Page 6 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
It took some convincing for Sal to hire her. He wasn’t keen on the idea at first. He needed a part-time assistant manager who could also drive and make deliveries, but Bristol didn’t have a driver’s license. Their run-down house was free and clear, thanks to a rare art piece her father lucked into at a swap meet—but paying the rest of the bills was no small feat. Utilities, groceries, endless repairs, taxes, Harper’s new glasses—they ate up most of their paychecks and there was no extra money for another car, much less a driver’s license and insurance. Cat was already driving without either of those things, and if she was ever pulled over, they were screwed.
Bristol had always gotten along fine with a bus and a bike and explained to Sal she’d been in plenty of towns where people delivered close to everything on bikes. In desperation she boldly claimed she could get pizzas to his customers faster on her bike than in his delivery car. It turned out that most of the time, that was true—especially on busy tourist weekends.
When she wasn’t delivering pizzas, Bristol worked the counter and closed the shop three nights a week. Her first night managing the cooks and counter still made her smile. Sal had hovered. And hovered.
“I’ve got this, Sal, you can go.”
“But the menu—”
“Memorized.”
“All three pages?”
His worry was almost an insult. “Four,” she corrected. “I can recite them in French and Spanish too, if you’d like?”
His brows had pulled down like he didn’t think anyone could replace him for a few hours, which she understood. His shop was his baby, but his heart doctor insisted he cut back on his hours. He nodded toward a loud group at a corner table. “But it’s Friday night, and—”
“I can handle an unruly patron, Sal. Trust me.”
And then, as if on cue, one of the loudmouths stumbled up to the counter, slapped his card down, and ordered another pitcher of beer. He had already finished off the last pitcher almost single-handedly.
Bristol slid his card back to him. “How about a soda on the house?”
He slid his card back. “You heard me, honey. Don’t give me any shit about a soda.”
Bristol tucked her smile away. “First of all, I am not your honey. And second of all, if you don’t go sit your ass down right now with the soda I’m about to give you, you’re going to find out what real shit is.” And then she pulled out her calm but withering stare.
Their stare-down lasted for only a few seconds before he caved.
“I’ll have a Coke.”
Sal smiled and left for the night.
He called her his no-nonsense problem solver after that because it wasn’t the last time she juggled a room full of demanding people, or defused tempers with a few careful words.
Over the last few months, her proficiency working at the tiny pizza parlor made Bristol muse about what it would be like to have a shop of her own. That was a definite commitment to stay—which both intrigued and frightened her—but it was only an amusing diversion to occupy her mind on longer deliveries, like filling a dollhouse with furniture that would never really be used. Her shop would be a mini-Menagerium and would have the best of everything she had ever tasted or seen in all the cities she had visited, some cities that no longer had names in her memory, blending in with all the others. But certain sights and tastes remained sharp, her only keepsakes from a fractured life that required traveling light.
In her imaginary shop, she would sell beautiful gourmet doughnuts, specialty coffees served in unique handcrafted mugs, and local art like her father’s would hang on the walls. Cat would come on Friday nights and sing, and customers would swoon and get misty-eyed with the magic of her voice. Bristol would have regular customers too, ones who would ask after her health and other details of her future life that she didn’t know yet, but that future would have continuity, something she could count on like the seasons. She would be a savvy businesswoman, and a curator of sorts, like in a museum—and every table would have a mason jar of wildflowers she picked from her own garden and . . . It was a dollhouse that was never quite completely furnished. Something was always missing. Maybe that was what kept it interesting.
As she pedaled, Bristol’s mind drifted back to the letter. She pulled out her phone to remind Harper not to answer the door for anyone suspicious, but couldn’t get a signal. She held it in the air, moving it one way and then the other, like she was trying to divine water out of the sky. Nothing.Crappy phone.
She shoved it back in her pocket, turning her thoughts again to the letter, and entertained the idea of an aunt. A real one. And a rich one. It was an enticing thought. Was it possible her father had lied? He had gotten that rare piece of art from somewhere. What if it wasn’t a chance find at a swap meet? But why would he deny he had an aunt? Unless she was awful. Orauntwas a code name for “hit man.” She didn’t consider the possibility entirely as a joke. Her parents’ secrets provided fertile ground for speculation.
She was only five the first time she noticed them looking over their shoulders.What are you looking for?she had asked. The answer that day and ever after was always the same.Nothing.But it didn’t keep Bristol or her sisters from noting their quick glances backward, or their slow, stealthy scans of a crowd, nudging each other to attention. Or the quick packing up at a swap meet when the day was only half over and eager customers still circled around her mother’s beautiful handwoven scarves, and her father still had plenty of paintings to sell. If her parents had been cats, they would have arched their backs and bared their teeth. Sometimes Bristol did hear the hiss under their breaths. Their survival patterns became her own.Pack up. Ease out. Don’t cause a stir.Their fear made something grip tight in her gut, and she could only breathe again once they were on the road.
Their constant moving from town to town was confirmation that they were running from something—something that was relentless. Before coming to Bowskeep, they had never lived anywhere for more than one or two months. They moved from swap meet to flea market to street fair, living out of their van at highway rest stops, or tiny motel rooms, or under the stars when weather permitted. Bristol and her sisters were schooled in the same way—on the road and under starry skies, reciting the plays of Shakespeare from memory, learning about art movements and the histories that fueled them, formulating math puzzles, or learning stick fighting when their childish energy needed an outlet. Their parents were both suspiciously well educated, even if they wouldn’t discuss how that came to be. The girls knew their lives were not like anyone else’s. Her parents claimed it was the artist’s life.
Then Bowskeep happened. Their family had been crammed into a garage loft for two months. A small, hole-in-the-wall gallery just off Main Street bought two of Logan’s paintings—and sold them for an astonishing price—five times what he got at fairs. The gallery owner asked for more art, but shortly after, Leanna Keats announced it was time to move on.
Bristol and Cat had known it was coming. They’d seen the usual signs in their mother—her pacing, the dark circles under her eyes, biting her nails until her fingers bled, incessantly simmering herbs until the loft smelled like a potpourri shop—but Harper had already made some fast connections in the town. The library became her second home, and she was on a first-name basis with Freda, the librarian. At her mother’s announcement, Harper burst into tears and blurted out, “Were you two part of organized crime?” Her voice was loud with accusation. “Isthatwhy we have to go?”
Bristol had glanced guiltily over Harper’s head at Cat. The night before, they’d been huddled on the loft porch, sharing a beer, musing that their parents were witness protection program dropouts. They hadn’t thought Harper was listening or would confront them. Bristol and Cat had always known their parents were lying to them about something, because maybe, the truth was too dangerous for them to know. The oddness of their lives was the elephant in the room they were conditioned to walk around, and after so many years, they were good at it. At least Bristol thought they were, but lies could rub subtly, like a dull blade against fabric until, eventually, threads began popping.
That night, Bristol and Cat anxiously waited, right along with Harper, for their answer.
Their mother’s eyes went wide.
Their father’s eyes narrowed. “Where’d you get such a wild notion?” he finally answered.
