Chapter Three

Macy

Ryan's suggestion has been rolling around my head all evening and most of the night, and this morning, I've decided this is too good an opportunity to pass up.

Even if history tells me that working for someone I'm attracted to is bound to end badly, I have to remind myself that Dawson is a man I've seen from across the street. I don't know him, and he doesn't know me… and therefore putting the problems of my past into the situation is unreasonable. Not to mention just plain dumb.

Especially when I need a job.

I don't work on Wednesdays. That was how Peony arranged it, and although I'd prefer my day off to be a Friday or a Monday, this is what works for her, and I can't complain.

At least I'm free this morning to go to the bar and inquire about this job… assuming it's still available. Although I can't go just yet. They won't be open until eleven-thirty. I checked with Ryan when he brought me home yesterday, and while he wasn't absolutely certain, that was his best guess. I'm going to aim to get there at twelve, just to be on the safe side.

All of which means I've got time to have a leisurely breakfast with my aunt, and that's never a bad thing. Most of the time, one or other of us is dashing off somewhere, but today, other than laundry, grocery shopping, and going to Dawson's bar, neither of us has much to do.

"Are you gonna be okay if I take the car?" she says, helping herself to a second slice of toast, while I pour some more coffee. In her late-fifties, my aunt's dark hair has grayed slightly, and she needs reading glasses, but otherwise she's as youthful as ever.

"Of course. I don't mind walking."

Aunt Bernice lives about a half mile from the apple orchard, which is about a mile outside of town, but I'm sure she thinks that being from a big city, I'll find a mile and a half too far to walk.

"And you'll be okay to fend for yourself this evening?"

"I've done it every other Wednesday evening since I got here," I say, pushing her cup toward her. On Wednesdays, Aunt Bernie goes to see her friend Vivienne in Willmont Vale. Like Aunt Bernie, Vivienne is a widow, and I think it helps them both to spend time with someone who understands. Not that they dwell on the sadness of their lives. Far from it. They enjoy playing cards and gossiping, like everyone else here. Neither is Vivienne Aunt Bernie's only friend. She has many of them, both here in Hart's Creek, and in Willmont Vale, and even further afield in Concord.

When my uncle was alive, they had an even more active social life, and traveled widely… the result, perhaps, of not having had children. It gave them the freedom to please themselves. And they did, until Uncle Emmett was diagnosed with cancer. He was sick for just over nine months before he died, and Aunt Bernie nursed him through it all. She claims it gave her time to get used to the idea of losing him, but I know she misses him more than she'll ever be able to say.

There are reminders of him all around the house… from his fishing rods in the hall, and his hats on the hooks by the door, to the old collection of comic books that still lie beside the chair he used to sit in.

It's like he's still here in some ways, and I think Aunty prefers it that way, even though she never allows herself to mope.

I get my sunny disposition from her. That's what she told me when I arrived here, with almost no warning, last November. I was broken-hearted, unusually dejected and even a little angry, but she refused to let me wallow, and set me to work redesigning her website. It's what I do. Which is to say, it's what I used to do before I let my personal life destroy my career.

"Whatever you're thinking about, you need to stop it," she says, bringing me back from the past.

"How did you know I was thinking about anything?"

"You had one of those looks on your face."

"One of what looks?"

"Those looks that tell me you were thinking about that man, and what he did."

"I wasn't. Not really. I was thinking about my career, actually."

I take a sip of coffee and she copies me, looking at me over the rim of her cup.

"Do you wanna get back to it?"

"No. It's odd. I know I should. I trained to become a web designer, and for a while, I really enjoyed it."

"But…?"

"But it's all kinda tainted now." I shrug my shoulders. "Maybe I should be stronger."

"Or maybe you should accept that side of your life is in the past, and you're starting a new chapter."

It's just like Aunty to be so full of optimism, and I can't help smiling.

"So you think I can make a career out of working in a bar?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But at least you're trying. You're putting yourself out there, and you never know who you might meet, and what might become of it."

I check my watch. I've still got plenty of time. "Well… I'm gonna meet Dawson Pine in a while. Let's just hope he likes what he sees."

"I can't see why he won't. Dawson was always a fair man, even if he has become kinda miserable over the last few years."

"Miserable?"

"Yeah. He's never been the same since his wife left him."

Him too? I recall what Peony said yesterday and shake my head, wondering how many marriages end in divorce around here, although I refuse to gossip, and mumble, "That's a shame," just for something to say.

Aunty's brow furrows into the closest she ever gets to a frown, and she tilts her head to the left. "Don't even think about it," she says.

"Think about what?"

"Becoming his… his… I don't know… his female equivalent to a knight in shining armor."

"Why would I want to do that?" I may have admired him from afar, but it's not like I know the man.

"Because it's what you do, Macy. You find hopeless causes and you try to put things right for them. You've been doing it since you were tiny, and you brought home your first stray cat… and drove your poor mom insane."

