CHAPTER 2
Colt
After I finish stocking the last case of Miller Lite, I take all the empty boxes out to the recycle bin in the back alley. Once back inside, I give the old wooden floors a good wet mop and I’m ready to open the doors for business.
I’m pulling a double shift at Chesty’s today since the regular day bartender, Sam Pete, has a “summer cold”. That translates into a hangover because for one, it’s fall, not summer, and last night was his girlfriend’s twenty-first birthday. Pap called me this morning to tell me Sam Pete was in a bad way, and he wanted to know if I could cover. I don’t mind because I remember what it was like to be that age. Plus, I take every opportunity I can to earn money.
It’s true I live rent-free in a cabin my brother built on Mainer Farm. But for the last two years, I have foregone the salary that would ordinarily be paid to me as the farm foreman because, sadly, Mainer Farms is struggling.
Mama and Dad have no clue I haven’t been taking my salary because in addition to overseeing the regular operations, I also handle the books, so I’ve kept that very much a secret. They don’t need the stress of that knowledge. Besides, my parents have busted their butts working that farm for so many years they deserve to kick back and relax a bit.
The farm is going to be mine one day, so I don’t mind investing the sweat equity into it. I love my heritage as an eighth-generation farmer in my hometown of Whynot. My siblings have all chosen different career paths, and I’m thankful for that. That leaves Mainer Farms strictly under my control, which is just how I like it. I have grand plans to pull us up by the bootstraps, and it would be a total pain in the ass if I had to run everything by my brother and sisters before I could act.
As I step behind the bar, I note the top didn’t get scrubbed down last night when Felicia closed. She’s a new bartender Pap recently hired, but she’s lazy as all get out. I fill up the sink with soapy water, and then proceed to wipe down the sticky beer that was spilled by last night’s drunks.
The front door to the bar opens, and Pap ambles in. He’s eighty-two and had surgery almost four weeks ago to remove part of his colon because he has cancer. Looking at him now, though, he looks as fit and spry as he ever did. As a former Marine drill instructor, he carries himself with his shoulders thrown back and his chin lifted in the air like he’s almost daring someone to take him on. I would not want to get into a scuffle with the old coot.
“Give me a beer,” Pap growls as he takes his seat at the end of the twelve-foot bar.
I grin as I pull a fresh mug out of the freezer and hold it under the tap. “It’s only eleven o’clock in the morning.”
“So?” he challenges me belligerently. “What’s your point?”
I shrug and slide the beer toward him. “Just saying… Most folks are still drinking their coffee at this time of day.”
Pap picks up his beer. He holds it up to me in a mock toast and says with an exaggerated, fake southern drawl, “Well, I ain’t most folk.”
“Look at you,” I praise him with a laugh. “Using good old southern words like ‘ain’t’. Proud of you.”
He snorts and takes a slug from his beer. He’s been in Whynot for over twenty years, but still sounds like a Pittsburgher.
Snickering, I turn to the cash register. Pulling out my wallet, I tell him over my shoulder, “This one’s on me.”
After I pay for his beer—because no one drinks free here—I close the register and face him again.
I give him a critically closer look and note he looks damn good. His face is full of color, and he looks to be brimming with the same piss and vinegar that makes up most of his personality.
“What are you looking at?” he grumbles.
I shrug. “Just making sure you’re not gonna keel over during my watch.”
Pap snorts. “I’m going to outlive all you kids.”
I nod. That’s probably the God’s honest truth. The swinging glass door opens again, and Pap and I turn to see my sister, Laken, walking in.
“Want a beer?” I ask.
She shakes her head as she takes the adjacent seat next to Pap. “Got any coffee made?”
I don’t respond, but move to the forty-cup pot I put on about ten minutes ago. Even though this is a bar, we still get plenty of people who come in and just want to drink coffee. I expect it’s because the southern teetotalers don’t want alcohol, but clearly enjoy the company inside of Chesty’s. Pap is a major source of entertainment and good, honest conversation in our small town.
I put Laken’s coffee in front of her after I doctor it up just the way she likes it with plenty of cream and sugar.
“What you are doing today?” Pap asks her. I lean against the counter that runs behind me, and then cross my arms over my chest as well as one leg over the other at the ankle.
“Jake’s flying in this morning from Chicago,” she tells us, and I can’t help but notice the sparkle in her eyes when she mentions his name. “He’s going to meet me here, and then we’re going to go have lunch at Central Café before heading out to the farm. Got to get a few things in order because Darby and Linnie are going to be arriving today.”
At the mention of the name Darby, my skin tightens and my jaw locks. I’ve never met Jake’s former sister-in-law, who is going to be running Farrington Farms for him, and I’m not sure I ever want to meet her. I’m still nursing a lot of sore feelings over the fact she applied for the same expansion grant that I did from the North Carolina Department of Agriculture.
My bootstrap idea to save Mainer Farms has been in the works a long time. I’ve been developing a long-term plan to open a winery as part of Mainer Farms. The first step is to plant the grapes. It will take a few years for them to mature and be able to harvest. That expansion grant is crucial to my plans, and my plans are crucial to keep Mainer Farms operating.
I know this Darby-woman has every right to apply for that grant, but it still sticks in my craw that she did it because she doesn’t really need it.
Not the way I do.
