I said, “This is my home. This was my dad’s bar. I can’t just leave them behind.”
He leaned in and shook his head at me. “Do you really think your daddy meant for you to spend your life behind that bar serving drinks to old coots like me?”
“I don’t know what he expected me to do with my life because he died before I could ask him,” I said, looking down at the floor beneath my feet. “My dad died on this very spot, Carl. I can’t just walk away and pretend that never happened.”
“If your daddy died in a car accident, would you keep the wreckage around to remind you of him?”
“What? No. Of course not.”
He shrugged. “Same thing. Staying here just because your daddy died here is not a reason. It’s an excuse.”
“What does that mean?”
He blew out his cheeks, filling the air between us with the smell of onions and beer. “All I’m saying is, your daddy never expected you to keep this place going. And deep down, I think you know that. You’re using this bar—and your daddy’s death—as an excuse not to leave because you’re afraid.”
I caught myself before telling him to go to hell. I took a deep breath and held it for a moment, and then I said, “What am I afraid of?”
“You’re afraid of what’s out there,” he said, pointing toward the window. “You left once and came back hurt. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t leave again.” He picked up the mug and sighed into it. “You can’t be afraid of what’s out there, Rebecca, because it could be a hell of a lot better than what you have here.”
“When did you get so smart?” I asked, smiling at him.
“I’ve always been this smart,” he said with a goofy face. “I just never share my smarts with any…” His face went blank. For a moment I thought he was having a stroke.
I reached across the bar and put my arm on his hand. “Carl? Carl? What is it?”
“I remember,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I’ll be damned. I remember why I call you Becca Boo.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN: Nick
“That’s the real reason the European union is breaking up,” the guy in the black pinstripe suit sitting at the hotel bar next to me said.
His name was Nigel Folger. He was an elderly British economist who had followed me into the bar to give me his opinion on my speech. I’d downed half a bottle of Russian vodka by the time he reached the end of his rant.
I looked at him sideways and said, “Nigel, you win. Now can we talk about anything other than the European economy, please?”
“Certainly, my boy.” He held out his glass and I poured him two fingers of vodka. He took a sip and smacked his lips. “What shall we talk about then?”
“How about the weather,” I said with a sigh.
“Fuck the weather,” Nigel said with a grin. “Let’s talk about your love life.”
I froze with the glass at my lips. “What do you know about my love life?”
“Rumor has it that your father is pressuring you to marry an American girl and give him a red, white, and blue heir,” he said with a smirk. “Care to comment?”
“Are you working for the National Enquirer now?”
“I’m just curious, my boy,” he said, shrugging with his eyes. “I hate to say this, but I’m not sure marrying anyone, let alone an American, can save your father’s throne at this point. He would be best to exile himself to some sunny clime and enjoy the rest of his days living off the millions he’s stashed away.”
“How do you know there are millions stashed away?” I asked, shooting back the vodka and closing my eyes as it burned its way down my throat. “Maybe he’s broke.”
“I seriously doubt that,” Nigel said, sipping the vodka like wine as he watched me refill my glass. He studied me for a moment. “Would you really do it?”
“Do what?”
“Get married just to save your father’s throne?”
I glanced sideways at him. “I would do anything I could to keep my father’s honor and dignity in place.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Nigel said slyly. He bumped me with his elbow and lowered his voice. “You can tell me, old boy. Would you really marry a woman and get her pregnant just so you can one day call yourself king of a dying monarchy?”
I set the glass on the table and wiped my lips on a napkin. I turned to him and patted him on the back. I said, “Nigel, you’re a fucking prick.”
I tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the bar and staggered away.
I’d had enough drama over the last couple of days to last a lifetime.
Now I just wanted to block out the world and go to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY: Rebecca
“I was sitting right here,” Carl said, his eyes taking on a dreamy haze. “Your mother was standing there. She had you in her arms. You were just a few months old.”