Page 135 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
“Ben.” I step into his space enough to make him look at me. “Breathe.”
He shakes his head, already moving. “I need to go.”
“Where?” I ask, incredulous. “You’re going to go pull it off the menu now?”
“We don’t even have enough information,” Jason says, trying to stay calm. He comes up beside him, not blocking, just there. “Don’t convict yourself over nothing.”
“Nothing? I have this,” he says, holding the card like it’s Exhibit A. “I have men who knew him calling me a thief. I have a bar with my name on a beer that might really belong to your grandfather—to your family—not mine.” He jabs a finger at the card. “Yours.”
“Could be Grandpa Eddie was documenting William’s recipe,” Jason says, patience on a hair trigger. “Could be Eddie naming itfor the program. Could be Eddie writing it down because he had the neatest handwriting in the room.”
“You’re reaching,” Ben says. His laugh is sharp and wrong. “You’re both reaching. I need— I have to— I can’t keep pouring it if—”
“He’s our grandpa, Ben,” I say. “And we don’t care.”
I’m not sure that was the right thing to say because he looks more upset than ever.
“I care. I’m not going to sell something with my name on it when it doesn’t belong to me. I have to fix it.”
“By blowing up your life based on one card?” Jason’s jaw is tight. “Absolutely not.”
Ben looks at the card again. Whatever seesaw he’s on slams to one side. “I can’t— I have to go.” He slips his wrist from my hand, already turning toward the dark end of the walkway.
“Benjamin Hoffman—” I say, more bite than I meant, because the urge to shake sense into him is fizzing under my skin.
He steps around Jason, dodges a stack of storage tubs like he’s run this route before he’s even taken it, and heads for the hatch.
“Ben.” My voice cracks. He doesn’t stop. “You promised me you wouldn’t run again!”
I turn on my heel, looking for something to kick when I stumble on the stupid cashbox.
Everything in it comes tumbling out. I open my mouth to curse when my eyes land on something.
“Wait,” I say, my voice hoarse. Then stronger: “Ben, wait!”
He stops at the hatch, turns, jaw set. “Paige, you can’t stop me. I’m going to right a wrong—”
“Hold on.” I’m already crouching, fingers shaking as I lift the photo I nearly stomped. It’s glossy, with scalloped edges, colors gone a little worn with time.
“Ben,” I say, getting to my feet. “Look.”
He sighs and steps back to take the picture. His eyes drop, and so do his shoulders.
Jason leans in over his arm. “Well, would you look at that?”
Two men stand shoulder to shoulder in front of a brick storefront, a ribbon sagging between their hands. Hand-painted letters curve over the door: The Lockside Public House. They’re both in aprons, both grinning like proud fools.
On the window behind them: a chalkboard swash with fresh, proud script.
Tonight’s Specialty: H–R Heritage Amber (Hoffman & Richards — house recipe)
Ben’s thumb drifts to the chalk flourish, the H–R, and traces it. His mouth opens; nothing comes out. Jason reaches over and taps the word Heritage.
“It’s not Grandpa Eddie’s or William Hoffman’s recipe,” I say quietly. “It was both of theirs.”
“That’s why all the notes and comment cards,” Ben murmurs. “They were building the recipe together.”
“Check the back,” Jason says.
