The lowlife parents showed their kids Instagram posts about Grace’s past then condoned calling Grace a slut. They gave my daughter hell for being “associated” with her. The principal didn’t punish those kids nearly as much as they should have.
A written apology and one-day detention was a slap on the wrist if you asked me. And those fucking parents—rich idiots from the new McMansions that were built across the highway—laughed at my daughter, at my girlfriend. It took everything in me to remain calm. Hell, it was taking everything in me not to drive to the school right now. I couldn’t believe Noelle wanted to go back there. Of course I allowed it, but I hoped I wouldn’t regret respecting her decision.
Grace had made mistakes, had been a partier, and then she had a horrible tragedy occur. I didn’t want to add more baggage to her life. I already had a kid and lived a whole two hours away from the only world she’s known. It couldn’t be an easy adjustment. It wasn’t for Roxy and she ended up resenting me for it.
The front door opened, causing the bell to ring. I heard heels clack against the floor and my head spun, thinking it might be Grace coming in earlier than expected. Fiona might not have admitted it, but she was definitely enjoying the help redecorating the bed-and-breakfast. Grace was thrilled at the opportunity and excited to put finishing touches on her projects.
I lifted my head, smiling, thinking I was going to see my girl. My face fell as I saw it was an older woman in her fifties, dressed lavishly. She cleared her throat and looked around, pursing her overly plump lips. She definitely wasn’t from around here.
Her face wasn’t emotive, probably due to all the filler in it, so it was hard to read her expression. Dirty Al looked away from his drink and did a catcall. I smacked him with the dish towel.
“Hi, welcome to Bar,” I greeted, putting the shot glass back on the shelf. “Our specials are right there.” My chin jutted toward a laminated piece of paper. Grace insisted we have a logo and better branding, so she created it, along with new menus.
“Hello. Mr. Jameson, I presume.” The woman held out her hand for me to shake. “I’m Jacqueline Harrington, Grace’s mother.”
“Holy shit,” Dirty Al blurted. I couldn’t recover from my surprise to hit him with the dish towel again.
I stretched my hand to shake hers. “You can call me Caleb.” I smiled, wanting to be respectful to Grace’s mother, even if I had preconceived opinions about her. “Can I make you a drink? Food? We have a new olive tapenade. Grace insisted that we add it to the menu.”
Jacqueline rolled her eyes and muttered, “No, thank you.” She walked around the bar aimlessly, looking at the wall of photos I had. My patrons would add photos from their time at Bar. I recently added one of Grace, Noelle, and me from Christmas Day. My mom took it while we were opening gifts. I usually hated photos of myself but loved that picture. We looked so happy, like a real family, sitting in front of the twinkling Christmas tree that my daughter and girlfriend decorated together.
“Grace should be here in about an hour or so,” I informed, trying to ease this awkwardness between us and gauge whether Grace knew about this visit. Something told me she didn’t, which only added to my discomfort.
“I’ll be gone by then,” she said simply. “This won’t take long.”
“And what is this exactly?” I asked, irritation coming to the forefront.
“An understanding.” Mrs. Harrington stalked over to the bar and stood before me, despite the barstools being right there. All she did was stare at me, slightly shaking her head.
Jacqueline never sat down, obviously intending to try to intimidate me. It wasn’t working, and I was only growing more annoyed.
“An understanding of what?” I asked, baiting her. I had an idea what she was going to say, but I wanted to hear her say it.
She slipped her manicured fingers into the purse slung over her shoulder and pulled out a rectangular piece of paper.
Jacqueline thrust her hand in my direction. It was an envelope with my name on it. I took it hesitantly, opened it, and scoffed when I pulled the paper out of the envelope.
It was a check for a hundred thousand dollars with my name on it. I shoved it back into the envelope and asked, through gritted teeth, “What the hell is this?”
“My daughter has picked up her sister’s rebellious streak. She doesn’t belong in this small town. In thisbar,” Jacqueline spat as her face tried to distort in disgust. “So you need to do the right thing. For everyone. I figured this would be enough compensation for somebody like you. Grace needs a nudge to leave. To come back to where she belongs.”
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” I threw the dish towel I was holding onto the counter. “I don’t want your money. And for your information, Grace belongs with me. I won’t push her away. Now, do you want a drink, or are you going to keep wasting my time?”
How dare she come into my place of business and proposition me to break up with her daughter?
“Mr. Jameson, excuse me for being frank but that money can be life-changing for somebody like you.”
“Lady, you don’t know jack about me. Let alone your own daughter.” My body was vibrating from adrenaline. I really wanted to stay calm because at the end of the day, this was Grace’s mother, but this woman was fucking infuriating.
“What? And you do? The small-town boy who couldn’t make it in the big city? The mother of your child ran for the hills after being trapped in this place with you.” Jacqueline chuckled humorlessly. “What do you really have to offer? Here’s what I do know: You’re a bartender in this small town.” Her nose scrunched a little, but she continued, “You have a daughter from a previous relationship. You’ve never been married. You work late and your mom helps you quite a bit. She frequents the city tosell her art. At a gallery that somebody on the board of one of my charities owns. I did my research, Mr. Jameson.” Her tone was even, but there were undertones of threats laced in her perfectly crafted words.
“Do you know she has nightmares?” I prompted, not wanting to shell out Grace’s stuff, but this woman wasn’t acting like a mother. She needed to know half of the pain Grace carried.
Jacqueline shook her head, unamused. “No.”
“Do you know that up until recently Grace was terrified of driving?” I pressed, my eyebrows pinching together, annoyed.
“Grace is driving?” She gasped. She paused for a minute before her hands covered her mouth. Probably the thought of not having a driver was distasteful or some shit.
