The Reasons to Stay (Harlequin Superromance) Page 4

  “I can’t help you, then, but you came to the right place. Jess knows everything about everything in Widow’s Grove—especially if you’re looking for a man.”

  “That is exactly the last thing I want. I’ve already got more male in my life than I need.” Priss took a sip.

  Jesse swished back behind the counter and put the coffeepot on the hot plate.

  Sam chuckled, “Well, if you’re not looking for love then stay away from Yenta here. And just to be sure, I’d drink only bottled water while you’re in Widow’s Grove.”

  Jesse put a hand on her hip. “Samantha Pinelli, you’re full of crap. You’re so happily married that you’re iridescent, for cripes’ sakes.”

  “Now, now, Jess. Climb off your high horse before you split those pants.”

  “Anyway, we’re not talking about you, Pinelli. We’re trying to help this sweet thing. What do you do, hon?”

  “Temp office management, and bookkeeping. But I’m up for almost anything except cleaning public toilets.” She turned her cup in her hands. “And soon, I may have to consider that.”

  Jesse’s perfectly plucked eyebrows scrunched. “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” She looked Priss up and down from across the counter. “Where are you from, sweetie?”

  “Oh, all over.” Priss may not have come from a small town, but she knew a local gossip when she saw one. Well, she’d come in for an interview and it seemed she was going to get one, even if it wasn’t the type she’d hoped for.

  Let the waterboarding begin.

  “Are you planning to settle in Widow’s Grove?” Jesse pulled up a wooden stool and lowered herself onto it. Her nonchalance didn’t quite hide the Grand Inquisitor look in her eye.

  Priss didn’t like people prying into her life but putting a sob story out on the local telegraph might help her land a job. It’s not like she’d be lying; Nacho was a sob story.

  “My mother died. I’ve got a ten-year-old half brother who now has no one else but me. And I’m in Widow’s Grove until I get him settled somewhere safe.” An instinctive shudder ripped through her. She tried to disguise it by straightening her shoulders. “Social Services took him, and they won’t release him to me if I don’t find a job.”

  “Jeez, that sucks,” Sam said.

  Jesse looked as if Revlon had just discontinued her favorite lipstick. “Well. That just will not do.” She squinted, tapping crimson nails on the counter. “Let me think a minute.”

  Sam glanced over at Priss. “You don’t know it, but you’ve just unleashed The Force, Anakin.”

  “Then I came to the right place after all.” Priss leaned toward Sam’s stool and said in a stage whisper, “She sure doesn’t look like Yoda.”

  Sam laughed and set her cup down too hard, spilling her coffee.

  Jesse grabbed a rag from under the counter and handed it to Sam. “I’m trying to think and you’re not helping, Pinelli.” Jesse cocked her head and looked Priss over.

  Priss felt like she’d just been scanned at the airport.

  “I don’t suppose you know anything about bartending?”

  Well, hell, doesn’t that figure? She’d sworn never to have anything to do with her mother’s lifestyle, yet here she was, getting sucked into every dirty corner of it. She sighed. “I worked my way through two years of community college bartending.”

  The crease between Jesse’s brows vanished. “Well, then, I’ve got a job for you.” She dusted her hands.

  “What job?” Sam asked.

  “You remember, Honey from Homestake Realty? She sold you your house, Sam.”

  “Pompous in pumps. Of course I remember her.”

  “Well—” Jesse leaned in “—yesterday, she skipped town with Arnie, the bartender of Bar None. Word is they eloped to the Bahamas. Floyd is pissed.”

  “You’re sending this little pixie to Floyd Henley when he’s in a state?”

  Priss sat up. “I can handle myself.”

  Sam shook her head. “If Floyd doesn’t eat you for lunch, that crusty bunch of regulars stuck to his bar stools will. You’ll be wishing for those public toilets.”

  Jesse crossed her arms and studied Priss. “Something gives me the feeling this pixie is a scrapper.”

  “You’d be right.” Priss pulled a few dollars from her wallet, slapped them on the counter and stood. “This ‘Bar None.’ It’s downtown?”

