Now that I know who the snobby bitch is, there is no way in hell I’m letting her control what goes on in my bar. What the fuck was she doing the other night...casing the joint?

“Frank, are you opposed to temporary art and decorations being hung as enhancements to the theme of the wedding?” she asks, raising her one eyebrow at me, and turning her nose down to me. She’s looking directly at me waiting for my response, but she’s tapping her pen against the spiral ridges of her notebook impatiently. That irritating noise is pissing me off.

“What is the theme of the wedding?” I ask, looking directly back at her, boring a hole into the center of her beautiful face. She won’t win a staring contest with me. I’m not backing down.

“It’s a cross between a California Ranch and a Rustic Barn theme,” Aran chimes in to ease the tension mounting between us.

“Well, that’s a good thing then,” I chuckle and smile at Aran, “seeing as how The Beer and Brood used to be the ol’ Silas horse barn. I’m not sure what you mean by enhancements though. I guess I’d have to see what you had in mind before I say yay or nay.” I shift around in my seat and fuck if I don’t bang my sore elbow on the table causing me to wince in pain. My eyes are immediately drawn to Isabella and she throws me a smug smile and a chin nod for my pain.

Aran continues to sort through some of her photos and picks out a few of her ideas she was throwing around.

“We’re going to set up a large tent outside for the reception to accommodate eating and dancing. The majority of the reception will take place outside in the tent after the ceremony. It’ll be decorated in a barn theme to match the inside here,” she explains, handing me some of the magazine cut-outs and Internet images of what she likes for the tent. “But here on the inside, I’d like to clear out all the tables and chairs, possibly set up old rustic wooden chairs for seating in rows,and the rest of the enhancement decorations would be country things like string lights, bundles of flowers, and long white drapery that would create a walk-way for the bridal party to the stage.” She hands me some photos of the white drapery idea.

“Aran, I’m sorry, but I can’t picture it. My brain isn’t a visionary for creative ideas like yours is,” I inform her. “I’m a technical and functional person, I  mean, I see the picture and all the long curtains, but this barn looks nothing like my bar. I would...”

“Maybe I can help with this matter,” she interrupts me. “The Banks wedding is in a few weeks at the Ryer Island Ranch up in Walnut Grove. It’s a barn theme with many similar decorations like Aran wants. Come to the wedding as my guest, and see it in person with what we’re planning for here. It should be very similar; a true transformation. Come with Aran to see it in practice, or bring someone else...a trusted business partner to help you make decisions.”

She sounds so eager in her negotiation skills like she thinks I will instantly cave into her control once I see her decorative planning skills on display. “Alright,” I advise. “I’ll do anything to help my family.” And make sure the wedding planner doesn’t fuck this up with some crazy ideas for my bar.

“You keep saying that, but we’re sitting here negotiating decorations of all things,” she quips. Even Aran is surprised at her remark and does a quick gasp of her breath.

“Kyle and I mean for this to be as trouble-free and painless as possible,” Aran pleads. “We both come from humble beginnings and want to live our lives that way, despite our careers and bank accounts. This theme is to remind us of that as we start our lives together as one. It should be easy.” She looks back and forth between us, making sure we both understand her words. I nod in her direction and see Isabella tuck her head down in a slight nod, acquiescing.

“I want nothing more than to make it easy for you, Aran,” I state, “but I don’t like wedding planners and their mightier-than-thou attitudes.  I hope it’s the day that you’ve dreamed of, and I’ll do my best to work with her to make that happen.”

I scoot out from the booth and walk back to the storeroom to finish inventory. I can feel both of them staring at my quick departure, but only one of them is causing a burning heat to race down my backside. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not yet. I like it that she’s mad. Serves her right for bringing her shitty attitude into my bar the other night. But that same burning heat has curved around to my dick, and now I’m hard as a rock. Damn honeysuckle perfume.

I come back out from the storeroom an hour later and they’re both still here. They’re measuring things, and the snobby bitch is writing furiously in her notebook. I’ve passed them a few times, and I can see what appears to be sketches of the bar inside her notebook too. She’s drawn the back porch addition beautifully, but she’s  added in some details that I can’t quite make out. This might end ugly for her.

They disappeared outside for a while; probably scouting out places for that massive tent Aran was talking about. When is this wedding? I can’t believe I didn’t ask. I bet it’s at the height of my summer season and I’m going to lose money on closing it down for the night. Not that I care about losing money. I’ve got way more than I know what to do with, but my regulars don’t like change. I know some of them would not be opposed to crashing a wedding just for a drink or two.

They cross back through the bar, heading over to the booth we were all sitting in. Aran takes a seat and starts collecting her wedding portfolio pictures, but snobby bitch grabs her purse, fishes something out of it—a red checkered envelope, and marches towards me. Her heels are clicking on the wooden floor, and it sounds like she’s mad the way they are digging deep into the wood. Without saying a word, she slaps what looks to be a wedding invitation onto the bar in front of me, and stalks off through the front doors.

