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Prologue

JUNE 2004 WHISKEY SPRINGS,VERMONT

A mess. That’s what it was—a goddamn mess. Fallon tilted her head back, glaring at the stained ceiling of the pub as if her frustration alone could mend the hole. She cursed under her breath, a litany of words she didn’t care to filter. More money flushed down the toilet—or up to the ceiling.

“Fucking roof,” she muttered. “I just fixed that pipe! What else is going to break? Why did I ever think this was a good idea?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Jerry Walker offered, his tone maddeningly calm.

Fallon snorted. “Bad enough.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

Fallon rubbed her temples, willing her growing headache to subside. “I should rename this place Murphy’s Law.”

“Could be catchy,” Jerry said with a shrug. “Maybe you should.”

“Yeah, maybe I will.”

“Hey.”

The familiar voice made Fallon turn. She sighed as her brother stepped into the room with his hands shoved in his pockets. His eyes casually assessed the tree branch jutting through the roof like a decoration someone had forgotten to take down.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Mom sent you to check on the disaster.”

Dean smirked. “Could be worse.”

“That seems to be the consensus,” Fallon replied dryly.

“Well, you’ve still got lights.” Dean gestured to the still-glowing fixtures. “That means you’ve got power.”

“For now,” Fallon muttered.

“Better than the electrical fire last month.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that your idea of looking on the bright side?”

“Absolutely. It means the beer you had delivered yesterday is still cold. Isn’t this a bar? Are you going to keep staring at the roof, or can I get a pint?”

Fallon laughed. Only her brother could breeze past the chaos to focus on a drink. “You know where it is,” she said.

Dean wandered toward the bar while Fallon’s gaze drifted back to the gaping hole in the roof. Two weeks. That’s all she had before reopening The Middle Ground. The timing couldn’t have been worse.

Reviving the bar her father had loved wasn’t her lifelong dream. It was a tribute, a way of honoring James Foster’s memory. The Middle Ground had always been his place, “the joint,” he called it. Her eyes drifted to the far corner of the bar where he’d hold court, a pint in one hand and a whiskey in the other. Fallon had loved tagging along on those afternoons after a day of fishing or yard work.

She could still hear the clink of coins hitting the jukebox and the crack of pool balls breaking. Dave Scott, the old owner, hadalways been generous with Shirley Temples and quarters for the games. Her father’s friends spun tall tales, each trying to outdo the last. Those afternoons had been perfect—simple, noisy, and full of life.

She remembered the last time her father came home from the pub, quiet and pensive, as if the stories had dried up. That silence lingered with her, urging her to breathe life back into his old haunt.

Dean’s voice snapped her out of the memory. “Seriously, it’s not that bad. Right, Jerry?”

“Nah,” Jerry said, scratching his chin. “I could probably knock it out in a week.”

“What if you had some extra hands?” Dean asked.

Jerry eyed him skeptically. “Capable hands?”

Dean grinned. “Yeah. I’ve done a little roofing. Fallon’s helped, too.”