Page 3 of Unearthed Dreams (Sable Point #3)

Chapter Two

KAI

Mornings were my favorite time of day.

Silent.

Peaceful.

Lonely.

It was the only time the bar belonged to me—which it didn’t, technically. No music, no shouting, no drunk confessions slurred over sticky countertops.

Just quiet.

I unlocked the door leading from the apartment upstairs into the bar, stepping into the stale remnants of last night—spilled beer, citrus rinds abandoned on the floor, the faint trace of cheap perfume lingering in the air.

I could have cleaned last night, but I was always fucking exhausted by the time the last of the regulars filtered out. Plus, it was better to save some work for the morning—gave me something to do. Something to keep my mind occupied.

Except today, I did have something to do—two somethings, actually. One of them meant the bar didn’t even need to be cleaned, but leaving it like this would only make it worse. A more foul-smelling mess later.

I flipped on the lights and walked behind the bar, running a hand over the worn wood. It was solid, reliable. Unlike most people.

First stop: the register. I counted the cash, cross-checked it with the closing report. No shortages. Good. The last thing I needed was to play detective over twenty missing bucks.

I pulled a bottle of water from the cooler and leaned against the bar, flipping through the inventory sheet. Whiskey was low. I’d have to call in an order before noon.

The hum of the ice machine filled the silence as I checked the taps, making sure nothing was clogged.

Walk-in fridge next—beer stocked, garnishes prepped, nothing growing mold.

I restocked the napkins, adjusted a few bottles on the shelf just because they looked off-center, then grabbed the clipboard with the week’s schedule.

Someone had already texted about switching shifts. Of course.

It hadn’t taken me long to get through my list of chores this morning. Before heading upstairs for a shower, I poured myself a coffee from the pot I’d started earlier—black and strong. I took a slow sip, letting the warmth settle in.

With the extra time, I gave my beard a trim. It had been just this side of scraggly, and I woulda caught hell for it where I was headed next.

Still, I had time to kill. Pineview Cottage was about an hour away, just north of Petoskey, but visiting hours didn’t begin until ten. It was the best memory care facility in northern Michigan, and it was expensive as fuck .

The bar didn’t make much in the way of profits—just enough that I could live comfortably and keep myself fed. The fact that I lived upstairs and was more or less a recluse didn’t hurt.

I was lucky Billy had squirrelled away what he had over the last thirty-five years, but it still wouldn’t have been enough. Using Kelsey’s life insurance money toward giving her father a comfortable place to live when his mind was failing him was the least I could do.

I didn’t get down there to see Billy as much as I wanted, but knowing the bar would be closed today meant I had more time on my hands to make the trip.

It also meant that I’d have another two hours of solitude in the car.

I grabbed my paperback of Wind and Truth —the latest Brandon Sanderson book and the last in the first arc of the Stormlight Archive series—and flopped onto my bed.

It was about the only nice thing in this apartment. I’d spent a good four grand on this bed. If I was going to be on my feet all day, every day, at least I could sleep comfortably. At six-foot-four, in most beds, that was hard to do.

In this California King, I could sleep diagonally. Because I slept alone.

Good ol’ Brando had sucked me in, because next thing I knew, it was nine-thirty. I’d planned to be on the road by nine, but whatever.

I was operating according to my own timeline.

No one was actually expecting me, anyway.

“Go fish.”

I drew a card from the pile.

“Do you have any threes?” Billy asked.

“Son of a bitch.” Every goddamn time. He beat me every time.

He let out a hearty chuckle, his bushy gray brows wiggling like caterpillars above his bright blue eyes. “Best three outta five?”

I sighed and unwound the elastic from my hair. “I guess. You’re just gonna keep fuckin’ winning.”

“Now don’t be a poor sport, son.”

Son.

He called me son because he didn’t know my name. Not anymore. At one point in time, he did. We’d met once, before I came to Sable Point, and it hadn’t been pretty.

“Ya know,” Billy said with a hint of nostalgia, “I’ve got a daughter ’bout your age, I think.”

Fuck. It had been a while since he’d brought up Kelsey. No matter how many times it happened, I never knew how to fucking handle it.

When I told him the truth, our visit always ended the same—he’d go quiet, his eyes turning distant, and then he’d ask to be taken back to his room. But if I went along with it, he’d talk about her for ages—and that was sometimes even worse.

“Hard to tell with that hair.” He gestured toward my head.

“You got a problem with my hair, old man?” I aimed for deflection. Maybe if I could change the subject, he’d forget his line of thinking. It seemed like a cruel thing to ask of a man who’d forgotten more than just his line of thinking a long while ago. “At least I have hair. ”

“Pfft, I have plenty of ha—” He reached up and touched the top of his head, and his eyes went wide. “Where the fuck’s my hair?”

“Musta lost it all right along with your charm.”

Billy snorted a laugh and then dealt the cards for another game. Looked like we’d dodged the landmine—for now. Grateful as fuck for that small mercy.