  “Yep. On Monterrey, off Hollister.”

  “Thanks for your help.” Priss walked to the door. She had to nail that job before someone else did.

  “May the Force be with you.” Sam’s voice drifted through the open door.

  “You come back soon and let us know if you get the job!” Jesse called.

  Priss waved a hand and kept going.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE GOOD NEWS was Bar None was less than a mile from her new apartment, on a side street off Hollister’s B & Bs, antique shops and art galleries. Priss stood on the cracked sidewalk under a tree full of gossiping birds, trying to convince her feet to carry her inside.

  There had to be another way. But if the Yoda of Widow’s Grove didn’t know of any other jobs, there probably weren’t any.

  You could try Solvang.

  But the cute Danish town was more of a tourist trap than Widow’s Grove. She’d be even less likely to find an office job there. Besides, after seeing Nacho’s tats and attitude, the closer she worked to Widow’s Grove the better. Nacho and unsupervised time probably didn’t mix.

  Only an open door and one small window framing a neon Schlitz sign marred the redbrick exterior of the bar. She glanced through the branches at the cloudless sky.

  I get it, God. But does it have to be this?

  A bird-crap missile passed within an inch of her face and plopped at her feet.

  “Okay, then. You don’t have to be rude about it.” Abandoning any hope of reprieve she straightened her skirt and crossed the sidewalk.

  Odds are he’s not looking for a daytime bartender, anyway. And there’s no way I’m leaving Nacho alone nights.

  She opened the front door and refrigerated air pebbled her skin, bringing with it the smell of spilled beer, old fryer grease and the ghosts of cigarettes smoked back when it was legal. It stirred memories of more than her bartending days—this scent was her mother’s signature perfume. Priss took in the smells again—mostly bitter with very little sweet.

  A jukebox she couldn’t see through the gloom blared a “welcome home” tune. Booths commandeered the wall to her right; tables filled the floor space. On her left, a long bar took up the rest of the room. A television high in a corner broadcast a baseball game to patrons parked on every stool.

  Priss unclenched her fists, her jaw, and her attitude. She put on her friendly bartender face and strode to the bar like she owned it.

  The little man who stood behind the long dark wood barrier looked like Tweedledee. Or maybe it was Tweedledum—she always got them confused. His gray hair pulled into a messy ponytail was at serious odds with the bald dome rising above it. He was short and round, but sure didn’t look jolly. Jowls and thick features didn’t cover the pugnacious thrust of his chin. Even the butt-end unlit stogie in his mouth tilted up—like it was giving everyone the bird.

  He swiped a wet rag over the bar. “You’re full of crap, Barney. The Giants are gonna wipe the floor with those losers. I got your Tigers hangin’—” His hand headed south to demonstrate but he looked up, saw Priss and froze. “The Antique Emporium is on Hollister, missy.”

  She put a hand on her hip. “Fernandez has a 2.1 ERA, two saves, two quality starts and it’s only April. I’d say the Tigers have it hanging this season.”

  The lunch crowd’s heads swiveled.

  The man behind the counter made a growling sound—a predator’s
warning. “You came in here to talk baseball?”

  Only one way to handle a bully.

  She laid a hand on the bar and leaned on it. “I came here to be your new bartender.”

  The cigar bounced with his chuckle. “Come back when you’re twenty-one, little girl.”

  She opened her wallet, pulled out her Colorado driver’s license and flipped it onto the bar.

  He picked it up and squinted at it. “Humph.”

  A patron spoke up. “Floyd, you should hire her. A lady would be a welcome change from seeing your ugly mug every day.”

  Barney, the Tigers fan, pointed at Priss. “Yeah, we want her!”

  Floyd stared them down. “You don’t even know if she can pour a beer.”

  Priss waited until he turned and glared at her. “So? Try me.”

  He harrumphed again, leaned against the back counter, and crossed his arms over his considerable chest. “Have at it, missy.”