I smile, remembering the look on my mom's face when I did that, but how she welcomed Coco into our lives and gave her a home for the remaining five years of her life.

"I don't see the harm in helping those who've lost their way," I say, defending myself.

She smiles, her face softening. "Even after everything that happened with James?" she says.

I take a moment, and I swallow hard before I nod my head. "Even then."

"In that case, I wish you luck with Dawson Pine. Most people around here think he's beyond saving." She tilts her head, looking at me for a second or two, and then says, "Who knows… maybe you're just what he needs." I'm not sure what she means by that, but before I can ask, her phone rings, and she picks it up from the table. "Oh… it's Vivienne," she says and connects the call, brushing crumbs from her sweater as she gets up from the table.

I set about clearing away, loading everything into the dishwasher, and finishing my coffee before I put the cup into the top rack and close the door. There's still a little while before I have to leave, and I can hear Aunty talking on the phone, so I take advantage of her absence and go into my bedroom, collecting my laundry and taking it through to the room which is just off of the kitchen. Bernie uses this space for all kinds of things, from cutting flowers, to cleaning shoes, but its primary function is as the home to the washing machine and dryer, as well as an enormous deep-freeze. I know Aunt Bernie has some towels she wants to wash, but my theory is, if you snooze, you lose… and I got here first.

Once the machine is running, I step out into the kitchen again and look around. It's a lovely old-fashioned room, with farmhouse-style cabinets, which suits this place – and Aunt Bernie – perfectly. She loves to be out here baking, and her cakes have a reputation in the town… especially at the fourth of July picnic. I remember coming here as a child to celebrate and enjoy the festivities on the green in the heart of the town, and I guess maybe that was one of the reasons I ran here, when I ran.

I knew I'd be welcome… and safe.

Aunt Bernie comes back into the room and glances over my shoulder toward the laundry room.

"You beat me to it, then?" she says, although she's smiling.

"I did. Is everything okay with Vivienne?"

"It is. She knew I'd be going to the grocery store this morning, and she wanted me to pick up a few things for her."

"Oh. I see," I say, nodding my head. "I'm gonna make my bed and get ready to go."

"Okay."

I wander out into the hall, and by-pass the living room, going along to my bedroom, which is next door to the main bathroom. I'm still getting used to all the rooms being separate, rather than open-plan, but Aunt Bernie loves it.

"It means I can make a mess and close the door on it," is the way she's always looked at it, and that makes me smile, because she keeps a very tidy house.

It's that thought that ensures I keep my room clean and make my bed every morning. I'm grateful to her for letting me stay, and for never complaining about the meagre contributions I make toward the housekeeping. It feels like the very least I can do is clear up after myself.

Fortunately, making my bed never takes long. I'm one of those people who barely moves while they're sleeping, so all I have to do is puff up the pillows and straighten the cover. It's the work of moments.

As for what to wear, jeans would be comfortable – not to mention practical – but I ought to at least look as though I've made an effort, so I swap them out for my smart black pants. A blouse would be better than a sweater, but it's freezing, and I'm not insane, so I add a pretty scarf to my plain cream pullover, find my black shoes, pull on my puffer jacket, and go back out into the hall.

"How could Dawson not like what he sees?" Aunt Bernie says, smiling at me as she leans against the doorframe.

I can't help blushing – which is probably because this is Dawson we're talking about – although I feel I have to check.

"Are you sure this is okay? I don't look too untidy?"

"You look lovely," she says. "He'd be mad not to take you."

I wish she hadn't said that. The thought of being ‘taken' by Dawson is something I've been trying to put out of my mind ever since Ryan first told me there was an opening at the bar. Still, I can't back out now…

The walk takes me a little less time than I'd expected, and when I get to Dawson's bar, it's only been open about ten minutes, instead of the thirty I'd hoped for. Even so, it's too cold to wait around outside, and there's really no need.

I push open the door, relieved to be in the warm.

The bar is just as big as I'd expected, the walls down either side taken up with booths, while the space in front of the bar has some tables and chairs, none of which are occupied. That's not a surprise. Like I say, this place only opened ten minutes ago, and as I unzip my jacket, I glance at the long bar, which occupies the middle of the room, and beyond it to an area where there's a jukebox and a pool table. It's quite dark back there, but I can see three doors along the wall, spaced evenly. One has the words ‘Rest Rooms' on it, the middle one says ‘Kitchen', and the third just says ‘Private'.

There's no-one in sight, and I'm about to call out when Dawson himself stands up from behind the bar. He must have been crouching down, or bending to do something, and he's as surprised by my appearance as I am by his.

"Hello," he says as I walk up to the bar, remembering to put one foot in front of the other. "What can I get you?"

"Nothing, thanks. I—I'm here about the help wanted poster?" I turn my head, tilting it toward the window where the sign is displayed, before I look back at him, my breath catching in my throat. He'd seemed attractive from the other side of the street, but close-up, he's utterly irresistible.

