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"We're glad to have you," he said warmly, giving my arms a gentle squeeze.
Cole cleared his throat. "Shall we?"
I unlocked the front door and struggled for a moment to open it, its frame clattering a little as I put all my strength into it. As I stepped inside, a wave of memories washed over me—the faint scent of stale beer, the comforting mustiness. I hadn't spent much time in the bar growing up, save for the occasional weekend cleanup session, but it still felt like a piece of my childhood, of Dad.
"Damn," Paddy breathed, hands on his hips as he surveyed the space. "Talk about a blast from the past."
Stepping into the pub was like going back in time. Old photographs of local sports teams and vintage beer signs adorned the walls, alongside the coat of arms from County Limerick, Ireland—a nod to my family's roots. The wooden floors groaned beneath our feet as I ventured farther, drinking in the details etched into my memory.
Sunlight filtered through gaps in the boarded windows, illuminating the bar which stretched across the far side of the room. Over the years, the surface of the bar had built up a rich patina of scuffs and scrapes, the blemishes adding to its beauty.
Patrick ran a finger along the dusty bar top. "You sure about gutting the place, Elara? Why not reopen it?"
I shook my head firmly. "I'm sure. I need to sell quickly and get out of town."
"Shame," Patrick sighed, a note of wistfulness in his voice.
"Not everyone finds this town as romantic as you, Dad," Cole interjected, his tone almost defensive.
"I just think Bluehaven could use a bar, is all."
"We've got Ida's diner."
"Not the same." Patrick sighed. "But I'm here to carry out your wishes, Elara, not play advisor. I can practically hear your dad telling me to stuff a sock in it."
I took a swig of coffee, touched by Patrick's kindness. "So, I guess the main job is removing all this . . . stuff? Giving it a clean and a coat of paint?" I asked, my voice catching for a moment.
Patrick scratched his chin. "Mind if I salvage some of the original features? The bar, for example?"
Cole frowned. "Dad, who's going to want a used bar?"
"I've got space in the warehouse," Paddy insisted.
"Then we have to hire a truck to haul the damn th—"
"Let me worry about that."
"I don't mind," I said, trying to diffuse the tension between them. “Keep whatever you like if you think it can be reused.”
Patrick gestured to a raised section of flooring. "What about this? Can we leave it as is?"
"Wouldn't it be better to have the floor level throughout?" I asked.
"It would," Cole agreed, "but you never know what's lurking under a raised floor. Could be all kinds of issues."
"Issues?"
"Pipes. Gas lines. Bodies."
"Bodies?" I echoed, alarmed.
"That’s Cole’s idea of a joke,” Patrick said. "We'll rip it out. Nothing a few hours with a pickaxe can't fix."
"And the decorating?" Cole asked.
"I'll help with that," I said, brightly. I wanted to do as much as I could.
We made our way through the rest of the property, discussing plans for the restrooms and private areas. The men were thorough, jotting down notes on the work required and my preferred finishes. As we talked, Cole seemed to relax a bit.
