CHAPTER ONE
PATTY
We open in ten minutes, so I should be in the kitchen warming up the fryers and checking stock, but instead, I’m crouched behind the bar, fighting with a leaky pipe that’s got me ready to throw the whole thing out the window.
“Let it go, Pat,” Sean says from above me. His voice is calm, like it always is when he’s trying to talk me down from something. “It’s barely a drip. Nothing a bucket can’t handle.”
I press my palms against my knees, trying to steady my breath. Frustration builds in my chest, the kind that makes it hard to think straight. I let out a long exhale, trying to shake it off. My hand reaches out, and Sean pulls me up, his grip strong, his usual quiet steadiness easing some of the tension.
I wipe my hands on a bar rag and glance around the place—squeaky hinges, loose wiring, cracked tiles in the kitchen. It’s a miracle it’s still standing, but I’ve always been good at patching things together. Just not at keeping them whole.
“It needs to be replaced,” I mutter.
“That’s okay. We’ll add it to the list.”
I don’t mean to sound so negative, but I just got the mail and stopped looking when I got to the third “Final Notice” envelope. I have a small amount in savings, but it’s for something more important than the bar.
“How was Dad’s appointment?” Sean asks me, like he’s reading my mind.
The muscles in my jaw tighten.
I look past my brother to where Dad sits in the small office, rummaging through boxes we took down from the attic yesterday when a pipe up there sprung a leak. He’s been going down “memory lane” since we got home from the doctor this morning, sorting through old papers and mementos he kept from mine and Sean’s “glory days.”
I see him grab something small and silver, and he rotates it in his hands before digging deeper into the box. But then his wheelchair creaks. He winces, gripping the armrests tighter. He shifts, trying to reposition, but the movement knocks him back into his seat, too hard.
I wince, feeling sick. “Fine, if you ask him.” My voice is rougher than I want. “But the X-ray looked brutal. One of the rods in his spine has shifted. They said without surgery, the pain will only get worse, and he won’t be able to move like he used to.”
Sean blinks fast. “So when’s the surgery scheduled for?”
“Earliest they can schedule is three months out.”
Sean nods, blinking again. “Okay. Not ideal, but better than nothing. So we got him on the books, right?”
I scratch my thick scruff, my fingertips running over the long scar that lines my jaw. A souvenir from my own life-threatening accident.
“They’re requiring an advance payment to schedule. Something about our being underinsured makes them consider this an‘elective surgery.’”
Sean lets out a low whistle. “How much?”
“Don’t worry about it. I got it.”
Sean levels me with his gaze. Tries to, at any rate. He may be a shark on the ice, but in real life, he’s more of a … Sheepadoodle. “Pat, tell me.”
“Twenty grand.”
Sean covers his mouth with his hand, scratching his full beard. “Theadvance paymentwill eat up your entire savings.” He closes his eyes, holding them for a beat longer than usual. “Okay. That’s fine. We’ll take out another loan.”
“If the bank lets us,” I say, but Dad’s rolling his wheelchair into the bar now, and this isn’t a conversation I want to have in front of him. Sean and I share a look that says we’ll table this for later.
“Heads up, son.” Dad tosses me the small and silverysomethinghe found in the box. I roll it over in my hand. It’s a flash drive.
"What’s that?” Sean asks.
Dad shrugs. "Found it in one of the old boxes. Thought it might have something Paddy needs on it."
I can actually hear the d’s in my name instead of the t’s. Dad’s the only one who ever called me that—the proper Irish nickname for Patrick. But the folks in Mullet Ridge weren’t having it. Patty it was, and Patty it’s stayed, much to Dad’s dismay.
I look down at the small, silver drive in my hand. It looks so innocent.
