Page 5 of All Along The Watchtower

“Lord help me.” I dropped my forehead into my palm. These guys were impossible, but they were my impossible.

“Orange You Glad?” Duck offered.

Monty gasped. “I will not have my creation subjected to puns.”

“What about ‘Island Time?’” Pop raised his glass. “Because one sip of this, and you’ll want to slow down and stay awhile.”

“That’s...” Monty paused mid-protest. “Actually, not terrible.”

“Ed’s still got it.” Wally clinked glasses with my grandfather. “Unlike some people around here.”

“Who’s got it?” Milt squinted.

“Island Time it is.” I started writing it on the specials board. “See what happens when you old coots put your heads together?”

“Who you calling old?” Duck protested. “I’ve still got all my own teeth.”

“Half of them anyway,” Cliff muttered into his beer.

The Gray Beards dissolved into their usual bickering, and I caught Pop’s eye. He winked at me, and I felt a surge of gratitude and affection. These men might drive me crazy, but they’d been my family’s backbone since the day Pop had brought me back to Hatterwick, when I was just a skinny, scared eight-year-old, who’d half wondered if social services had handed me over to a pirate instead of my ostensible grandfather. With his booming captain’s voice and scruffy beard, Pop had absolutely given off that vibe. But it turned out that crusty exterior hid a heart of absolute gold, and I’d do anything for the man who’d given me roots, a home, and a purpose.

I grabbed fresh silverware rolls and headed out to check on my tables. With two servers out—one with the flu, one at her kid’s basketball game—I’d picked up the slack. Didn’t bother me. I’d done every job in this place since I was tall enough to reach the industrial sink. Moving between tables felt as natural as breathing. I’d learned to balance plates on my forearm before I could drive. Pop had insisted I learn the business from theground up, even though I’d practically grown up in the original building.

For a split second, I saw the charred beams of the old tavern, smelled the acrid smoke that had lingered for weeks. Marv the marlin, Pop’s pride and joy, nothing but ashes. We’d thought we’d lost everything. And in the face of that devastating grief, I thought I’d finally gained the one thing I’d always wanted.

Nope. Not going there.

We’d rebuilt bigger and better. The new OBX Brewhouse had risen from those ashes like a phoenix, transforming from Pop’s casual tavern into something that drew craft beer enthusiasts from up and down the coast. The exposed brick walls and reclaimed wood gave the space an industrial-meets-coastal vibe that perfectly balanced modern and rustic. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the sound, and the deck offered prime sunset views back toward the distant mainland.

I’d spent countless nights poring over business plans, researching equipment, studying brewing techniques. Pop had backed my vision one hundred percent, even when the bank turned up their noses at a woman, who hadn’t yet been old enough to even drink, wanting to open a brewery. But I’d done my homework. Craft beer was exploding, and the Outer Banks had been ready for something beyond mass-produced lagers.

Hiring Monty had been the last piece of the puzzle. His experimental nature and classical training had elevated our offerings beyond typical beach brews. We now distributed to restaurants across three states, and our seasonal releases drew lines around the block.

I traced my fingers over the smooth bar top—reclaimed heart pine that Pop and I had salvaged ourselves. The fire had destroyed so much, but we’d managed to incorporate pieces of the original building into the new space. The old sign hung in the entry. Brass railings now lined the stairs to the second floor. Andbehind the bar, I’d mounted a shadow box containing Marv’s partially melted brass nameplate—the only piece of Pop’s prized catch we’d recovered.

Over a decade of blood, sweat, and more than a few tears had built this place into something extraordinary. Something that was mine. Sure, technically Pop still owned controlling interest, but he’d stepped back years ago, content to hold court with his buddies while I ran the show. This was my home, my legacy, everything I’d worked for.

The register dinged as another order came through from the kitchen. I grabbed fresh plates and headed that way, ready to tackle whatever came next.

I dropped off a fresh round of IPAs to the Masons—third generation shrimpers who’d been coming here since before I could see over the bar—when Lindsay Messina waved me over to her table. She sat with Astrid Thompson, both of them sharing what looked like our fish tacos.

“Hey stranger.” I slid into the empty chair. “Haven’t seen you in here this week.”

Lindsay pushed her dark hair behind her ear. “Been crazy at the office. Boss fired one of our seasonal workers today, which is always ugly. And you wouldn’t believe the paperwork involved in getting ready for Corbin to come back.”

“Corbin O’Connell?” The name caught me off guard. “Didn’t know he was coming home.”

“His dad’s knee surgery isn’t healing right.” Lindsay’s cheeks flushed slightly. “He’s taking leave to help run things for a few months.”

Astrid grinned over her Corona. “And Lindsay here hasn’t stopped talking about it since she found out.”

“Oh my God, stop.” Lindsay threw a napkin at her friend.

“What? You only had the biggest crush on him all through high school.” Astrid turned to me. “She used to find excuses to walk past the lifeguard station.”

“That was one summer!” Lindsay buried her face in her hands. “And he totally saved me from drowning at that beach party.”

“You mean when you ‘accidentally’ got caught in that tiny riptide?” I arched an eyebrow. I hadn’t known these women well during high school, but even I remembered that incident.

---