  She lifted the opening in the bar at the waitress station and stepped in. Glancing around the setup to get oriented, she smiled at the pale faces bathed in the light above the mirror at her back. They didn’t look quite as excited to see her on this side of the bar. A few looked like they wanted to play—like a cat plays with a cricket.

  She dusted her hands. “Okay, gentlemen. Help me out and tell me your name when you order. That way I’ll get to know you faster. Now, what’ll it be?”

  “A pint of Guinness,” a thin man with a slight Scottish burr said. “I’m Ian.”

  She checked the beer taps—not there. She squeezed past Floyd and found a flat of mixed-brand stout bottles at the other end of the bar. She snagged a bottle, opened it, then upended a clean glass. Tilting it, she poured about half a glass, then set it down so the head wouldn’t get out of control.

  She grabbed Ian’s empty glass and set it in the sink. “Who’s next?”

  A bald guy with a half-empty beer, said, “I’m Porter. I’ll have a martini.”

  Priss wiped the bar in front of Ian, and laid a new napkin. “Neat or dirty?”

  “Always dirty, hon. It’s how I roll.”

  Looking at his wrinkled shirt and fingernails, she had no doubt he spoke the truth.

  She poured the rest of the Guinness and placed it in front of Ian, with a perfect thumbs-width head. “Floyd will have to collect from you all—I don’t know the prices yet.” She glanced around to locate the ingredients. “Vodka or gin, Porter?”

  The man reared back on the stool as if she’d slapped him. “What kind of bartender would pollute good vermouth with strained potato offal?”

  She raised her hands. “I come in peace.” She snatched the shaker from where it sat drying on a towel. “I had to ask. Some groundlings drink it that way.” She found the ice, scooped some into the shaker, then gathered the ingredients. Grasping the gin bottle by the neck, she silently counted the measurement and did the same with the vermouth; martini drinkers were notoriously picky. While she shook it, she collected a martini glass and speared two olives on the plastic sword she found next to them. She poured the drink, the last drops filling it to the rim, and set it in front of Porter.

  He sipped, then sighed in bliss as his eyes rolled up.

  Yes!

  “I’m Barney, and I want a mojito.” The Tigers fan moved his half-full beer aside.

  Another patron hooted from the other end of the bar. “Who you trying to kid? I’ve never seen you drink anything but Bud.”

  Barney stuck out a two-day-whiskered chin. “Well, I saw it on a TV show and I want to try it.” His rheumy eyes held challenge as he straightened the collar of a shirt that looked dingy, even in dim light. “With two olives.”

  She hid a smile and turned to Floyd. “Do you have mint leaves?”

  “What the hell would I need those for? This ain’t the Holiday Inn—this is a workingman’s bar.”

  “Never mind.” It was not like Barney would know the difference, anyway. She mixed the lime juice and sugar in a highball glass, stirring until it dissolved. Then she added rum and club soda and split a lime wedge on the rim. She placed it on a clean napkin in front of Barney, leaned over to whisper, “I’ll just put the olives on the side, okay?” No way she was putting olives in that supersweet drink.

  He nodded, frowning at the glass.

  “Well, you gonna drink it or stare at it all day?” Floyd was enjoying this too much. He’d probably sold more high-priced drinks in the last few minutes than he had in a month.

  Barney took a sip. His lips twisted and his eyes got big. His Adam’s apple quivered—then he swallowed. His lips turned down and his tongue protruded, just a bit. “It’s good!” He choked out.

  Floyd chuckled. “Glad you think so. That’ll be seven bucks.”

  “Seven bucks!” Barney’s eyes bugged. He moved his Bud back, front and center.

  A couple wandered in off the street, arm in arm. Summer people, by the looks.

  A gray-haired woman in a black rayon waitress uniform with a dowager’s hump and wearing orthopedic shoes emerged from a doorway in the back to lead the pair to a table.

  “Hey, we don’t even know your name.” A comparatively younger man halfway down the bar spoke up. Of course “younger” was a relative term. He appeared to be in his forties.

  “I’m Priss.”

  “A bartender named Priss? That’s funny!”

  Barney had caught his breath from the drink and the price. “Is that like Priscilla?”

