Every fiber of her wanted to argue with him, but he was right, and she had no intention of telling him so. She looked at Carly, who looked very pleased with herself, even though the night before she’d told Brooklyn that she wanted life back in the inn and had suggested that five rooms open as soon as possible. Maybe now Carly would listen to Bowie because she certainly hadn’t listened to Brooklyn.
NINE
The Whale Spout was Cape Harbor’s only watering hole, apart from a few restaurants that served alcohol. The front door was made up of only planks, and the wide plank floors creaked when walked on. The walls were covered with old fishing nets, a couple of lobster and crab traps, a broken oar, images of the lost fishermen from town, anchors, and really anything a local donated. The bar top happened to be an old deck from a shipwreck that supposedly dated back to the early 1900s, according to the old-timers who sat in the same corner, day after day, telling tall tales meant to entice visitors to stay. Tourists flocked here to hang out with the locals and to hear fishing stories that were so ancient no one really knew if they were true or not, and each time Bowie happened to sit in on one, the tale grew taller. Not that he cared. Those stories were part of the charm of the small coastal town, and what kept people coming back. The hospitality, the sights, and the amazing sunsets made his hometown a favorite place for people to visit.
The Chamberlains owned the bar, and had for as long as anyone could remember. It had been passed down from previous generations, and it only made sense that Graham would run it when he returned from California after Austin’s funeral. What he and his parents hadn’t counted on was Grady becoming the town drunk.
Bowie walked toward the end of the bar and took the last stool available, resting his arms on top of the bar and slouching down, clearly defeated. He was so lost in his head that he hadn’t even bothered to look at the other patrons to see if any of his friends were there. Truth was, he wanted to drink. He wanted to celebrate the fact that his divorce would be final . . . a thought that gave him pause. He’d gotten so caught up in the inn he had forgotten to stop by the office and ask Marcia to file the divorce papers. Tomorrow, he told himself. First thing in the morning he’d drive over and file them. And while he wanted to rejoice, he also wanted to get so shit-faced drunk that the day would be nothing but a blur. He wanted to drown his sorrows and memories, erase everything from his mind. At this point, he’d really like to forget about the last twenty years of his life or so—go back to the moment when he met Brooklyn Hewett and look the other way.
“Surprised to see you here, Holmes. We have a dart competition going—want to join?” Deep in his funk, he hadn’t turned around to acknowledge the voice he recognized as one of his employees, knowing that it was Chris Johnson standing behind him with his hand on Bowie’s shoulder. Chris was the newest member of the work crew and would have been the first one Bowie laid off if he hadn’t taken the reno job at the inn. He felt stupid for even having considered passing up the work. At first, it was his feelings for being an inadequate friend to the Woodses, but then Carly went and dropped a bomb—not just any bomb, but the bomb of all bombs that would undoubtedly destroy Bowie . . . Brooklyn.
“Uh, not tonight, but thanks,” Bowie mumbled to Chris. Chances were, he couldn’t hear what his boss had said over the loud music and voices that filled the bar. Nonetheless, Chris stepped away, leaving Bowie to wallow in his self-pity. He was going to hell. In a handbasket or whatever the saying was. It honestly didn’t matter because Bowie had a one-way ticket, and there wasn’t anything that could be done to stop him.
As if by magic, a pint appeared in front of Bowie. He glanced up and saw his good friend Graham behind the bar, tending to another patron. Bowie sipped the cold beer slowly. As much as he wanted to drink until he passed out, he also wanted to keep his wits intact. Any minute, he expected Brooklyn to walk in and continue ruining his night. After she’d questioned him in front of Carly, he’d felt emasculated, worse than Rachel ever made him feel. He couldn’t deny that she knew her stuff, but to be showed up in front of others—that was a hard pill to swallow.