For now, it’s our little secret.
People come in waves, all of them curious in that small-town way—openly nosy with a side of manners. They clock the HR on the board, the photo, our very obvious placement of me next to Paige, and then decide to be charmed instead of shitty. A definite win.
“Ben Hoffman,” an older woman in a denim jacket says, lifting her paper sample cup. “I haven’t seen a board say Hoffman & Richards since… oh, Lord. The Lockside.” Her laugh is quick, surprised. “My first legal beer was in that place. I had no idea what I was ordering, but the fine man behind the counter, who looks a lot like you, sure was kind about it.”
“You just made my night,” I tell her. She takes a copy of the photo, tucks it in her bag like a relic.
But that’s as far as it got. We’ve done as much research as we could all week, asked around to anyone who might know. Even asked Don, who just shrugged and said he didn’t know much.
No one can tell us what went wrong, why it went sour. The ledger at the museum was a bust—half the pages water-warped, the rest with names that didn’t mean anything to me, at least not yet. We’ve got a chest at home we haven’t finished digging through.
And now there’s this: a parade of people who lived pieces of it, each dropping little gems as they pass through.
“Your grandfather married the prettiest girl in Paducah,” an older man tells Paige, tapping a wedding photo we found in the album that we set next to the Lockside picture.
My throat tightens the way it has every time I look at that picture. It’s not just a picture of Eddie and Patricia Richards on their wedding day.
Next to them is another couple: William and Marilyn Hoffman, three months married, smiling at someone just off camera. It’s the only photo I have of my grandmother. Which is more than I had last week. I run a finger over the picture reverently.
Jason swings by and steals a lemon cookie. Charlotte arrives with a camera and tells us to pretend we’re cute, then gets a shot of Paige laughing that I’m going to beg for later.
“Owner of the year,” she says to me, bumping my shoulder. “You going to make a plaque for that too?”
“Working title is Dear Buck, Kindly—” I start.
“Not that,” Paige says without looking up, which makes Charlotte snort and wander off.
We get slammed and un-slammed and slammed again. I pour, I talk, I keep an eye on Paige without hovering. When she drifts toward the edge of the tent and rubs the spot under her ribs, I pass her a stool. She perches for exactly four minutes and then pops up to sell a matinee box to a dad with two kids.
We’ve had our share of looks this week—the double-take at the grocery, the glance that slides past Paige and lands on me with a big question mark.
I thought it would bother me, but it doesn’t anymore. Today, most of those same people are smiling at us fondly, like they had some part in it.
The projector coughs to life and a short plays, the sound drifting down the lane in a wash of music and cheers.
By the time the second program starts, the HR Heritage is down one keg and into the backup, the comment cards have fingerprints like art, and we’ve told the Lockside story enough times that the words are automatic now.
“They built it together,” I tell one last couple, nodding at the photo. “House recipe. They called it Heritage because it was their legacy.”
“Very fitting, considering you two,” the woman says, lifting her cup.
“Sure is,” Paige says, putting her arm around me.
The woman smiles and wanders toward the big screen.
Paige leans into my side like a plant seeking sun. “Well,” she says, sounding both proud and exhausted. “We did it.”
“We did it,” I echo.
She tips her head toward the screen. “When this block ends, I vote we shut down for twenty minutes and eat a giant cookie.”
“We can probably shut down completely in a bit.” I put an arm around her and feel her relax into it. “Catch the last movie?”
“Mmm,” she says, smiling. “That sounds nice. Snuggle on a giant blanket.”
“Good thing I’ve got one of those in my truck. For occasions just like this one.”
She turns into my arms and tips her face up to mine. “Can I steal your hoodie if it gets cold?”
