Page 4 of Every Beautiful Mile

He taps his knuckles on the colorful magazine spread open in front of us, as if to emphasize his point.

I frown as my eyes drop to the open pages.

“Dad. We were voted the most fun restaurant by the American Restaurant magazine for the second year in a row. What the hell else do you want from me?”

I feel like a cartoon character with eyes bulging out of its head.

“Read it,” he says, his usually jovial voice firm. He takes a swig from his beer and raises his eyebrows, white mustache twitching.

My nostrils flare, but I do as he says.

“While most bars strive to make nightlife the center of their entertainment, the Crow’s Nest in Key Largo works to create a vibe that’s focused on a daytime audience having just as much fun. Their bartenders are known for wowing patrons with an assortment of tricks and unique specialty drinks crafted by island native Penelope Crawford, or, as the owner and her father, Richard Evans, refers to her, Queen of the Cocktail.” I roll my eyes as I read—he’s never once called me that. “They have live music most afternoons as well as local teachers and nature guides that lead kids’ activities for a few hours on the weekends. Locals describe it as a summer camp with top-notch drinks and grouper sandwiches. Surrounded by turquoise water and the sounds of palm trees blowing in the breeze, every visit to the Crow’s Nest feels like dinner and drinks being enjoyed on vacation. It’s a place where life is lived on a seven-day weekend.”

I look at him with a slight shake of my head, my wordless and?

“Nelly, that’s the same thing they said last year when we won. Same activities! Same cocktails! There’s no way they will vote for us again next year if we don’t make a change.”

He shrugs his shoulders, which are covered in an obnoxiously bright flamingo-patterned shirt and shakes his head.

I try to calibrate my thoughts as I look back at the magazine. He’s complaining because we won, but might not next year? Unbelievable.

The pictures of kids playing with hula hoops under palm trees while parents sip colorful drinks smack my face, along with the flood of memories that follow.

Last year, I was in one of the photos, laughing on the beach as I spun one of the hula hoops around my hips. Last year, Travis bought the bar a round of drinks and made a toast when the magazine came out.

Last year, he got in his airplane, flew into a storm, and never came home. Travis is gone, and so is the person I used to be.

I find the pelican again, still on his same perch, and imagine how easy life must be for that bird.

My dad leans against his forearms on the table. “Listen—”

Thankfully, whatever he wants to say next is interrupted by a friendly smack on his back by a seasonal regular, Doug.

“Richard, you’re keeping my favorite bartender away from us out here!”

Doug’s outfit nearly matches my dad’s, and I have to squint through the brightness. They are the most cliché retired men I’ve ever seen.

My dad’s smile is instantaneous as he stands to shake his hand. “Doug, how are you, man?”

Doug gestures at the tropical scene around us. “Who can complain here?” His eyes twinkle as he grins. “Sadly, we head back to snow-covered New York next week. And Nel—” his gaze drops to mine, “—we’ve yet to see that pilot husband of yours this year.”

He doesn’t know. I don’t know how to tell him.

My dad’s lips press into a tight line as I spin the wedding band around my finger with my thumb.

“He’s…” I try to find a word that isn’t a lie or the bitter truth.

Doug laughs. “That sonofabitch never comes out of the air, does he?” He shakes his head. “Well, if we don’t see him, tell him we say hi.”

I only nod and look anywhere but my dad.

“Nel, dear!” From behind Doug, his wife’s heavily New York accented voice calls. “Can we convince you to make us some of your famous daiquiris before we call it a day?”

She leans slightly to the edge of her stool to catch my eye.

“Anything for you, Claire,” I say with a smile and lift of my chin. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

Doug gives me a wink that’s programmed into the eyelids of retired men everywhere before saying goodbye to my dad and walking away.

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