Page 127 of Every Beautiful Mile

“Dad, you know I love the bar, and you’ve always been good to me, so this isn’t anything personal. It’s just that when I was in Maine, I had the opportunity to teach someone how to run a bar better—just a glimpse of it—and I liked it. Loved it even. I thought maybe other bars would want to hire me to learn how to make what we have here. How to make drinks that are special to their target audiences. And nothing will ever be as fun as our place, but maybe I can show people how to make their own fun.” I take a long sip of water as he looks out at the horizon and shakes his head.

“So, you’re going to leave the Crow’s Nest and do this full-time?” He drags his hand down the side of his face.

“Yes. No. I don’t know!” I shake my head. “Maybe? Dad, I just want to try this. I love you and the people here, but sometimes it feels like someone else’s dream I was dropped in. I’ve never done anything like this on my own, and it just seems like this big thing I’ll always regret not trying.”

His eyes fill with panic. “But what about when I retire? Who runs it then? I only have one year left in me before—”

I bark out a laugh without letting him finish, and a fresh shot of conviction lights up my chest.

“Dad, you’ve been threatening to retire for five years! And I’m not waiting—I don’t want to—not because I don’t love you, but because it’s not what I want to wait for. I don’t want to run this restaurant for the rest of my life.”

My dad stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time, and I swear there’s something like pride in his eyes. He sags back in his seat with a resigned sigh.

I soften. “I just need to try this. I won’t leave you high and dry.” I reach over and squeeze his arm as excitement and fear dance together in the pit of my stomach.

“The summer was good to you, Nelly,” he says, studying me again as if he’s trying to confirm it’s really me sitting here.

“It was, Dad, it really was.” I swallow the lump that’s trying to form in my throat.

“Well, you can forget about adding any of those fancy fresh ingredients on the menu,” he says before taking a sip of his beer.

And then, like I didn’t just do one of the most difficult things of my life, I laugh.

Forty-eight

In our first weeks home, the kids and I find a new rhythm together. One where we sit around a table every night, with food I cook, and laugh about the day. Finn talks (talks!) about his life, including the fact that Abby has a new boyfriend, no surprise to Marin, without any of the resentment he had for me just months before.

Our trip forms a line of demarcation in our relationship that marks the us before and after.

The me before and after.

“So, I wanted to talk to you guys about something I’ve been thinking about. You know I love making drinks and Grandpa’s bar, but lately, I’ve been wondering if I want to do something different,” I say one night over dinner. I take a long sip of water and note Marin’s saucer-sized eyes.

“When we were in Maine, and I went in and helped Ethan clean up his mess that first night, it was fun—a challenge. Different from what I do every day here. The idea of helping bar owners turn their business into something uniquely well-oiled might be a fun change for me. And with you guys getting older and getting ready to figure things out without me, I wondered if maybe I should give it a try.”

I puff my cheeks up with air and wait.

“Mom, that’s amazing! You would be so great at that. Maybe you could have one of those reality TV shows where you go in and yell at everyone until they get it together.” Marin rubs her palms together maniacally. “Ohh! Or meet Gordon Ramsey!”

“God, your dad loved his show,” I say, the words rolling off my tongue effortlessly and with a laugh. No wince, no dreaded prick behind my eyes, just a fond memory.

Marin snorts. “And always did a bad British accent when he watched.”

“Remember that time he tried to make one of his recipes, and the oven caught on fire?” Finn shakes his head. “Lamb, right?”

I nod, nobody else saying anything as we look off in silence for a beat, reliving that ridiculous night of cooking.

“Anyway, what do you think, Finn? About consulting?”

Finn laughs. “Grandpa’s going to flip.”

I shake my head and watch the familiar wide leaves rustle in the breeze.

“I actually told him already, and there was no flipping. Plus, it’s just a silly idea now. I’ve emailed a couple of my connections and lined up some trial consults. Then I guess we’ll see what comes of it. I’ll still be working at Grandpa’s, at least part-time.”

Marin’s phone is out before I can finish my sentence. She swipes across the screen, typing at warp speed.

“Not silly, Penelope. Let’s get you on social media.”

---