CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Rebecca

“Penny for your thoughts, Becca Boo.”

I looked up to find Carl smiling at me. He’d finished his burger and fries, and his mug was empty. He picked up the mug and shook it at me. “Can I get one for the road?”

“You do know that you shouldn’t drink and drive,” I said, holding the mug under the tap to fill it with beer. I set the mug in front of him and removed the empty plate and set it on the pass-through.

“My dear, I have built up an immunity over the decades,” he said, holding up the mug and smacking his lips. “I haven’t been legally drunk since 1982.”

“What happened in 1982?” I asked.

“Divorced my third or fourth wife,” he said, giving me a wink. “I came in here to celebrate, as a matter of fact.”

“I thought you might have been celebrating my birthday,” I said with a sigh. “I was born in ’82.”

“I know,” he said, nodding with the beer mug at his lips. “I was here the night your mother went into labor right about where you’re standing.”

I frowned at him. “You remember my mother?”

“Course I do,” he said with a wave. “I knew your parents even before they opened this place.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Plus, this old nose can sniff out a bar within fifty miles. I was probably one of the first customers in the door.”

I leaned over the bar and rested my chin on my fist. “So, do you know why my mother left?”

Carl’s weathered face seemed to sag at the question. His forehead wrinkled. His bushy eyebrows twitched above his eyes. “I don’t like to get in anyone’s business, Becca Boo.”

“Bullshit,” I said, giving him a look. “You’re in everybody’s business.” He smiled and rolled his eyes. “Tell me about my mother, Carl. I don’t even remember her.”

He took a long sip of beer and licked his lips. He spoke quietly, reverently. “Your mother was a beautiful girl. She worked her butt off behind the bar while your daddy manned the kitchen. You remind me of her. Blonde hair, green eyes. She also had your sadness.”

I frowned at him. “My sadness? I have a sadness?”

He shrugged. I’d never seen Carl more serious. “Maybe sadness ain’t the right word. She’d get this longing in her eyes sometimes, like she was dreaming of some faraway place.”

“Did she ever talk about leaving?” I asked.

He looked around the room to make sure no one was listening. He shrugged. “She might have said something about leaving, on occasion.” He cradled the beer mug between his bent fingers and glanced up at me. “You’re asking me why she left, ain’t you?”

“Yes, I’d like to know,” I said with a sigh. “Because I have no clue why she left. I’m just wondering if it was because of me.”

“Let me ask you something first,” he said, staring at me from beneath his eyebrows. He tapped a fingertip on the bar. “Why are you still here?”

“I don’t understand the question,” I said, scowling at him.

“It’s a simple question. You’re pretty, you’re smart, you got a good head on your shoulders. What the heck are you still doing here? In Snowcap, behind that bar?”

I thought about the question for a moment. The only answer I could come up with was the one I gave myself every day when the question came to mind.

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, then 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.”