It was wood, stone and glass, with a high ceiling and lots of natural light. After I explained he was all for it, if we could do it on a Monday, his slowest sales day. He gave me a case of wines I hadn’t tasted it yet, just for an opinion.
Many of his wines had names linked to the area.
Millrace Red was named for the old grist mill on the edge of his property. Yankee Orchard White was named for a friends’ apple orchard. A transplanted New Yorker, he specialized in rare and new varieties. Juice from his Pink Lady apples were mixed with a medium white, and it was really smooth, tasting like fresh apples with just a hint of grape.
It had been a long day, and I needed to unwind. As it happened, I had to go right by the bar on the way home. Forgetting how I was dressed, I walked in. There was silence for a minute, then the laughter and ribbing started.
“Where you been? A funeral?” Laughed Fat Bob, the first guy I’d talked to when I found the place. We’d become pretty good friends, to the point I sometimes loaned him my truck if his bike was down and he needed to haul it to the shop.
I was about to explain when another voice rang out.
“Who’s the fuckin’ suit?”
I didn’t even need to turn around. Amanda Patterson, known in the bar as Babydoll, because she had just turned twenty and was barely five feet tall. She was cute, a redhead with a hair trigger temper, and had a mouth that would make drill instructors blush. She was sort of a mascot, and nobody hit on her unless she wanted. And I never saw her want.
“Hi, Amanda. I got all dressed up to ask for your hand in marriage.” I got down on my knee while the bar roared. She flamed red and the temper came out. Her opinion of love and marriage was well known. I was sure there was history there somewhere. Plus, she hated being called Amanda.
“That ain’t funny, asshole. And what the fuck you dickheads laughing at? Don’t make me go to your asses.”
That made them laugh harder.
“I refuse to take that as a no, more of I’ll think about it. Do I need to wear the suit until you decide to make an honest man out of me?”
She pushed me backwards and stomped off to the kitchen. Fat Bob helped me up.
“I wouldn’t order anything tonight. She’ll probably spit on it, or worse.”
Amanda helped out in the kitchen on the weekend, for tips and meals. I found out from Ellen, one of the bartenders, that she’d had a rough life, was broke and living in a woman’s shelter during the week, and sleeping at the bar on a cot in the backroom on the weekends. It wasn’t exactly legal, but who was going to tell?
“She’s a good kid, down on her luck. We’d hire her full time if we could afford it.”
I asked her how she ate during the week, and why she didn’t have a job.
“Soup kitchens, I suppose. I never really asked. I think she has a juvie record, and she hasn’t finished high school, has no transportation, and that makes her job prospects pretty slim.”
Amanda was there almost every night, not leaving until she had to go back to make sure she had a bed for the night.
I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I wanted to feel connected to another human being. Maybe I wanted to be able to give her hope. I struck a deal with Helen and Sam, the owner. I’d pay for her meals during the week. Sam agreed to let her wait tables and clean up, four hours a night, for a hundred dollars a week cash, which I paid half. I supplied the cash, on the condition that she absolutely could not know I had anything to do with it.
“Here,” I said, giving Ellen two hundred. “Take her shopping, she needs new clothes. Tell her she can pay you back out of her wages, twenty a week.”
She said it was the first time she’d ever seen her cry. Not extravagant, she bought new underwear, three pair of the cheapest jeans she could find, and four plain tee shirts. Two pair of mark down sneakers, and she was done.
I thought about it as Ellen told me. Becky would pay more for a pair of shoes she didn’t really like that much, wear them three or four times, and get rid of them. She probably spent more than Amanda made for a month on makeup and accessories alone.
She didn’t come out of the kitchen the rest of the night. Helen said later she thought she might have cried a little, blaming it on chopping onions. I felt bad, hoping I hadn’t hurt her feeling too much.
So I got the nickname Suit, which everybody thought was pretty funny. I actually made it a point, if I was near, of stopping in with my work clothes on, from time to time. Every time I’d wear one I’d ask her if she’d changed her mind. She still cussed me every time. But now she smiled.
The whole bar petted her. I never really thought about how she felt about anything until one night when a new guy was hitting on her. She fought him off with a smile, but he was getting worse. When she bent over at the next table to pick up the empties, he pinched her on her ass. I saw it and was almost there without even thinking. She screamed, turned, and dumped a half full draft in his face.
“Bitch,” he said, pulling back to slap her. I grabbed his arm and yanked him off the chair. Sam and Fat Boy got there in time to keep me from hitting him. Amanda slapped the hell out of him as we got him up.
“Don’t ever touch me again, asshole! Next time my fiancee won’t be held off.”
She blushed when she realized what she said, and ran into the kitchen. She came out later, thanking me for my help. I grinned.
“Couldn’t have my future bride hurt, now could I?
I know you didn’t mean it, but it might be wise to let the jerks that hit on you know you’re claimed. Think about it.”
She surprised the whole bar by kissing my cheek. After the whistles and yells died down, she told them she’d kick their asses if they laughed at her and her boyfriend again. This really set them off and she fled back into the kitchen.
Three weeks later there was a poker run that I signed up for. We met at the bar and they opened up the kitchen for breakfast. After we’d eaten and were lining up, I felt a tug on my sleeve.
Babydoll looked embarrassed but determined.
“Can I ride with you?”
Why not?
“Sure, if you have a helmet.”
She held up one. “Fat Boy loaned it to me.”
She was in jeans and a tee. It was going to be cool this time of morning.
“Go get your jacket. It’ll be awful cold if you don’t.”
She hung her head. “I don’t have one. Haven’t needed it yet.”
I sighed and she got behind me, keeping her hands down.
“Ever been on a bike before?” I asked. She nodded.
“Then you know you have to hold on. Come on, I won’t hurt you. It won’t be safe unless you do.”
Everybody knew she hated being touched.
She reluctantly put her hands around my waist. I started out slow until she relaxed. I dropped out after a mile, swinging into a WalMart.
“Why are we here?”
“To get you a jacket. I can feel your shivers through my coat. If you want, you can pay me back. Or you can accept it as a gift for riding with me. Either way, we’re not leaving until you have one.”