Page 58 of The Locked Ward
When the waitress from The Penguin hangs up, I sink back into my chair, feeling numb. I can’t believe it. My dad was not just a liar but a thief.
“I take it that wasn’t good news.” Scott’s voice cuts through my thoughts. I lift my head and bring my glass to my lips and practically inhale the rest of my scotch.
“Not so much.”
“I’m a good listener.” Scott waggles an eyebrow. “Occupational hazard.”
He’s trying to cajole me out of my mood. I appreciate his effort, but he has no idea what I’m going through. This isn’t a bad breakup or a clash with an obnoxious boss.
“Give me a second. I have to check something.” I pull up Google on my phone and type in different combinations of search terms— Cartwright , twins , stolen baby , my father’s name and my mother’s—but get no results.
If my parents had stolen me from the Cartwrights, there would have been massive media attention, I reassure myself.
Scott takes my glass and walks to the bar sink, tossing out the ice. I watch as he moves behind the counter in his faded jeans and black T-shirt with the Sweetbay’s logo on the chest. He scoops in fresh ice and tops it off with another three fingers of scotch.
“Maybe take it a little more slowly this time,” he tells me when he returns to the table, setting the glass down in front of me.
A car horn blares outside and I flinch. Scott’s eyes narrow. “After you finish that, I’m driving you home.”
I start to protest, but he shakes his head. “Not this late, after two strong drinks, when you’re already a little shaky.”
He’s right. And I haven’t eaten since—I squint and try to remember. Coffee and a banana this morning. My stomach has been too knotted to accept food.
Scott’s gaze feels too intimate, so I flick my eyes away.
When I first took over here after my dad passed, Scott had already been bartending for about six months.
The day after my mother’s funeral, I was about to climb onto the counter to display the photograph of them on the high shelf when Scott approached, asking if he could help.
He took the photo from my hands as reverently as if it were a sacred object and stretched up his arms and positioned it so it was almost as if my parents were watching over their old bar.
“What did you really think of my parents?” I blurt. “Tell me the truth, even if it isn’t positive.”
“Your parents?” Scott’s wooden chair creaks as he leans back. “Your mom was a total sweetheart. She never had a bad word to say about anyone. She was a real mom , you know? The kind everybody wants.”
I nod because it’s true. My mother listened to me—really listened, even when I was a kid—and French-braided my hair and taught me to bake cakes from scratch.
“And your dad…” Scott’s voice trails off for a moment. He clears his throat. “I learned more from him than I did from my own dad, which isn’t saying much. But still. Your father…”
He pauses, seeming to search for the right words.
“Did he tell you what happened right after he hired me?”
I shake my head.
“I fucked up, Mandy. I stole from the till during my first week. Not much—just forty bucks. I did it all the time at my old job, and I guess the habit stuck when I started here. But your dad knew. I don’t know how, but he did.
He called me into his office and I knew he was going to fire me.
Anyone would’ve, you know? Then he asked if I was in trouble.
If I needed a loan. If there was anything—” Scott’s voice breaks.
“If there was anything he could do to help me.”
Scott bows his head.
“He said if I put back the money, he’d give me another chance and never tell anyone. So when you ask me what I thought about your dad? What I still think about him?”
I hold my breath.
“He showed me the kind of man I want to be.”
My throat thickens. Silent tears leak from my eyes. This is exactly what I needed tonight: someone to counterbalance the awful words I just heard about my dad.
“Hey.” Scott reaches over and pulls a napkin out of the holder, then passes it to me. His empty hand rests on the table, outstretched toward mine, like he’s yearning to touch me.
So I surrender to it. I entwine my fingers through his and keep holding on while I stand up and walk around the table. I wait until he rises; then I lean into him, pressing my body against his long, lean warmth. After a second, he bends his head and kisses me.
I lose myself in the kiss, running my hands over Scott’s broad shoulders, feeling his tongue, tasting of scotch, slip into my mouth.
Scott pulls away and breathes my name into my ear.
I look up at him. “Can you take me home now?”
Disappointment crashes over his face. I don’t let myself think about the twisted reasons I’m doing this, including the fact that after seeing Tony’s body, I’m scared to be alone in case Georgia is right and my movements are being monitored.
I just say, “Let’s have another drink at my place since you’re staying over. ”