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“Darling!” Mother rushed over to kiss my cheek and take both my hands in hers. “Thank you, Jonathan, for restoring our family honor when I couldn’t,” she said solemnly.
My mother had lost Box Day. Again. And she was being even more melodramatic than usual about it. So I nodded seriously and accepted her thanks and did not roll my eyes, no matter how badly I wanted to.
“We’ll have a victory party to celebrate once we win the entire softball tournament, of course,” she mused. “Late August or perhaps September. We’ll have to see when we can get a permit for some fireworks—”
Before I could ask what the hell she was talking about, my cousin Marta came over with her wife, Holly. Though Marta was technically my mother’s cousin, she was closer to my age. She was also one of the only Wellbridges in town who didn’t let my mother steamroll her, which meant she was one of my favorite people.
“Good game, JT!” Marta offered me her hand to shake while Holly went up on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek. “Well played.”
“Thanks to you scoring the winning run!” I said with a grin.
Marta laughed. “Thanks to you managing to get a hit off Firecracker. Glad to hear you’ll be sticking around for the summer. Our team might stand a fighting chance.”
I gave my mother a side-eyed glance, but she was suddenly very, very busy adjusting the clasp on her bracelet and didn’t meet my eyes. “Not the whole summer, I’m afraid. Only another day or two. I’ll need to get back to the city.”
“I’ve always thought it would be so fun to live somewhere exciting like New York.” Holly’s smile was kind. “But then I remember I’m an introvert and a homebody who likes having a support system around. Do you love it there?”
I hesitated.Lovewas a strong word.
“Some parts are great, some aren’t.” I shrugged. “I really enjoy my job, though.”
“Fortress would be lost without him,” Mother interjected. “He’s going to be a vice president, you know.”
Marta looked suitably impressed by this, but I felt like an asshole.
“It’s not a done deal yet,” I hurried to say. “I’m actually in town trying to work with Flynn Honeycutt to acquire distribution rights for Honeybridge Mead.”
“Good,” Marta said firmly. “Flynn needs a backer who believes in him. You know I lent him the money he needed to renovate the Tavern after Horace died—I mean,Honeybridge Savings and Loan did, but I was the underwriter—and Flynn has impressed the heck out of me with how well he’s done. He repaid the entire loan early. And with the increased business he’s had since that singer posted a picture from the Tavern on her Instagram—”
“Frankie Hilo,” Holly supplied. “The woman who sings that song about love on a velvet lounger or whatever. You know the one. She’s a huge fan of Honeybridge Mead.”
“Luck,” my mother scoffed. “Nothing but luck.”
“Not true!” Holly’s pretty face creased in a frown. “Luck might have made Frankie wander in there, but the quality of her experience is what made her post what she did. Flynn’s got a half-dozen mead varietals, plus seasonal offerings. A bottling operation. A mailing list.” She ticked off on her fingers. “Six full-time employees. Plus, he’s single-handedly reinvigorated the local honey market, and he’s not shy about promoting his suppliers.”
I blinked. This had not come up in the research Alice and I had done.
I remembered taunting Flynn that his mead was practically imported already, and I winced. I’d underestimated him.
“And Flynn’s mead is truly excellent,” Marta confirmed. “That’s what makes visitors flock to the Meadery for tours.”
There were tours, too?
Suddenly, Fortress’s “generous” offer didn’t feel so generous. Flynn had said that I had no clue what his business was about, and I’d been so sure that was just an excuse for him making decisions based on our past history.
Apparently, I’d been wrong.
Mother made a dismissive noise, and Marta rolled her eyes impatiently. “It’s true, Patricia. With some careful expansion, Flynn’s mead is going to gain a worldwide following, which is probably why Fortress is so eager to sign him. There’s nothing the man can’t do.” To me, she added, “Did you know Flynn taught himself all about mead varietals in just the past couple years?”
I shook my head. I’d had no idea, which was basically the running theme of this conversation. “I thought his Grandpa Horace taught him back when we were still in high school. I thought that’s why Horace left him the place.”
“Horace made a decent home-brew mead and taught Flynn as much as he knew,” Marta agreed. “But even back then, Flynn wanted to turn the Tavern into something more. As soon as he helped Alden go to cosmetology school and it became clear that PJ would get his art scholarship, Flynn saved up enough money to attend a special mead-making school out in California—one that would have taught him about the business management aspect as well as the craft. But then, of course, Horace died so unexpectedly that November.” She shrugged, and Holly sighed sadly. “Flynn didn’t get to go.”
I felt like I’d been sucker punched. “I didn’t know.”
How many times could a man say that in one day? But now I wasn’t thinking about the contract negotiation; I was thinking back to Thanksgiving weekend three years ago.
Flynn hadn’t only been grieving the loss of his grandfather back then; he’d also been grieving the loss of his dream… after making sure his brothers would realize theirs.
