I laughed. “Planning to ride a horse or kick someone’s ass while you’re here?”
“It always pays to be prepared. We’ll talk about my chaps later.”
After we hung up, I shook my head and then gave myself a quick once-over in the mirror. I’d made an actual effort this time, with a patchwork blue maxi skirt and a light cotton top with capped sleeves. Trying not to second guess myself, I stepped into apair of comfortable slip-on flats, grabbed my phone and keys, and headed outside.
Chick was coming. The knowledge definitely put some pep in my step. It also gave me the confidence to consider cornering Wade. Not that he was the reason I’d dressed like this.
Lying to yourself again?
His garage was right across the street from the bar and he would need to show me how to sign into the programs and get started. So yes, I wouldn’t mind if he got the chance to see me wearing something other than the latest in hobo chic.
I hopped into Myrtle and made my way to Hudson’s Icehouse. It wasn’t far, but the white trucks with cranes and the orange cones dotting the road like tiny alien trees made the going slow. Workers were depositing a winter’s worth of cut-up logs on every curb for the county to eventually take away, and men and women in FEMA shirts were going door to door to see who might need help.
I passed one driveway with a large tree lying precariously on two crushed cars and I squeezed my steering wheel in sympathy. Things could have been so much worse for all of us.
Even with the traffic slowdown, it only took twenty minutes to get there, and I felt a pang of regret for not making more of an effort to stop by in the last few years.
It was right here. A small open-air beer bar where my godchild usually worked four days and two nights a week. I could have spent more time with her. She might not hold my tendency to isolate against me, but I was starting to. Depression was a perverse form of time travel; hours became weeks before you looked up to discover a year had passed.
I’d lost so much time.
At least she hadn’t had the baby yet. She was still expecting me to be there for the home birth of the daughter she’d been calling Sammy Hudson in honor of my mother. Or Sammy Lane, if the baby’s father could get his head out of his keister. When herdoctor said she needed to watch her blood pressure if she wanted to have the baby at home, Phoebe had taken a leave of absence and started a regimen of relaxation, healthy eating, meditation and yoga for expecting mothers. I’d told her drugs in a hospital had been good enough for her mother, but she wanted to give birth in an inflatable pool, so what did I know?
When I pulled into Hudson’s, I slammed on the brakes right in the middle of the driveway. The icehouse waspacked.
It wasn’t even noon yet, and the parking lot was filled with trucks. Work trucks. Police trucks. Making-a-statement-about-your-penis-size trucks. And those trucks must have been full of people, because they wereeverywhere. Sitting at all the tables out front. Drifting in and out of the bar through the two open overhead doors. Standing in the grass along the cinderblock side of the building, where a large grill was smoking away and a row of buffet tables overflowed with food.
“So much for hardly having to see anyone,” I said faintly.
The knots in my stomach sprouted knots of their own as I checked behind me and hit reverse, backing out onto the street to find a parking spot. Maybe I should say “screw it” and go home. It had been a while since I’d been around this many people.
It could be like riding a bike.
I wasn’t so great at that either.
“Breathe, August. You can do this. You’ll be in a closed office. It’ll be fine.”
I lucked into a parking spot on the next block and walked back to the icehouse, determined not to chicken out. It was so hot already that by the time I got there, I had sweat running down my temples and dampening the underarms of my shirt. But I was in good company as I wended my way through the crowd—most of the men and women, many of whom wore hard hats and reflective vests, looked (and smelled) like they’d been working under the Texas sun all day, trying to get our community back up andrunning. They’d earned those plates of potato salad, barbecue chicken and brisket the volunteers were handing out along with bottles of water.
This event had Wade written all over it.
During the pandemic, when nearly all the bars were closed, he’d kept his doors open during the day. Not for business, but to hand out donated necessities like sanitizer, masks, toilet paper, and even canned goods, to neighbors in need. It made sense that people would gravitate here now.
Neighborhood hero or savvy business owner? Why not both?
Music drifted from inside the bar, where it looked darker and infinitely cooler. That was where I needed to be, so I maneuvered around a couple pallets of water bottles and sidestepped a group of workers, more than ready to be out of the sun.
Once inside, I stopped to let my eyes adjust to the sudden dimness, giving a slight shiver as the breeze from the overhead fans cooled my heated skin. Other than the explosion of people filling most of the tables and barstools, the old place hadn’t changed much since I was here last. The walls were decorated with TVs, neon beer signs and random Texas memorabilia. The carpeted platform in the corner still held a trap set, several amps and a mic stand. A window in the wall revealed a small kitchen that made appetizers and pizza, when it was open. And behind the scuffed wooden bar on the far wall, a couple of shelves displayed the bottles of beer available for sale, as well as the setups customers could order if they brought their own liquor.
That was the thing about icehouses—they only served beer. If you wanted to party harder, you had to bring your own booze. Most people didn’t, though, which helped keep the atmosphere relaxed and friendly.
I didn’t know the guys slinging bottles behind the bar, but they were obviously being run off their feet. Folks were stacked up three deep between the barstools, waiting to order.
“I can’t believe I’m seeing August in August,” a sultry feminine voice said over the music and the clamor of the crowd. “There’s a country song or a turducken joke in there somewhere.”
I smiled warily, feeling the resurgent wiggle of nerves in my stomach as I turned to face my oldest friend. “Hey there, Bernadette.”
12
