The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(82)

Once we’re buckled up and back on the road, he gives me a wide smile. “You sure are a hit with the ladies. I can’t say I don’t appreciate it. Usually it’s just me fending off indecent proposals.”

“Glad to help.”

One of the women calls from the back, “How about some tunes?”

I fiddle with the radio, locating a station that’s jumped the gun playing Christmas music. The bus fills with complaints.

“Blasphemy!”

“No Christmas music until tomorrow!”

“Turn it off!”

I switch to a country station, which elicits a similar reaction. So does the soft rock station. The back of my neck starts to heat from all the heckling. At a red light, Mo reaches over and presses one of the preset buttons. A sugary pop song with an electronic beat blares over the speakers. Already, my ears are starting to bleed, but there’s a cheer from the back, along with one lone male groan.

“Not Justin Beiber!”

“Shut it, Mort. Jealousy is unbecoming.”

“I can’t compete with him!” a man, who I’m assuming is Mort, protests.

“Few can,” another man says.

“He’s got his original hips and knees,” one woman says appreciatively. “And all that ink!”

“The young feller up front certainly gives him a run for his money.”

“His hips definitely seem to be in working order.”

“I’m adding him to my freebie five list.”

I turn to Mo, who is laughing silently, tears pooling in his eyes. “Is the freebie five list what I think it is?” I ask.

“I’m afraid so. Congratulations.”

I shake my head as arguments about various celebrities continue. Better them than me. But already, I’m feeling twitchy from all the voices and the full shuttle. I can’t wait for the end of the day when I can lock myself in Tank’s guest room, though I’d really prefer my own empty house. One where I could be alone, or alone with Winnie.

I debated about calling a real estate agent twice this week after I found an empty but not terribly run-down farmhouse not too far from where Pat and Lindy are building their place. But the idea of taking on a house right now, especially one that might need some renovations, would be just one more thing. As soon as the brewing tanks come in, I’m going to be pulling fifteen-to-twenty-hour days as I set things up and start brewing the first batches.

So, no. I need my own space, but I’m not ready to take that on yet.

“You get roped into this job every year?” I ask Mo.

He shoots me a quick glance, a smile still in his eyes. “I volunteer for this job every year.”

Now I feel like a jerk. “That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s what they do here.”

The they catches my attention. I see Big Mo as a fixture in Sheet Cake, someone who would be part of a we, not see it as a they. It’s hard to imagine this town without the man who is a fixture in Mari’s kitchen and pretty much everywhere, a big, steady presence.

“You didn’t grow up in Sheet Cake?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I ended up here after my wife and daughter died.”

The tightness in my chest, which has been coming and going a lot lately, returns with a vengeance. I can’t help thinking of Mom, then of Winnie and Chevy losing their mom and dad. This town has a way of wrapping around people, taking them in and holding them close. I don’t have a chance to fumble over rote words of condolence before he continues.

“I showed up at the diner, weary and not sure I wanted to go on. Mari fed me, forced me to stay in the apartment above the diner, and kept offering me a job until I took it. Been here ever since.”

I want to ask more questions, but I think better of it. More like, my own emotions are much too close to spilling over to carry on conversation. My mind goes back to the dark days after Mom died. To listening with my ear pressed to Tank’s door, hoping for a sound other than sobbing.

To fixing everyone frozen pizza or mac and cheese from a box. Breaking up fights between Collin and Pat. Tucking Harper into bed. Waking up when she had nightmares and holding her until she stopped crying. Washing clothes and dishes and making sure everyone had on pants without holes or stains when we caught the bus for school.

Grief has a long memory, and a way of leaping up to surprise you. I always miss Mom on holidays. She’s been on my mind a lot more since my talk with Dad. I love the sense of togetherness of Sheet Cake. It’s a good thing to include people who wouldn’t have family or a celebration.

But at the same time, I hate how we’re giving up our Graham family traditions for people I barely know.

Mo tips his head toward the back of the van where a lively discussion about compression socks sounds like it’s about to turn into a full-on brawl. “Stay long enough, and it’ll be you too.”

That, I don’t know about. But I don’t have much time to consider because someone in the back calls, “Settle a debate for us, big fella. Boxers or briefs?”





The knot of tension in my chest has tightened into a solid mass by the time Big Mo and I finish collecting various older folks and those with limited mobility from around town. It’s been about three hours, but knowing Winnie, anything could happen in that time.