Page 6 of Every Beautiful Mile

His unexpected smile is instant—like this is what he’s been waiting for—and the tone of his voice fills with optimism.

“That’s why I’m going to help you.” He claps his hands together loudly. Smiling.

My eyes narrow as I slowly put the bottle of vodka I’ve been holding on the bar and search his face for some kind of explanation.

He takes a final sip of his beer, foam clinging to his mustache, before his eyes meet mine with a steely determination.

“You’re taking the summer off,” he declares.

My eyes widen as I suck in a sharp breath. “Dad—”

I start to protest, but the hand he holds up effectively cuts me off, reminding me he is the adult, and I—even at forty-one—am the child.

“You’re taking the summer off, and you’re figuring this out. I don’t care what you do, but I’m not going to sit here and watch you disappear on my watch. I’d let you go now, but we’re too damn busy, and you’re too damn good.”

The look on his face tells me there’s no arguing. Richard Evans has spoken.

For the second time in this conversation, I am completely speechless.

“And Nelly?”

I swallow hard as I look at him. He drops the copy of the magazine on the bar top, a piece of paper sticking out from between the pages.

“There’s an article about restaurants across the country that base their menus on local and seasonal items. I’d like you to contact one of them that interests you and see if you can find out the logistics. I want to refresh the menu.”

I puff my cheeks up with air before blowing it out slowly.

The world feels like it’s spinning so fast, it’s making my throat ache.

Take the summer off? Get yourself together? Refresh the menu?

I want to scream, but instead, I do as I’m told. Begrudgingly.

“I thought you were retired?” I mutter.

“Only sometimes.”

Then he winks, because of course he does, and turns to make small talk with the guests like he didn’t just flip my world upside down.

My jaw clenches as I turn to the marked page and skim over it quickly before choosing a restaurant in Maine. I’ve always imagined the coast there would be gorgeous—ruggedly beautiful with its rocky shores—and quiet. The kind of quiet I could go for a heaping dose of right now.

The owner, a man named Ethan Mills, is pictured wearing blue jeans and a flannel in his photo, and his write-up checks all the boxes of what my dad’s looking for.

Done.

The truth is, after everything my dad just said, I don’t have the capacity to think about this beyond just picking one. Maine or New Mexico, I just don’t give a shit.

“Daiquiris, Nel!” I hear Claire call from down the bar in her thick accent.

I drop the magazine, smile, and grab the bottle of rum.

The rug may have gotten yanked out from underneath me all over again today, but if there’s one thing I can count on, I can still make a damn good cocktail.

Before I head home for the day, I send the email.

To: [email protected] From: [email protected]

Mr. Mills,

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