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My stomach twists, despair swamping me. I plop down in the dark green guest chair, the peeling vinyl in the seat cushion scratching my upper thighs. Can this day get any worse?
I’m stuck in Whitby for the foreseeable future. It’s only a matter of time before I’m itching to go, and I won’t be able to leave.
The old leather chair behind the desk emits a creaky groan as she sits. “The parts cost about three thousand dollars. With labor, you’re looking at about five thousand all in.”
Shit.
A small fortune. But not insurmountable. I don’t have any debt. The bus is paid for. My only financial obligations over the past several years have been general maintenance on my traveling home—which I have clearly slacked on—car insurance, gas, food, and festival entrance fees. Some of those things I do temporary work for, others I obtain by bartering and sharing expenses with friends I’ve met along the way.
“That’s with the friends and family discount,” Pearl continues. “I’ll let you know when the parts arrive, then you let me know when you have the money, and we can get started.” She keeps talking, going on and on about manifolds and carburetors and gaskets and whatnot and the words all run together into gibberish.
“What’s your plan?” Pearl’s question snaps my attention back to her.
I blow out a breath. “I’m going to go see Veronica about a job.”
She points at me. “Smart. Tell Veronica she owes me twenty dollars from last week’s poker night.”
* * *
At two o’clock on a Tuesday, Veronica’s should only have a handful of vehicles in the lot, but when I park the Jeep next to Veronica’s MINI Cooper, half the spaces are taken.
The bright sun beats down on my shoulders as I make my way to the building.
I wait by the doors as my eyes adjust to the dim interior. My eyes trace over the high ceiling, past the plethora of dark wood coating every visible surface, down the L-shaped scuffed wooden bar top, and to the pictures cluttering the walls: everything from old photos of downtown Whitby from the 1950s to a pale green retro sign that reads, “Life is uncertain... eat dessert first!”
I’ve worked in a variety of bars and restaurants around the country over the years to fund my lifestyle, usually under the table. Some have been decent, others have been downright hellish, but no place is like Veronica’s. It’s more than a building, it’s comforting and familiar. Like a home away from home.
We hung out in the bar all the time when we were kids. We’d eat all the cherries and orange slices, help her sweep the floors, and dust the bar.
On the wall next to the door, there’s something new. I peer at the framed record. Luke’s first gold album.
“There’s my girl!” Veronica’s voice rings to the rafters as she hustles out from behind the bar.
She envelops me in a hug, her long silvery hair brushing against my face when she presses her lips to my cheek. “Pearl called.” She pulls back, her hands on my shoulders. “You didn’t change your oil, did you?”
I grimace.
She chuckles. “Well, from what Pearl said you’ll be paying the price. Now let me look at you.” The line between her brows deepens and her lips purse. “Oh baby, you’re too skinny.” She tsks.
I glance down. I suppose I have lost a little bit of weight. Over the past few months, every time I thought about how I ditched my family at Christmas, about Mindy’s apology, about my search for our mom and basicallyanythingrelated to my family, my stomach would tie itself into knots. So, daily.
I tried to outrun the anxiety by keeping myself busy, traveling from one festival to the next, one party to another, but now I’m just exhausted. And starving.
“Are you hungry? The lunch special is a turkey melt with mango chutney, Monterey Jack cheese, and avocado. We also recently added Irish nachos to the lunch menu.”
My mouth pops open. “Are you serious? You’ve done more than a few updates around here. No wonder it’s busier than normal.”
“Oh, there have been a lot of changes since last year. Come on, let me put in an order for you and then we can catch up.”
I follow her over to the bar and sit at the end, the same stool I always take when I come to chat with Veronica. I am supposed to be having family dinner in a few hours, but I can’t say no to Veronica’s food, especially since she’s kicked up the menu a notch.
She writes an order on a notepad and sticks it on the order wheel, smacking the counter to get Daphne’s attention, then walks over to where I’m perched on the stool.
“You want a drink, honey?”
“Water is fine. Tell me what’s up with the new gourmet menu items.”
She grabs a pint glass, the silvery bangles on her wrist jingling as she scoops ice into it and then fills it with water using the soda gun behind the bar. “It’s been a little bit busier since Luke’s show. Some of those music people liked the area enough that they’ve come back a few times, and they’ve told their friends. They already go to the Catskills for skiing, so they’re nearby anyway. They didn’t even know Whitby was here.” She chuckles, setting the glass of water in front of me.
