I scanned to see if Old Delford was on the shelves. It wasn't.
I turned to the two men who were still staring at me in slack-jawed silence.
"The best whiskey is Old Delford Kentucky bourbon. It's also the oldest, aged for 8 years, and selling for almost $150 a bottle, wholesale," I replied. "It's a high proof but it's smooth as hell, rich, and velvety going down. Despite the proof, it doesn't give you whiskey face when you take a shot. Which is nice."
I picked up a shot glass and free poured a three count shot of Maker's and slid it down the bar toward Rick.
"Now," I said. "As for your worst whiskey? That's easy. Poplar Springs whiskey is total sewer swill. I wouldn't serve it to my worst enemy. Yet I noticed it's half empty on your shelf." I sighed. "Damn shame people don't know what's good for them."
I ran my hand up the bar, thinking of my father for a moment. Everything I had just recited I'd learned from him. The only reason I could free pour a shot was because of the hundreds of whiskey sours I'd made him from the age of thirteen to three years ago, when he died.
No, I thought. Don't think of him now. Shove that shit back into your heart. This is not the place for nostalgia. Get it together.
I looked up at Rick and Huck who still hadn't said anything.
"So anyway," I said. "Are we going to continue to waste my time and yours, or do I need to do a song and dance to prove to you I know what the hell I'm talking about?"
Rick looked at Huck. "She's the damn Whiskey Whisperer."
Huck nodded at Rick. "You're hired, Belle. We'd be damn lucky to have you behind our bar."
My eyes lit up in surprise. I hadn't expected it to be said and I certainly hadn't expected it to be said by him.
As our eyes met for the first time that morning, I could finally see the hint of something in his that told me maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he didn't hate me.
For some reason he had a barrier up, but my soliloquy had earned me a little bit of respect … for now.
5
If Wednesdays were the slow days at The Side Pocket, I was nervous about the rest of the week.
By eight o'clock every bar stool was taken and every round top was filled. Only a few booths near the back, by the pool tables, remained empty. I'd poured dozens of shots and opened at least a hundred beers within the first couple of hours of working. My feet were already sore and my lower back was aching.
But I was having the time of my life.
I loved talking to and serving people who had no idea who the hell I was. All they cared about was getting a drink. And asking me what a girl like me was doing in a place like Whitmer.
"This place has never had a chick bartender," one large, oafish man said as he swallowed his third shot of Jack Daniel's. "The waitresses are always broads, but I never seen one behind the bar. You must be something pretty damn special, girl."
I rolled my eyes as I replaced his empty glass with a full one. "Not quite. Just a chick who needed a job."
I looked over at Huck, who was working the other side of the bar. He was leaning over and laughing at something an old man was talking about, his bony hands gesticulating wildly. His eyes met mine for a moment and he gave me a thin smile before bringing his attention back to the old man, who looked like he might fall off his stool with his animated story telling.
"But you seem too ladylike to be working somewhere like this place," he continued. "For one thing, your ass isn't hanging out. You're a nun compared to the women who come here."
"How I dress doesn't really tell you anything about me," I countered, handing a beer to one of the waitresses, the one who'd stepped over my pukey form my first night in Whitmer. "And women using what they've got to get where they want to be is just smart economics."
"That's damn right," the waitress said. "Besides, I'd rather be someone's shot of bourbon than everyone's cup of tea. Fuck being ladylike. Right, Belle?"
I grinned. I liked her.
"Damn straight," I said.
Rick wasn't kidding when he said I'd earn every dollar I made. By the end of the night I was completely exhausted. I couldn't wait to get back to the house, crawl into my bed, and sleep for 10 hours.
As I wiped down the bar and accepted my tip outs from the waitresses ("Belle, you did great!" they'd all said to me.), I could feel Huck's presence close by. I don't know what it was about him, but when he was near me the entire energy of the room changed. It was physiological, the effect he had on me.
And ridiculous. I didn't know him. He was cold and rude, but just so happened to be shrouded in hot looks and a gorgeous face. Damn him and his effortless charm.
"Belle," he said as he walked over to me. "Here's your share of the tips we made tonight." He handed me a wad of bills. "You earned every bit of it. Thanks."
He was still clipped with me, but I could feel less antipathy in his tone. It was a step in the right direction.
"Thanks for giving me a chance," I said, sliding the wad of cash in the front pocket of my jeans. "I appreciate it a lot."
"Yeah," Huck said, looking at me for a moment. "Really you should thank Rick for that. Not me." He paused as if he was going to say something else, but instead he just turned and walked away, saying over his shoulder, "Have a good night, Belle."
The mystery of Huck Calloway would go unsolved for now.
I woke up the next morning and felt one hundred years old.
Everything hurt. My hands, my feet, my back … I'd kept up with the pace, but it had taken its toll on me.
I dragged myself into the bathroom, and decided maybe the giant claw-footed tub was beckoning me. I smelled like the bar, having collapsed when I got home instead of taking the shower I planned to.
My search for bubble bath or bath salts or anything fancier than a bar of soap came up empty, but the tub filled with scalding hot water and as I slowly slid beneath the surface, it worked its magic.
My granddaddy used to swear by taking a bath with Epsom salts to relieve his aches and pains, and for the first time in my life, I wished I had some.
The tub was deep and I could have easily submerged myself in it. I had to be careful not to let the steam and heat lull me back to sleep. Poor Rick didn't deserve to come by to check on me only to find that I had drowned while taking a bath.
As fate would have it, Rick's voice startled me out of my daydream.
"Belle? Belle, it's Rick, I just came by to check on you and drop off some groceries."
His voice came from outside, on the front porch. I dreaded leaving the warm embrace of the tub, but the mention of groceries made me realize just how famished I was.
"Hang on, Rick, I'll be right there!" I called to him.
"Alrighty, darlin', take your time," he replied.
A few minutes later, I'd made myself presentable and met him at the front door. He had two paper sacks and a cooler with him.
"Good afternoon, hope I'm not catching you in the middle of anything," Rick said, as I held the door open and he rolled the cooler inside.
Did he really say "afternoon"? How long had I slept?
"No, nothing pressing, thanks for coming by," I said.
"I meant to get you stocked up before you moved in, but things got away from me. This isn't much, but it ought to get you started." Rick began putting things away in the pantry and refrigerator as he spoke. I took a seat at the round table in the corner of the kitchen.
"Just some staples, we have a small store here in Whitmer, but usually somebody makes a big grocery run into town every week or so. And then to the Walmart about once a month, but that's all the way in Great Falls. We all kind of work together to see that everybody gets what they need.
"But this is a rare treat," Rick said, slapping his hand on the top of the blue ice chest. "Oh, but wait, are you hungry now?"
"I'm actually starving, yes. I was planning to head down to the Waffle Hut," I explained.
Rick waved me off. "Forget the Waffle Hut. I have something better in my truck. Stay put."
He left and returned with a large plastic tub. When he removed the lid, steam rose from what was inside.
"Good, it's still warm." He went to the cupboard and pulled out a bowl, working with his back to me.
When he turned back around, the bowl was filled with some sort of stew, large hunks of meat surrounded by wedges of potato and carrot, among other vegetables. It smelled delicious.
He handed me a spoon and fork. "Some folks are real particular about how they eat their stew, figured I'd let me you make the choice."