CHAPTER 7
Pap
The door to Chesty’s opens, and I blink in surprise to see Lowe walk through. It’s true my second oldest grandchild is still in the prime of his life at thirty-three, but he normally doesn’t hang out with me on a work night. This being a Monday and all, it’s odd him being here.
He walks past the row of three pool tables that separate the entrance from the actual bar that runs the length of the back wall of my humble establishment, getting a few back slaps from friends, one handshake from another, and flirty winks from a few of the ladies. Lowe takes it all in stride with an easy smile to everyone because that’s normally his nature. This snarling, riled-up man who has been showing his ass of late isn’t like my Lowe, so I know the loss of the Mainer House really hit him a lot harder than the family gave him credit for. Trixie told me she saw him last Friday and that he seemed to be taking things in better stride. She felt he was going to finish out the work ordered by Judge Bowe and then move on from it all, and that relieves me. No one likes to see their grandkids in pain.
“What’s up, Pap?” Lowe says with a squeeze of his large hand to my shoulder. He sits down in the chair that’s adjacent to mine at the corner. I always sit on the end, and that adjacent chair is usually reserved for Trixie, who was known to walk over from her law firm just next door to have a beer with me after work each day. Now that Ry’s taking up most of her heart, that chair’s been empty a lot, so I’m quite happy to see Lowe taking it.
My gaze cuts to the bartender. When I have his attention, I give a jerk of my head toward my grandson to indicate he needs a beer and I’ll be paying for it. The bartender—new boy named Sam-Pete who dropped out of college and returned to Whynot—lifts his head back in acknowledgment, so I turn my attention to Lowe.
“How’s life been treating you, boy?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “Can’t complain.”
“And yet, you’ve been doing a lot of that lately,” I say, pointing out the obvious.
Lowe snorts and then looks briefly to Sam-Pete, who sets his draft beer down before him. I’ve got the kid well trained as he unobtrusively takes a five-dollar bill from a small pile sitting in front of me to pay for Lowe’s beer and heads back to the register.
“Thanks, Pap,” Lowe says as he holds up his beer to me in a toast before taking a long slug.
“What’s the deal with that pretty little Yankee over there?” I push at him.
Lowe sets his beer down and mutters. “Pretty? You think so?”
I cackle in response. Can’t help it… when you get past the age of seventy, some of your laughs come out as cackles, and I’ve got ten years past seventy to perfect it, but it’s effective in this scenario. Lowe swings his head, shoots a hard glare at me, then goes back to his beer.
“Boy, you know damn well that girl is beyond pretty,” I tell him knowingly with a light punch to his shoulder that I’m proud to say rocks him slightly in his seat. Then I really go in for the kill. “Of course, no surprise she had some fella with her this afternoon when she got back into town.”
Lowe snaps his head back to me so fast I’m surprised his head doesn’t fly off his shoulders. “She brought a man back from New York?”
“I was heading into Chesty’s when she pulled up in her driveway,” I say as I lean toward him and lower my voice, like it’s the juiciest gossip ever heard around these parts. “Guy got out of the front seat. Had three suitcases, so I’m thinking he’s here to stay.”
Lowe just blinks once at me, acts like he might say something, then shrugs his shoulders again before changing subjects. “You going to the Lantern Festival this weekend?”
Well, that just won’t do. He’s usually easier to needle.
“When have I not gone to the Lantern Festival?” I ask in return. “It’s like the best party this town throws. I bet that Miss Rothschild will love it, and it’s the perfect place for her and her fella to get all romantic under the stars.”
“I guess,” he says vaguely, his eyes flicking up to the TV that has a baseball game on right now. My beloved Pittsburgh Pirates aren’t playing today, so I have the next best thing on.
Any sport that’s in season.
“Tall, dark, and handsome,” I toss out as Lowe watches the game. He hears me. I know he’s bothered because a tiny muscle in his cheek starts jumping, and that confirms what I suspected. He’s got a little something for the new owner of the Mainer House. “Like almost as tall as you.”
Lowe’s head swings my way. He’s not stupid. He knows what I’m doing, so he merely asks, “What’s your point?”
“Just curious as to the nature of your relationship with her.” I watch him carefully trying to read every nuance from his expression. I’m not an expert or anything on body language, but I’ve learned a few tricks over the years I’ve owned this bar.
“There is no relationship,” he says curtly. “Judge ordered me to do work on her house, so I am. We’re supposed to meet tomorrow morning to figure out what I need to do for her going forward.”
“And nothing more?” I push at him.
“Why would you think there would be something more?”
And that’s way too defensive. There’s something there.
“I don’t know,” I say vaguely. “You seemed to be bothered by the man she’s got shacking up in her house.”
Yup. There goes that muscle ticking in his face again.
“How tall is he?” Lowe asks, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t cackle in victory.
“Pretty tall,” I hedge. “Maybe even an inch or two taller than you now that I think about it.”
This isn’t true, of course, but Lowe is my grandson and he’s comprised of roughly twenty-percent caveman DNA. Size totally matters.
“And he had three suitcases?” he presses carefully.
I nod.
Lowe turns to his beer and downs it in about four powerful swallows. When he sets it down, I ask, “Want another?”
“Nah,” he answers as he pushes off the barstool. “I have to get up before the roosters tomorrow.”
“Why so early?” I ask with a grin.
He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t need to. It was all over town about his 5:30 AM wakeup call to Miss Rothschild last week, as well as the fact that yelling could be heard coming from the house when she answered the door. This came from Andy, one of the deputies on early morning patrol who was getting coffee at Wilson’s that morning while he was gassing up his car.
As Lowe turns for the door, he shoots me a warning look. “Quit meddling, you ol’ coot.”
I can’t help it.
I cackle and then cackle harder when Lowe glares at me once again before stomping toward the door.