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Positioned at the counter, Bowie was hard at work, his large hands deftly pouring a pint for Old Man Larkin, who sat hunched over his usual spot at the end of the bar, his weathered face crinkled in a smile as he exchanged stories with a couple of other regulars.
Seeing Jackson, Bowie lifted his chin in acknowledgment. “Thought you’d gotten lost on the way here.”
"Your brother drives like a grandma." He shrugged off his jacket.
“We had some extra driveways to clear, but everyone is good for now.”
The familiarity of it all encircled him like a hug. He was in his element with the soft hum of country music playing on the jukebox, the clink of glasses, and the murmur of conversation. Even the sticky bar counter was welcoming. He was new to town, but working in the bar gave him a bird’s eye view of the happenings. He'd quickly figured out that if you wanted to stay current, you just had to chill at B's Bakery, Maisey's, or Bishop's Brewhouse. Over the course of his stay, he’d learned enough to qualify as a town historian.
He peeked down at Gunner, who’d found his spot in the corner tucked around Mike. The shepherd was becoming as much a fixture in the bar as the vintage beer signs adorning the walls.
While he got comfortable with the pace of the night, pouring drinks and exchanging pleasantries with the locals, he found himself looking at the clock and hoping it would tick faster. But the night unfolded slowly, the hours marked by the clink of beer bottles and the constant banter of the locals.
Doc Parker walked in and took his regular seat at the end of the bar. His eyes, sharp and bright, focused on a napkin where he’d drawn a grid for tic-tac-toe.
Jackson smiled at the sight. Doc Parker and his beloved game were as much a part of Bishop’s Brewhouse as the scarred tables and rickety chairs. In many ways, they represented the heart of Aspen Cove—resilient, enduring, and full of stories that unfolded over rounds of beer and games.
Doc’s lips twitched into a grin. “Evening, Jackson!” he said, his voice gruff with age. “Ready to lose?”
Jackson chuckled, his eyes glancing at the tic-tac-toe game. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Doc. Might surprise you today.”
As he took his place across from Doc, the older man meticulously placed the first O on the grid, a look of complete focus on his face. It was a ritual Doc took seriously, a daily fixture that held a sense of grounding familiarity in the ever-changing tides of life.
The game continued in companionable silence, their moves punctuated by Doc’s occasional sip of beer.
Despite his big talk, Jackson lost the game, as he did most nights.
After Doc had celebrated his win with a triumphant wave to the bar and a hearty gulp of his beer, he turned his attention back to Jackson, his eyes taking on a more serious tone.
“Tell me, Jackson, how’s Amanda doing?” Doc asked, his voice softer now.
Jackson was taken aback, not expecting Doc to bring up Amanda. Yet, he realized that Doc was like a father to the town.
“She’s...” Jackson hesitated, searching for the right words. “She’s good.” He thought back to the run-in with the critter. “Better now that the squatter’s gone.” He told the tale to Doc, and by the end, the older man was laughing so hard he was crying.
“And what about you, Jackson? I heard you moved in with her.”
The walls of Bishop’s Brewhouse had absorbed countless tales over the years, laughter and tears woven into the very fabric of the place. It was more than a bar; it was a sanctuary, a place where the townsfolk thrived, where lives intertwined. It was also a spot where gossip was commonplace. He was sure Cannon had given Doc the lowdown while he was off.
Jackson leaned on the bar, absentmindedly cleaning a glass as Doc set up for another game. He placed his marker and said, “Do you think there’s something there?”
He wanted to shake his head, but the idea of doing so seemed like a lie. “It’s an exchange of labor for a place to stay. That’s all.”
Doc chuckled. “In my experience, when two young people get together, they often exchange more.” He lifted his brow. “The pharmacy is well stocked.”
“I appreciate that, and I will take it slow.”
“Ahh.” Doc seemed to savor his sip, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips. “Now that’s a good beer.”
Jackson pointed to the napkin, all gridded and ready. “Are we playing for another?” He couldn’t remember a time when Doc paid for a beer, but he always left a nice tip.
“You know, Jackson,” he started, setting his glass down. “Sometimes, the best things in life aren’t planned. They come when you least expect it. Like a woman with a pink letter. Those letters have changed the lives of many men in this town.”
Jackson had a feeling he was about to be counseled. The older man had a knack for offering advice when least expected. And he’d heard about those letters and couldn’t deny they were life changers.
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Let me share with you a tale about love and relationships. And what better way to illustrate this than through the tic-tac-toe game?”