  She winced. “Yeah, my mom had a crush on Elvis.”

  “I had a crush on Priscilla!” Porter said.

  “She was beautiful, and so sweet,” Ian said. “Didn’t deserve the crap The King dished out, messing around.”

  Priss patted her hair spikes. “Well, don’t expect me to go all big-hair. Ain’t happening.”

  The patrons laughed, and an argument broke out over which Elvis movie was the best.

  Floyd asked, “What’s your last name?”

  Priss dried her hands on the bar towel she’d tucked into the waist of her skirt. “Hart.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “No relation to Cora Hart, are you?”

  Her hands stilled. “My mother. Why?”

  He smiled for the first time since she’d walked through the door. “Because she worked here. Until she couldn’t anymore.”

  Priss shot a glance at the ceiling. Oh, very funny, God.

  “Your mom was a stand-up gal.” He pushed away from the back bar. “You can start tonight.”

  She swallowed. Winning the clientele over was the easy part. This was the hard part. She twisted the towel in her fist. “I can only work the day shift.”

  “I work the day shift. The job is to cover nights.”

  “I can’t work nights.” She was not saving Nacho from the clutches of the county only to put him back into his old life. Or her old life.

  Nacho, hell, she wasn’t putting herself back in her mother’s old life.

  She swallowed her fidgets and foreboding along with her spit and stood awaiting dismissal.

  Floyd stared her down. “You came in here for a bartender job and you don’t work nights?”

  She stared back, hoping he couldn’t see her fists shaking in the towel. “That’s right.”

  “What the hell? Why’d you waste my time?”

  Barney broke in. “Ah, give her the job, Floyd, you grumpy old fart.”

  When Floyd shook his head, his jowls flapped. “Why did I become a barkeep? No one wants to listen to my problems.”

  Ian called from the other end of the bar, “You covered nights before, Floyd.”

  Porter said, “We want her.”

  He ignored the peanut gallery. “No.” His cigar wasn’t lit but the fire in his eyes was. “Go home, little gir
l.”

  A blast of disappointment blew a hole in her chest. All her air whooshed out.

  This job would have been an answer to her problem. Maybe not the best answer, but she’d learned long ago that poor girls didn’t get the best. She bit the inside of her lip and checked her facial muscles to be sure they didn’t telegraph emotion. Another lesson she learned early—predators only took down the weak.

  But wait. The only time he’d smiled was when he realized Cora was her mother. For some reason, the misguided dude thought a lot of her mom. A trickle of hope oozed down the edges of the hole in her chest, sealing it so she could breathe again. She wasn’t above using guilt, or her innocent looks, to manipulate.

  You utilized whatever skills you were given to survive in a jungle.

  She’d grown up being tucked in a corner booth of bars, sipping free endless sodas and doing homework. Surely Nacho had, too. She let the corners of her mouth drop and lowered her eyelids in a slow blink—once, then again. “You must have met my half brother, Nacho.”

  “Yeah.” Floyd’s cigar tilted higher. He wasn’t dumb. She’d have to be careful.

  “Well, I’m trying to spring him from Social Services.” She let out a sigh, carefully moderated to just short of theatrical. “If I don’t have a job, they won’t release him to me.” She lowered her eyes, tortured the towel in her fists and waited.

  And waited. Conversation died. The bar held its breath.

  “Oh, what the hell.” Floyd grunted in disgust. “I’ll take the night shift—for now. You’re not gonna last more than a week, anyway.”

  The old barmaid walked up to the waitress station. “Floyd, I’ll get their BLTs. I need a strawberry margarita with sugar, no salt, and a Coors. With a lime.” Her eyes flicked toward Priss.

  The animosity in the woman’s laser stare practically singed the skin off Priss’s face. Then she turned and shuffled back through the door she’d emerged from.

  What the hell?

  Floyd pointed a finger at Priss. “You. We open at ten. Be here at nine tomorrow. I’ll show you around. Now, scram. I’ve got work to do.”

  She gave a cheery wave to the patrons, and walked out. Happy, yet unsettled at the same time.