“Jameson’s offers American contemporary dishes with the freshest local ingredients. Cecily, our head chef, is amazing. I can vouch for every item on the menu. I’ve tried them all.”
He picks up her card and studies it. “Presley Ingram? As in daughter of Renee Ingram?”
“The one and only,” Presley says. “Are you a musician?”
His expression becomes guarded. “No, but everyone knows Renee Ingram. She’s handled some of country music’s greatest.”
“Right.” Everyone knows the artists, but only musicians hoping to break into the business know the producers.
He runs his finger over her name on the credit card. “Did your mom name you after—”
“The King? Yes, unfortunately.” Presley rolls her eyes. “Mom was quite the fan. I’m thankful she didn’t name me Elvis.”
Laughing, he hands her the credit card without processing the charge. “Drinks are on the house.”
She stares at the credit card without taking it. “I can’t let you do that.”
“Please. It’s my way of expressing sympathy for your loss. I didn’t realize Renee had passed away. That’s what I get for avoiding the news. It’s a sad day for country music.”
“That’s sweet of you to say.” Rising from the barstool, she slings her bag over her shoulder. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
“I’ll be right here all weekend. I’m Everett, by the way.”
She smiles at him in parting. While he seems like a decent guy, Presley’s people reader is screaming at her that he’s hiding something. He’s a bartender with what sounds like a troubled past with alcohol. She just buried her mother. She doesn’t need that kind of headache.
2
Everett
As the evening wears on, Everett tries unsuccessfully to get Presley off his mind. She’s smoking hot with luscious auburn hair and flawless skin. When she stares at him with those gray eyes, it’s as though she’s seeing his soul. But there’s more to her than her looks. Good upbringing. College education. Nice family. She’s the kind of girl guys fall for. Everett reminds himself that he doesn’t need another woman complicating his life.
He welcomes the distraction when a disorderly group of fishermen enters the bar. They’ve already been in the sauce, down the hall in the game room based on their conversation. He guesses them to be in their late thirties to early forties, settling into middle age with receding hairlines and thickening waistlines. They sit at the bar instead of at one of the many vacant tables. Once seated, they shout their drink orders at him, as though he’s hearing impaired.
The bald guy at the end of the bar says, “Hey, bartender, change the music. Seriously, dude, who wants to listen to jazz? Turn on some classic rock or R and B.”
The man next to baldie elbows him in the gut. “Forget R and B. We want country music.”
Everett tunes into his favorite country station and begins filling their drink requests. The more distinguished of the gentlemen order red wine while the drunkest ask for brown liquor on the rocks.
A man with a ruddy complexion and turkey neck asks for a Jack on the rocks. “Hey!” The man wags his finger at Everett. “I know you. Aren’t you from Atlanta?”
“No, sir. North Dakota.” Everett keeps his head lowered as he opens another bottle of pinot noir. The man looks familiar to Everett as well. But he can’t place him.
When Everett looks up from pouring two glasses of wine, Turkey Neck is studying him closely. “Are you sure we’ve never met? I swear I know you from somewhere.”
Despite his pounding heart, Everett lifts a shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “I’m sure you’re mistaking me for someone else. I have an average face.”
Everett turns his back on them, busying himself with wiping down counters. He tries to ignore them, but the fishermen are obnoxious as they try to outbrag one another about their day’s catch.
Ten minutes pass and Everett assumes Turkey Neck has forgotten him. When he finally faces them again, Turkey Neck is still staring at him. “That’s it!” he says, snapping his fingers. “You’re a musician of some sort. What’s the name of your band?”
Everett lets out a laugh that sounds more like a snort. “I’m not in a band.”
Turkey Neck scowls at him. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” He fakes a chuckle. “Don’t you think I’d know if I was in a band?”
Turkey Neck rests an arm on his ample gut. “Then where are you from in North Dakota?”
Is this guy for real? Everett says a silent thank you to his elementary teacher when he pulls the state’s capital out of thin air. “Bismarck.”
Everett is relieved when another fisherman summons him to the end of the bar for a refill. By the time Everett circles back, Turkey Neck has finally forgotten about him and is engrossed in a conversation about college football with the man to his right.
After several more rounds of drinks, the fishermen pay their tabs and stumble out of the bar into the lounge. It’s nearly ten o’clock by the time Everett finishes cleaning up and closing out the register. When he pokes his head into Jameson’s, much to his disappointment, Presley is nowhere in sight. The fishermen are the only occupants of the restaurant. Seated at the community table, they are all extremely drunk now, shoveling food and sloshing drinks. Everett sneaks through the restaurant to the kitchen without them noticing him.
Cecily is the only real friend Everett has made since coming to Hope Springs six weeks ago. His attraction to her isn’t sexual. She’s smart and funny and beautiful with blue eyes that light up when she laughs. But she’s crazy in love with a lacrosse coach over at the college. Everett’s friendship with Cecily is based on a mutual appreciation for food and drink.
She looks up from her clipboard with pinched brow. “Your dinner is in the refrigerator.