Jake bought Farrington Farms for a tax write-off. He expects to lose money. My understanding from Laken, who irritatingly defends Jake and Darby, is she had to apply for the grant in order to meet the requirements of her thesis. Darby is apparently a smarty-pants who is trying to finish her PhD in agronomy.
So essentially, she’s doing it to write a paper while I’m doing it to save my family’s farm.
“Once that girl gets settled in, you bring her by here for beer,” Pap instructs Laken.
Laken beams a sweet smile at her grandpa. “I will. I’ll also invite her to one of our Sunday dinners. I imagine she’s going to be overwhelmed and lonely, so I want to show her some good Mainer hospitality.”
Technically, our family name is Mancinkus. It’s Pap and my dad’s surname. But truth is, when we talk about hospitality, we talk about my mama’s side of the family. We’re southern through and through and having people over for Sunday dinner is just a way of life for us.
Laken shoots me a pointed look, but I ignore it.
“How old is her daughter?” Pap asks. I listen with only half an ear because I really couldn’t care less.
“She’s seven years old,” Laken replies. “Darby is going to enroll her over at Height Elementary on Monday.”
For someone who doesn’t even care, I can’t help myself from commenting, “That means she’ll get Mrs. Nicholson.”
Laken nods while wrinkling up her nose in distaste. All of us Mancinkus kids had Mrs. Nicholson for the second grade, and not one of us liked her. She wore way too much rose perfume and her voice was overly squeaky when she yelled.
And Mrs. Nicholson yelled a lot. Why somebody with her bad temperament chose to teach children who are often unruly at that age is beyond me.
Laken turns her head and gives me a sweet, imploring look. “Hey, Colt… Would you be willing to come over tomorrow and help us get Darby’s stuff unloaded? She’s going to be pulling in late tonight, so I figured we would unpack in the morning.”
I’m shaking my head out of pure stubbornness and unwillingness to help the woman who is going to make my life a little more difficult. It’s a crappy thing to do and totally not indicative of the southern hospitality to which I have been raised in, but I tell her, “Sorry. Got plans already.”
Laken arches an eyebrow at me. “Oh, really? Like what?”
“Nunya,” I tell her.
Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, and Pap snickers under his breath. “Nunya?”
“Yeah, none ya business,” I tell her as I push off from the counter and walk over to the refrigerator that sits between the beer cooler and a small toaster oven we use to cook frozen pizzas.
“You don’t have plans,” she taunts at my back. I open the fridge and pull out a bottle of water. “You’re just sore at Darby for no reason at all.”
“I’ve got reason,” I mutter as I twist off the cap and take a long swallow.
“What’s his reason?” Pap asks curiously. With him facing cancer and surgery, he’s not been in the gossip loop lately.
“Darby applied for the same grant Colt wants,” Laken explains. “And he’s acting like a third grader over it.”
“Am not,” I mutter.
“Well, you were an ass to Jake,” she points out. And yeah… I was a little hot headed when I found out about it and confronted the man who I really knew nothing about. Only that he was a hotshot Yankee businessman come to town who had no business becoming a farmer.
I mean… running a farm at a loss? It’s almost a slap in the face to us farmers who work eighty hours a week to eke out a living.
But I’ll have to admit I’ve since come to like Jake. I’ll grudgingly admit he’s got a good heart and most importantly, he makes my sister happy.
Doesn’t mean I have to like Darby, though. Or help her. As far as I’m concerned, she’s the competition and that makes her my enemy.
So no… I won’t be helping.
Besides, I really do have important plans that are none of Laken’s business. I’m heading over to Duplin County to meet with a vintner there who runs a successful winery.
Yes, we make wine in the South. I know Californians look down their nose at us, but our muscadine grapes—scuppernong being the main variety I intend to grow—make a very distinctive and purely unique tasting wine. This Duplin vintner makes quite a good living at it, and I intend to tour his vineyard today. He was kind enough to let me pick his brain some.
“Colt… seriously,” Laken continues to push at me. “Please come help unload Darby tomorrow. I’ll make dinner and—”
“I really can’t,” I say as I turn back to her, my voice softening so she understands this isn’t a childish reaction to the grant situation. “I really do have plans, and I can’t discuss them with you until I know if it’s something that’s plausible.”
Plausibility rests solely with me getting that grant.
At this, Laken sits up straighter and Pap leans toward me. They know I’m working my fingers to the bone to make Mainer Farms successful again, and they have figured out that whatever I’m doing tomorrow is for ye olde homestead.
“When will you share with us?” she asks curiously. “You know we can help out.”
Yes, I know any of my siblings would do whatever was necessary to keep the farm from going under. While they don’t want to be farmers, they are just as proud of our heritage as I am. Every single one of them would be out there planting or harvesting with me if I needed it.
I give a shake of my head. “Soon. I hope to know something soon, and a lot of it has to do with the grant. Then I’ll share. But until then, I don’t want to get anyone excited about something that won’t come to fruition.”
Laken slouches slightly, a silent tell that she’s not going to pump me for information. Pap just looks at me critically, and that’s his tell that he’s not going to let me go it alone at all. I bet after Laken leaves, he’ll grill me hard over what’s going on.
And you know what?
I’ll tell him.
Everyone always spills their guts to Pap because bottom line, he usually has the best advice.