Page 70 of The Wedding Shake-up

She laughs. “Tragedy aside, I don’t think she’ll work for me. I don’t have a bar legacy to uphold. Although the bad family dynamics might fit the bill.”

I’m about to ask about the bad family when the fedora man signals for the bill, and the other couple, realizing they’ll be the only ones left, also decide to close out.

Then the stools are empty.

“Should I shut down early?” I ask Tillie.

She checks her phone. “Hmm. Half an hour.” She looks out over the beach. It’s empty, only the moonlight-tipped waves crawling up the sand. “I don’t think anyone else will come. The breeze is nice.”

True. Might as well keep the sides up.

She goes quiet, carefully maneuvering a bottle of a pale lavender liqueur over the glass. She didn’t cut it with water, so it’s a tricky topper.

I wonder if I should let her comment about family dynamics go, but she was with her sister tonight. Maybe she wants to talk. “Did everything go okay during the tour?”

“I guess.” She hesitates. “Oh, right. I brought up my bad bloodline.”

I sense we’ve strayed into deeply personal territory, but I press on. “Let me guess. If you’re Meredith Grey, then maybe it’s a mother who expected you to be as good as her or better?”

“My mother died when I was only a few months old.” Tillie focuses on the flow of the liqueur as it layers on the drink, so her unexpectedly dark answer makes my heart thunder to my feet.

I fumble with what to say in return. I end up with, “My birth mother abandoned me two days after I was born.”

We both watch the liqueur spiral perfectly onto the surface. We stay quiet until she sets the bottle down. “So that wasn’t your biological mother with the candle?”

“She adopted me.”

“And your bio dad?”

“I have no idea who he is. And Mom never married. The father of the species is something I know precious little about.”

She steps back from the drink. “Your mom seems great.”

“She’s terrific.”

“My dad ... he ...” She fumbles the bar spoon, and it hits the floor.

I scoop it up. “We don’t have to talk about this.”

“Sure. Right. Two weeks is too short to focus on tragic backstories.”

I drop the spoon in the sink. “Should we drink instead?”

She nods. “It’s a heavy drink. Seems appropriate.”

“It’s almost a shame to disturb the layers.”

We both admire the varying muted tones of the drink. It looks classic and expensive, the complete opposite of my rainbow drink.

I carefully lift it to the light. “Hopefully it’s all right. The bitters are almost as old as you.”

She smiles. The hard moment has passed. “Will they just get more bitter?” She takes the glass and sips, letting each layer take its turn. When she sets it down, it’s only minimally mixed, the layers holding together with fluffy edges.

“Your bitters are fine.” She passes the glass to me.

I bring the rim to my lips, and then my mind is erased by the avalanche of flavors. “This is good. Really good. It’s not what I would’ve expected from those heavy liquors.”

She smacks the counter. “I know, right? It’s the vanilla vodka.” She takes another sip. “You should add this one to the secret menu.”

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