show over would have been a mistake—maybe on par with not telling River about the sale. He was glad he’d thought of another idea on the fly, and hell, it was a good one. Maybe it would even help River and Georgie.

  He shot off a quick text to Dottie: Know of any muralists? Got a job down at Big Catch.

  She replied immediately: Ah, yes. I heard about the STDs. Come over for lunch.

  And since he was hoping he’d also be able to talk to her about Adalia, he sent her a thumbs-up.

  “I took the liberty of making you an appointment with Lola,” Dottie said as soon as he entered the kitchen. As always, she had set out more food than any two people could reasonably eat. Some sort of vegetable something, mac and cheese, and fresh cornbread. He suspected she’d selected the menu especially for him and whatever problems she thought he was having. Probably some of it would end up in River and Georgie’s refrigerator. She always stopped by and left River things, like some kind of good food fairy.

  “The fortune-teller?” he asked. She’d been after him to see her since the whole fallout from the Bev Corp sale. “When?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon at two,” she said. “I had a sense you wouldn’t be busy.”

  Likely because he hadn’t been busy for months. He wasn’t going to compliment her foresight on that one. His father was actually passing through town tomorrow night, which meant he did have dinner plans, but his dinner plans wouldn’t interfere with a two o’clock appointment. Although, to be honest, he was more inclined to try skipping the dinner than his unsolicited appointment with the psychic.

  We’re going to figure out your next step, Son, his dad had said, as if he were a wayward child. He had no intention of going along with whatever plan his father had cooked up, but he respected him enough to hear him out.

  Just like he respected Dottie enough to go along with the whole psychic thing.

  “Fine,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll go. If you give me a few good recs for a muralist. I know you know everyone in this town.”

  “Of course,” she said, retrieving a slip of lilac-colored paper from the kitchen counter. “I already wrote some ideas down for you. Now, help yourself to some food. I worry about how you eat.”

  Probably because he always ate like a starved person whenever he was around her. Something about homemade food did that to him. His parents had never cooked at home, and he’d never really learned how either. He subsisted off of takeout and easy-to-fix meals. It felt nice, being around Dottie. Letting her spoil him like he was her own. Like she did with all of the people in her circle.

  He accepted the paper and then served himself some food. By the time he sat down, there was a cup of hot tea in front of him. He wasn’t really in the mood for it again, to be honest, in the heat of summer, but he knew better than to turn it down. She probably wanted to read the leaves or something.

  Dottie sat across from him, having served herself.

  “She said no, didn’t she?” she said conversationally.

  “Did Adalia talk to you?” he asked, his brow furrowed. He took a bite of food and nearly moaned. God, Dottie was a good cook.

  “No, dear, and I suspect she didn’t talk to anyone else about it either. Art is very personal.”

  He was beginning to realize that.

  “Yeah,” he admitted, “she said no—a hard no—but I was hoping you might talk her around.” A corner of his mouth ticked up. “Turns out she’s not amenable to my type of persuasion.”

  “Did you try to seduce her?” Dottie said eagerly.

  “What?!” His fork clattered on his plate. “No!”

  “Pity,” she said. “That girl needs some loving.”

  Despite his protest, dangerous images popped into his head. Of Adalia’s soft lips. Of her chest splattered with paint. Of those bouncy curls, barely held back by anything she used to try to contain them. Of the way emotion lit up her hazel eyes, bringing out different colors.

  Then, as if she hadn’t just thrown a grenade into their conversation, Dottie continued, “I’ll see what I can do to help. In the meantime, I have a few friends who have expressed an interest in the show, and if you intend to follow through, I expect we can spread the word quickly.”

  Happy to change the subject, he said, “Yes, I fully intend to follow through. In fact, I’d like to have your thoughts on something. I talked to a friend about warehouse spaces for the show, and it doesn’t sound like anything appropriate will be available in the next few months. I know Georgie worked a big event space into the redesign of the brewery. Do you think she’d be open to hosting the show? I figure we can make opening night a big event, and any pieces that didn’t sell can be on display in the brewery for the following month. Available for sale, of course. It’ll be a good promotion opportunity for the brewery and for the artists.”

  She nodded sagely. “I like the way you think. What if we do it before the holidays? Maybe early November.”

  It would be a quick turnaround, so the artists would largely have to use pieces they already had. Unless they worked fast. Would that eliminate the possibility of including Adalia’s work?

  “But Adalia…”

  “Doesn’t have a stockpile of work. Yet. But if we consider the number of paintings she’s destroyed, I believe she’ll have time to make one.”

  Hearing it felt like a stab to his gut. How many had there been? He hated to think of her feeling that angry, that desperate.

  “Have you chosen a charitable cause for the first show, or do you plan on crowdsourcing it?”

  It was a little funny to hear Dottie say “crowdsourcing,” and he couldn’t help but think of his own grandmother, who’d passed away several years ago. She’d been such a prim and proper w
oman, always dressed in long skirts that almost looked Puritan, and she’d had a look of horror reserved for kids who ran around with raspberry jam on their faces and touched her antique furniture. He couldn’t imagine her ever using a word like that.

  Maybe it was weird that he came to see his friend’s great-aunt by himself, without River, but Dottie had told him that he should consider her family too, back when he and River were working together. And after the whole mess with Bev Corp, she’d told him they were still family.

  Family doesn’t change with the weather, boy. Either you are or you aren’t.

  His family had never really been like that. He didn’t have any siblings, and while his parents cared about him, they weren’t warm in the way Dottie was. Their kind of caring came with expectations and in the form of unsolicited five-year plans.

  “No, I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

  “Might I suggest that you talk to Maisie? From what I understand, one of the shelter’s regular sponsors fell through.”

  Maisie was River’s best childhood friend, someone Finn counted a friend as well, even though he’d been too embarrassed to reach out to her after the whole Bev Corp mess. She was loyal to River first and foremost, and like Adalia, she was not the kind of woman to mince words. She would have totally eviscerated him. He would have deserved it, of course, but he’d already felt pretty low at the time.

  It had lifted his spirits a little when she’d texted him after seeing the article in the Gazette, pointing out that the author, who’d attacked him for his parents’ donation to Duke, had gone to a school that had a building named after his family. Takes a bro to know a bro, she’d said with a wink emoji. And because he knew Maisie meant the “bro” thing somewhat fondly, at least where it concerned him, he’d laughed.

  He’d hoped to see her at the reopening of Buchanan, but she hadn’t shown. Maybe because her business was suffering. She ran an independent, no-kill dog shelter, a labor of love.

  Suddenly, he remembered how Adalia’s eyes had lit up when she talked about Hops, plus the fact that Buchanan Brewery had used Hops on some of their new labels. It fit with their relaunch, didn’t it? Maisie could even bring in some of the animals to make a whole thing of it. Maybe that, plus the inclusion of Buchanan Brewery, would be enough to convince Adalia to take part.