Except I have to resist. Regardless of his dark good looks, I have to keep my mind on why I'm here, and not let it wander.

"Oh," he says, sounding slightly dismayed, which is hardly an ideal response.

"Has the job already been taken?" I ask.

"No. It's still available." He tilts his head slightly. "You're… You're not from around here, are you?"

"No. Is that a requirement of the job?"

"No. It's just I've never seen you before."

"I live with my aunt, although her house is quite a way outside of town. You might have heard of her. Her name's Bernice…"

"Oh, you mean Bernie Wilkes?" he says, like they're the oldest friends in the world.

"That's her. Although my name isn't Wilkes. It's Potter… Macy Potter." I hold out my hand across the bar and after just a second's hesitation, he takes it, his touch giving me a jolt, which I do my best to hide, with a slight cough.

How can he have gotten under my skin already?

He can't. It's not possible. It's certainly not practical.

And it's not what I'm here for.

"Do you wanna take a seat?" he says, finally releasing my hand.

"Sure."

I sit up on one of the bar stools, removing my jacket and putting it across my lap.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"I don't drink… not alcohol, anyway. But I'll have a coffee, if that's okay."

He nods his head, turning away from me, and as he works the barista machine, I study his muscular back, concealed beneath a tight-fitting check shirt. I know this isn't what I'm here for, but the man is built like a bear. Where else am I supposed to look?

"There you go," he says, putting down two cups on the bar between us, pushing one a little closer to me.

"Thanks."

I take a sip, looking up at him, trying not to fixate on his deep brown eyes and stubbled jaw, although ‘stubbled' is being generous. It's more like a beard, which I'm sure would look even more attractive if he'd lose the scowl and crack a smile. He doesn't say a word, but gulps down his coffee, and for a second, I catch a whiff of strong liquor. It's been a while since I've worked in a bar, but I think it's probably bourbon.

"Do you want another?" he says.

"No, thanks." I've barely touched the one I've got, but before I can say anything, he flips around and fixes himself a second coffee, returning to me within moments.

"So, you don't drink?" he says, putting his cup down.

"No. I know it sounds strange for someone applying to work in a bar, but it's never stopped me in the past."

His face clears slightly, although he's still a long way from smiling. "You've worked in bars before?" he says and I nod my head.

"Yeah. Right through college. That was four years ago, but it's not something you forget, is it?"

"No, it's not." He leans forward slightly. "Is there a reason you don't drink?"

"Not particularly. I've just never developed a taste for it."

"I see," he says, sipping at his coffee this time, rather than gulping it down. "And what have you been doing in the intervening four years?"

"I left college with a degree in digital design and moved back to Boston, where I got a job as a web designer."

"How did you get from there to here?" he asks, and I get the impression he's unable to see where I'm gonna be able to use my hard-earned talents if I'm working behind a bar. He has a point, but it's not relevant. Not now.

"It's a long story, but it was nothing to do with my work. It was… It was personal." In reality, it was a mixture of the two. I allowed the lines to get blurred… or rather, James did. But this isn't the time to talk about that.

He steps back slightly, looking uncomfortable, and part of me feels sorry for him… sorry enough that I wonder if I should tell him what happened, just to put him out of his misery. It's in the past now, and it can't hurt me anymore.

Before I can decide where to start, he takes a breath and says, "How long have you been living here?"

"Since November. To start with, I just came here to get a break… to get away from it all. I wasn't planning to stay. But then I found I liked the place, and after I'd fixed my aunt's website, I got a job, working four mornings a week."

"And you wanna give that up? Even though you've only been doing it for a couple of months?" he says, sounding surprised.

"No. That's the last thing I want. I assumed the hours here would probably fit in and let me do both jobs at the same time. I enjoy working for Peony, and…"

"You work for Peony Hart?" he says, interrupting me.

"Yeah."

I can't help noticing that his face has paled slightly, and he reaches out, grabbing his coffee cup before he swallows down the rest of its contents.

"What do you do for her?" he asks.

"I help with organizing the weddings." He rolls his eyes, which is even more interesting than the rest of his reactions. "Don't you like weddings?" I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

"Not anymore."

I remember Aunt Bernie said his wife had left him, and I guess that explains a lot… like his surly demeanor, and why there's a definite hint of bourbon around his coffee cup.

I want to ask if he's okay, but I think it's fairly obvious he isn't. And besides, I don't know him well enough for questions like that. Not yet.

"Is it gonna be a problem if I have two jobs?" I ask and he startles, like he'd forgotten I was here.

"No," he says. "The only problem I have is that I don't have time to train anyone. If you know your way around a bar, and can operate a credit card machine, then…" He stops talking and lets out a long sigh. "Could you come and work a shift with me tonight?" he asks. "I can see how you get along, and if it goes well, we'll take it from there."

I nod my head, the word, "Okay," leaving my lips before I've even had time to think about all the reasons my answer should have been ‘no'.