I took her hand as gently as I could, looked deep into her eyes. “We can look after ourselves, Mom,” I said softly.
“I know, I know,” she said with a watery laugh and a shake of her head. “I’ve seen you do so many great things on your own. But you’re such good girls—” she clasped my arm earnestly—“you shouldn’t have to. You should be able to lean on someone else, every once in awhile. If you wanted to.”
I felt an unaccustomed surge of tenderness towards my mother, warm and engulfing. “Ah, hell.” I couldn’t stay mad at her. “Come here, Mom.”
She didn’t even take me to task for my language as I enfolded her in my arms, Paige and Dad embracing us as well, our family becoming one giant hug, warm and secure and safe. My mother felt so small and fragile as I held her, bird-boned, delicate. I was so used to seeing her as an all-powerful tyrant, and yet, in this moment…my heart ached for her fragility, for her losses, for the choices she had made that had driven me so far from her.
I couldn’t promise that we would ever be close. She loved me, but she had expressed that love for so long by belittling me and my choices that there was a part of me that feared that all that damage could never be undone.
But I hoped that maybe, just maybe, this conversation was a sign of better things to come.
#
My hands danced restlessly at my side in anticipation as the crowd’s murmur quieted, their eyes focusing on Hunter as he took center stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Hunter began, and the crowd fell completely silent as his slow, measured, dark honey tones reverberated through the warm afternoon air. “I can’t thank you enough for coming out here today and giving me a hand. I appreciate your support more than I can say.”
The crowd gave murmuring sounds of assorted “you’re welcome”s and “of course”es. Looking around at all the smiling faces, you could tell that Hunter was among friends here. These were the people who loved him, who supported him, would believe in him and back him all the way.
I was proud to be in their company.
“We’ve none of us had an easy time of it lately,” Hunter went on. “I’m sure none of you have missed the recent news about Knox Liquors.”
Angry grumbles spread through the crowd in response; Hunter waved them to silence.
“Now, now. What’s done is done. As a very wise lady told me just recently—” his eyes locked on mine, and he gave a wolfish grin—“there’s no point in dwelling on the past when you could be looking towards the future. And what a bright future it’s looking to be!”
Whoops of agreement greeted his statement.
“Now, if you’ve all sufficiently wetted your whistles to form an opinion on what recipes you find most palatable, you’ll find the ballot boxes to your left, with Martha distributing the voting slips; everyone gets three to distribute between the flavors as you wish.”
“What if we haven’t wetted our whistles enough yet?” heckled someone from behind me.
“Then too bad, because we’re all out of beer!” Hunter shot back, and the crowd laughed. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
The crowd hustled over to the ballot boxes, and I did as well, intercepting some of the tidal wave of people before they could swamp Martha entirely with their questions and their voting slips. We helped direct everyone to the ballot box they wanted, and sent them away with plates of barbecue and lemonade until there was enough breathing space to pull out the calculators and tabulate the results.
It seemed every brew had a few diehard fans, but soon a few clear leaders emerged, and from those candidates, one soon began to stand head and shoulders above the rest: a hoppy blend with strong overtones of sarsaparilla and Mexican vanilla that Hunter had chosen to call simply “Dixie.”
“Dixie is the winner!” Martha announced to widespread cheers.
Hunter was surrounded by supporters, who showered him in hugs, handshakes, and hearty backslaps. A few of the burlier young men hoisted him on their shoulders and began to run a victory lap around the lawn, and I laughed and laughed as I watched them, until I had to sit down on the grass or fall down. My heart felt as light as a feather, and my mind was already dancing with visions of what was coming next, exhilaration and nervousness combining in a heady mix of anticipation and terror.
This had been the easy part.
Next up, the expo!
EIGHT
“Ah, Miss Bartlett. How is that family of yours doing? Any developments in that…emergency of theirs?”
My boss peered at me over his glasses. He was trying to make me feel guilty for not divulging any more information than privacy laws said I had to. Was this just his normal brand of passive-aggression, or was he starting to get suspicious?
“Almost cleared up,” I said as brightly as I could. “Oh look, is that the time, I have to go update the company’s social media presence or everyone will think we’re dead, see you later!”