Page 5 of Flying

“Yep. The same Jim Kelly who told your mom about the party planned for when she was out of town.”

“That bastard!” Her voice gets a bit louder than she wants and she flushes with embarrassment, slapping a hand over her mouth, the leather leash in her hand never falling from her grasp.

“James Kelly retired and put his son on the ticket. Your former high school nemesis is the town vet and mayor. You may want to play nice for Pete’s sake.”

She groans, and every one of my senses tingles.

“For Pete’s sake! Come on, you have to admit that was funny,” I tease.

I guideus towards The Featherweight and stop at the front gate. The original iron fencing and archway greet us. “Welcome, to The Featherweight. Owned and Operated by yours truly for two years now.” The pride in my chest swells as I sweep my arm to suggest they follow me. This has been a lifelong dream, to be trusted with my birthright: to be the eldest son, given name George, and to run the family business. I can’t mess this up, it’s too important. We survived prohibition and over a century of on-site whiskey production. If I play my cards right, I’ll be an old man with my spouse and watching my own son or daughter take the keys from me.

“I started to dabble with some small batch beer this summer,” I’m rambling to Lily as we take the path to the front porch.

“That’s exciting, so what’s on tap?” she asks.

Everything feels so simple, and easy. We had been best friends since the fateful day that Miss Sainz paired us together for fourth-grade reading/language arts. From there, Lily became a near permanent fixture in my grade school life: she made me quiet down and listen, cheered me on, laughed at my jokes. Our moms became friends, and that was sort of it. Until Grant. Then since Grant, I’ve always had a pit in my stomach. The secret that eats at me, that I don’t want to tell her and ruin tonight.You knew at the bachelor party he was in love with someone else. You didn’t stop the wedding. It’s your fault this happened to her.My brain is trying to shout at me, but I’m stuffing it down. Hoping to just enjoy this moment here. Now.

“As you recall, six generations of men named George Hendrix were the proprietor of this fine institution.” I smile, pointing towards the enormous Queen Anne Victorian estate. Walking along the gray and white pebbled pathway, I put on my best tour guide voice.

“In typical fashion for the era, there’s a series of hedges lining the wrought iron fencing. The archway we just passed through is covered with climbing rose bushes, you see their final blooms of the season in soft peach and white tones.” I watch her face as we approach the property, giddy to take in her reaction to the transformations. “Here,in the newly added entryway seating is the perfect spot to host your next garden party, day or night. The past alluded to by Edison bulbs strung between posts.” We’re reaching the end of the path and about to enter the porch to the biggest renovations.

“The exterior was just updated last summer, as you can see the wrap-around porch has been refurbished to allow the wood grains to show through in a vibrant array of browns. The house itself was repainted a crisp white, with each of the intricately carved details along the trim, latticework, and railings boasting the colors of our town’s mascot: the peacock. All things in historic Peacock Springs downtown are of course a mix of white, gold, and emerald green, sapphire blue, and deep amethyst purple.” I tip an imaginary cap towards her.

Lily’s melodic laughter causes my smile to widen, feeling childish glee that she’s let herself be here. Maybe before the weekend is over, I’ll be able to fix the distance in our friendship and regain the right to call her out of the blue, to be finally able to tell her about the past.No, that’s silly—telling her will only hurt her. Focus here, man, focus.

“But of course! What good would this town be with colors like neon, warm colors, or neutrals,” she teases back.

“Neutrals? Psha! Look here: a large white porch swing rocks gently in the breeze, and the espresso colored wooden ceiling fan moves slowly in tandem.” I sway as if I’m illustrating the point.

“You’re wild, River,” she chuckles.

“Hey, I am extremely proud of the ambiance I’ve created and the ways it has been part of the tourist revival around here.” I get serious. Not angry. I don’t want to confuse anything: I take this success as top priority.

Pausing on the steps, she turns and stares in awe at the grounds, despite the cloak of darkness hiding the true splendor of the gardens in front and river views out back.

“I love what I’ve done with the place and it’s nice to show it off, that’s all.” I shrug. No need to make this complicated or uncomfortable. “Come, go in.” I open the heavy wood door and invite her inside to see the rest.

six

Lily

River continues to regale me with a detailed tour. Leading me into the entryway that blends seamlessly between the porch and inside wood flooring, both stained a deep espresso brown. Approaching the familiar hostess stand at the end of the steps, I keep our game going.

“Just the bar today, thanks.” I give a slight wink and walk with Pete through the space and call back over my shoulder to him, “He’s a service dog, I swear!”

“If you recall, these were once closed off rooms, but I worked with Tom the contractor to make it structurally sound but more open. If you look up, there are large structural beams that connect to all these shelves. Plus, the cutouts allow people to place down drinks during busy nights, and event planners to put out more decor. It’s worked out nicely.” He’s so excited that his voice is speeding up as we walk.

“Library still here?” I raise an eyebrow at him, remembering the hours we spent eating French fries and working through homework together in there.

“But of course, I kept both of the private rooms: the old study and the library. They work well for dinner parties and small group meetings, which is great for business,” River confirms.

Bellying up to the bar, I watch him get to work bringing down an array of items and leafing through the menus. I’m lost in thought,checking out all the newness mixed with the familiar when he asks me a question I dread.

“So, how are your folks? Are you staying with them this weekend?” He’s casual, in bartender mode. He has a white dishrag in hand to clean glasses that he cooly flips over his shoulder, a move he must do hundreds of times each day.

My heart slows and I try to do one of those grounding exercises I teach to stave off the dizzy feeling taking over.Name something you can see, Lil.Okay, I see a glass of water that’s magically appeared near me.What is something you feel?Reaching out, I feel the cool glass, and swallow thickly feeling how dry my throat has become.What do you hear?Pete is shaking his head, making the tags on his collar jingle.What do you taste?I sip the cold water, the liquid coating my tongue and throat. It doesn’t really taste like much, but it’s helping either way. I can’t stop how warm I feel.

“I’m, uh. I’m not really in touch with them. I don’t-I don’t know. Belinda and Neal,” I pause realizing that while I call my parents by their first names it might not be something he knows. “Uh, my folks kind of cut me off when everything went down. You remember how you told me to get out ahead of the whole sitting in the stocks thing then?” River nods and his gaze focuses on my fidgeting hands. “Actually, how about that drink?” I’m far too anxious to have to get through this conversation now.

---