After four games of Go Fish and a surprisingly good lunch—a grilled whitefish sandwich and coleslaw with a delicious fucking apple and poppy seed dressing, topped off with a homemade cherry crisp for dessert—Billy was spent.

I walked him back to his private room, which was nothing more than a studio apartment, not too dissimilar from the one he used to live in above the bar—minus the lingering smell of beer and stale popcorn. It was compact but functional, with everything he needed within arm’s reach.

The entryway led straight into the main space, where a small serving area was tucked against the wall—just enough room for a mini fridge, a microwave, and a coffee maker.

The sitting area had a couple of chairs and a table, perfect for watching whatever old western rerun was on. It was open to the sleeping area, which had a bed, a nightstand, and a closet big enough for his essentials.

The bathroom was actually a nice setup—spacious, easy to access, with a walk-in shower that had a seat and safety bars.

Overall, it was cozy. Felt a little like a scaled-down version of his old life. Maybe that was the point—enough independence to keep his pride intact, but with the security to keep him safe when his mind slipped .

I was busy taking in the space, so when he spoke next, it startled the shit out of me—on multiple levels.

“Kai.”

His moments of lucidity were fewer and further between these days. The facility managers kept me in the loop on his good days and his bad, but I was rarely here for the good ones.

I met my father-in-law’s eyes, and his gaze was fucking tortured.

“How ya doin’, son?”

This son hit different.

I shoved my hands in my pockets, uncomfortable with this moment of vulnerability while simultaneously being grateful as fuck for it.

“I’m doin’ good, Billy.” There was no point in asking him how he was doing. He probably didn’t have a clue.

“How long…” Have I been here? The question didn’t need to be voiced.

“Eighteen months.”

He nodded. His face had shifted—more serious now, more focused than it had been during the game.

And I knew exactly what he was thinking.

I’d first come to Sable Point two years ago to tell him his daughter was dead.

Almost instantly, I’d noticed a decline in his memory.

It was a simple thing here and there, at first—forgetting to lock up at closing time, leaving the place wide open overnight; leaving the cash register open and walking away.

Nothing startling, until he started forgetting his regular customers’ names. Folks in a small town like Sable Point began to notice, too. Hell, Rosie Kramer, the local diner owner and a lifelong Sable Point resident, had cornered me one night to share her neighborly concerns.

I’d stuck around town, living out of a motel one town over, mostly ’cause I didn’t have anywhere else I needed to be.

But when I confronted Billy about it, his decision was simple, and it’s changed my reasons for being there a helluva lot.

“There’s a facility down near Petoskey. The bar’s yours—do what you want with it.

Run it, sell it, burn it down. But I won’t be your burden, Kai. ”

I’d fought him on it for weeks, but he went around me, getting himself a spot at Pineview Cottage and signing the bar over to me.

“The bar?”

“Still standing.”

“Haven’t burned it down yet?”

“Nah, I kinda like it. Smells great.”

Billy chuckled, and a little bit of weight lifted.

“Can’t thank you enough, son.”

“Nothing to thank.”

“Sit down for a bit? Catch me up on your life? The town?”

We talked for two hours before the man I’d known for years—but hardly knew at all—faded away again.

I made it back to Sable Point by late afternoon, passing the Population: 514 sign with a grunt. I felt scuzzy as fuck from the drive, so I took another shower and brushed my teeth, making sure no poppy seeds lingered.

Normally, the bar’d be open by now, but the whole damn town had plans. If I didn’t show up, it wouldn’t go unnoticed. Small towns were funny like that—and by funny, I meant annoying and invasive.

I grew up in the city. Even though it’d been two years since I set foot in Grand Rapids, I still wasn’t used to this small-town shit. Only upside was the peace and quiet—something I was about to walk straight out of and into the chaos of a community gathering.

It wasn’t actually a town function—but the Evertons were practically town royalty, so when they did… well, anything, it was cause for celebration.

Today, they were opening EdenTree cidery.

Now, instead of two places to sit down for a drink in this town, there’d be three.

No skin off my back. The more places for townies to get a drink, the fewer made their way into my bar and the quieter it would be.

Though I guess I needed the money. Quite the pickle.

My truck was parked behind the bar, and when I climbed in, the black leather seats were scorching fucking hot after sitting in the sun for only an hour. Mid-June sun would do that to ya.

Luckily, the drive was short—just a quick jaunt down main, then up Orchard Road to a turnoff where a long, winding drive had been recently laid.

I pulled in slow, tires crunching over the gravel.

The place looked good—clean lines, dark wood, modern but still had that rustic charm.

“EDENTREE CIDERY” stood out in big white letters across the front of the building, confident as hell.

The wraparound porch was strung with lights, blue chairs scattered across the deck like they were waiting for someone to sit down and stay a while.

People were already out there, laughing, drinks in hand. I glanced away, focused on the apple trees standing tall behind the place, the scent of fresh-cut grass drifting in through the window. It had that solid, well-built feel—like it belonged here.

I didn’t, not really. But this town had a way of pulling you in—despite your best attempts to stay out.

So I cut the engine, rolled my shoulders, and stepped out.

Time to people .