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“Your momma will be okay,” Aunt Rhonda assures me as she walks me hurriedly to my classroom.
“Can’t I come with you?” I beg.
“No, baby. Uncle Ray is going to watch Lynn while I take your momma to see the doctor at the hospital. Someone will be here to pick you up after school.”
I’m anxious the entire day, and when Momma is not with Uncle Ray and Lynn when he picks me up in the afternoon, I know it’s bad.
“Where’s Momma?” I ask.
“She’s going to stay the night at the hospital so the nurses can look after her,” he tells me.
“How bad is it?” I whisper.
His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.
“Her cheekbone is fractured, and she suffered a concussion,” he explains.
That was the first time he nearly killed her. It wouldn’t be the last.
Maxi
Present
“Hey, Maxi. Can you sub in behind the bar for a couple of hours?” my manager, Reed, calls to me from across the bustling room.
“Sure thing, boss,” I yell over my shoulder as I set two frosty beer mugs and a pitcher of draft beer on the table in front of me.
“Pulling double duty, huh, darlin’?” the kind, older gentleman who frequents the joint asks as he takes hold of the glass to steady it as I pour his brew.
“Yep, Dave, I go where I’m needed most. But don’t worry; I’ll still be over to take care of my favorite customer,” I confirm with a wink.
He rewards me with a wide, gap-toothed grin, and I pour his friend’s beer before heading to the bar.
I’ve been working at the Appalachian Ridge Brewery in the small Tennessee mountain town of Balsam Ridge for a little over a month now. It’s definitely not the wild dance club where I used to spend my nights slinging cocktails, dodging bloody brawls, breaking up lewd acts in the restroom, or fighting off the grabby hands of drunks. No, this establishment is laid-back, and the customers are polite and well-behaved, save for the occasional rude tourist. It can get downright boring some weeknights, but the boss man is nice, tips are good, and I’m never afraid for my safety when walking out to my ride after the end of my shift, so I can’t complain.
I join Reed at the taps.
“Thanks. Kristin’s sister called her, and Kristin had to leave and pick the kid up early because of a tummy ache,” he explains.
“Not a problem. It’s pretty slow on the floor tonight. I can handle the bar and my tables,” I assure him.
Two girls walk in and make their way to the stools at the end of the bar, and Reed nods in their direction.
I walk over and slide a couple of napkins in front of them.
“Hey, girl,” Erin, one of the few friends I’ve made in town, greets me.
“Hi yourself. I thought you guys had some planning committee thing going on this evening?” I ask.
Erin works for the company I rent my small cabin from. I was at the office earlier today, dropping off my rental check, when she filled me in on her plans. Two of the ladies in her circle of friends are newly engaged, and wedding planning is apparently a serious undertaking here in the South.
“We are. Jena’s husband just dropped us off a bit early. The others will be around shortly,” Erin says.
“I didn’t realize you guys were meeting here. Want me to get some appetizers started for you?” I ask.
“Nah. Reed is setting us up a spot on the deck. Leona and Sara-Beth called and arranged it all. I’m sure they took care of the food. Just start us off with one of those Henderson Farm and Apple Orchard’s pineapple ciders from Colorado.”
Leona is the mother of one of the brides, Taeli Tilson, who is marrying Sara-Beth’s son, Graham Tuttle. The second bride, Ansley Humphries, is marrying one of Sara-Beth’s other sons, country music star Garrett Tuttle.