“Adios, snobby bitch,” I say out loud as the doors swing closed behind her. I grab my beer, because, yes, she’s got me day drinking, and head over to sit with Aran as she packs her stuff up to leave.

I scoot in and sit where she was seated. The essence of her perfume permeates the area and is torturing me. That fucking smell is going to be the death of me.

We both sit in silence for a short while. Aran finishes packing up her things and sits quietly drinking her water. “You gonna tell me what the hell that was all about?” she asks. “I know I’m not family, but I’ve been around you long enough to know something isn’t right between you two.” Holy shit. I’m surprised she doesn’t know. I thought Isabella would have told her about the other night. It’s not my style to gossip, but I can change the subject— probably better than anyone around here.

“Did you know I used to date your mother in Jr. High School?” I ask her. Her eyes go wide with shock, so I take that as a no.

“You didn’t? Really?” she asks in return. Intrigued by the notion, she shuffles around in her seat, settling in to hear the story. I’m not sure I’ll give her the whole thing, but maybe just the good parts.

“I did, but then again, we were young and “dating” was subjective,” I say, laughing at some of the memories that flood my brain of her mama. “You look just like her. I was a grease monkey at the time, hanging out in my neighbor’s garage, and learning everything I could about fixing racing cars. That’s what I wanted to do— race cars, but that scared your mother.”

“I thought it was her and my dad, always and forever until death parted them,” she sighs, with a little bit of melancholy in her voice.

“Oh, it was. Trust me,” I confide. “My neighbor...the one with the garage...that was your grandfather. He tried to teach us both about cars, but your dad didn’t care. He spent most of his time talking to Melanie when she stopped over. And where Melanie was, her best friend Olivia would soon follow. We were four peas in a pod back then.”

“Mom used to tell me stories about her and Olivia growing up in Knightsen, but they always involved my dad. She never mentioned you; sorry about that,” she apologizes easily. “She would always stop the stories abruptly though, and get sad, never telling me why. Do you know why?”

She looks at me with tears welling up in her eyes at the thought of her mom being sad, and it fucking moves me to a shuddering breath. My chest tightens with emotion, and I can’t breathe. A hard lump forms in my throat, and damn it, I suddenly can’t talk. Minutes go by as flashes of the car wreck pass through my memory.

“It’s alright,” I breathe through the dark feelings I still harbor over her death. “Olivia died in our early 20s. I’m sure it was hard for your mama to deal with being so young.” I take a long draw from my beer, needing the coolness to ease the tightness in my throat. One solitary tear rushes to the corner of my eye and spills down my cheek.

Aran reaches over and grabs my hand, giving it a squeeze. “How did she die?” she asks.

I swallow hard, not sure if I can answer. I look up at her, and the tears that formed earlier for her mom have broken free and quietly roll down her face in rivulets. She swipes at them, before digging through her purse for some tissues.

“She died in a car wreck,” I blurt out as fast as I can or the words may not form. “A drunk driver ran a light and t-boned her side of the car. She died at the scene before the emergency crews could get her to the hospital.”

“I’m so sorry for asking you to re-live those memories,” she whispers softly. “So, you wanted to be a race car driver?” I look up into her eyes at the sudden shift in conversation, and she smiles sincerely at me. She’s had enough sadness in her life these past few years that I roll with it. It seems I’m not the only one who can change topics quickly.

“I did,” I reply. “I was damn good at it too. As you know, the long country roads around here just begged me to put the pedal to the metal and test the engine. I was really good at the curvy turns thanks to Knightsen’s municipal road planning. We both laugh at that. She obviously knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“Did you ever win any titles?” she asks. “You know, get to drink the milk and dump a whole jug of it over you and your crew.” She’s just like her mama with her curiosity and has inherited that special way of making you feel good. That’s what I remember most about Melanie.

“Nah, but I had a few sponsors,” I say proudly. “I’ll have to show you pictures sometime. I was rising in the ranks, fast. Every time you turned on a race, I was the new kid they were watching out for; comparing me to Ricky Rudd, Darrell Waltrip, Rusty Wallace, Mark Martin and the one to beat— Dale Earnhardt, Sr...I was certainly in good company.”

“So what happened?” she asks excitedly. “Did you blow your engine or your money? It’s usually one or the other.”

I shake my head at her guesses, trying to push the sad ending to the story back as far as I can. I’ll end it here on a good note for her. “No, but that’s a longer story for another time,” I explain. “You need to get home to those babies. You’ve got a long drive ahead of you to Sacramento.”

Her face falls in disappointment. “I promise. I’ll tell you the long version of what happened someday,” I say. She gathers her purse and portfolio, scooting out of the booth. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask, when is the wedding?”

“Alright, if you promise to tell me another time,” she teases and shakes her finger at me. “I’m holding you to it, or I’ll withhold Kings playoff tickets from you. The wedding is on July 1st in the early afternoon. So you have seven weeks to prepare and play nice with my wedding planner.”

She winks and laughs, as she pushes through the doors to leave.