Page 1
Chapter 1
Dana
* * *
I brace myself against the wind that’s been howling outside the clinic for the past hour or so.
Storms like these are not uncommon in the fall, although more so in the western part of Washington State. Occasionally, they do blow out this far east and can still pack a punch.
Luckily, no rain at the moment, so I manage to get to my car mostly unscathed. The only damage is to my hair, which was tied back in the tidy ponytail I sport most of the time but is now flying wild around my face.
I still get excited pushing the unlock button on the key fob to my brand-new Corolla Hatchback, which is an almost white, pale, minty green, with a sporty black roof and trim. It’s my first new car after the old clunker I’d been driving for most of my adult life finally gave up the ghost. Although it was painful to have to dig into my hard-earned savings to buy it last month, I forfeited the cheaper option of another secondhand vehicle, and indulged in the new and very cute, sporty Toyota.
My father had been mortified. First, because I’d dared go car shopping on my own without his self-proclaimed expertise to guide me, and second, because I’d come home with something other than an American vehicle. Let alone one that sent off some serious chick vibes.
Or maybe he’d just been in shock at my choice. I’m not what you’d call a particularly flashy individual, nor could I be considered girly. I see myself more as a worker bee than any kind of queen. I do what needs to be done and always have.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my life, my heart is in my job as a nurse practitioner, and I like filling in at my parents’ bar several nights a week and some of my weekends. I don’t get a lot of downtime, but I don’t really have a lot of extracurricular activities anyway, and that allows me to tuck away any money I make to save up for my dream.
Of course, the purchase of my new car set me back a little on my goal of buying an old homestead in the mountains, just outside of town, and fixing it up myself. It’s not like I’d really have a lot of time to do much work on it anyway, if I ever found a place like that, but the dream persists. The result of many years of watching home improvement and DIY shows on HGTV.
In fact, that’s what I’m hurrying home for now, to catch as much of an advertised marathon of Home Town as I can. I’ve been looking forward to changing into something comfortable, tossing a frozen pizza in the oven, and spending the night on my couch watching Ben and Erin turn tear-downs into gems.
I smile at the soft purr of the engine when I hit the start button and take a sniff of the lingering new-car smell. Just as I merge into traffic and set a course for home, a call comes in. The screen on my dashboard shows The Kerrigan calling and my heart falls.
The Kerrigan is my parents’ pub, and I don’t even have to answer the call to know what this is about.
“Not tonight,” I start as I answer the phone.
“Baby Girl, we’re strapped,” my father’s voice pleads. “The new waitress didn’t show, and Len is doing both bar and service. I’ve got my hands full in the kitchen because your mom isn’t feeling great. It’s Friday night, sweetheart, and we’re getting swamped.”
I focus on the part that concerns me most as I turn into the opposite direction and head toward downtown.
“Mom’s still not feeling good?”
“She just has no energy. That flu she caught last month really took the stuffing out of her.”
Perhaps, except Mom has seemed exhausted much longer than only the past month, and it has me worried. Of course, my stubborn mother doesn’t see the point of getting checked out, no matter how much I urge her to stop in at the clinic.
“She needs to see Doc Sharma, Pops.”
“I know, Baby Girl, I’ve tried, but you know your mother…”
“Yeah.”
Oh, I know her, but if this goes on for much longer, I may have to resort to dragging her to the clinic by force.
“So anyway, I need you here ASAP to help cover the dinner rush.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
As I pull around to the back of the pub, park next to the dumpster, and exit the car, I realize I’m still wearing the scrubs I’ve been in all day and my hair looks like I’m standing in a wind tunnel. I quickly yank the sad remains of the ponytail from my hair and run my fingers through it, in an effort to tame it on my way in the back door.
The familiar sounds of the pub greet me as I walk into the kitchen, where Pops is clearly overwhelmed, judging by the chaos. Without so much as a hello, he tosses a server’s apron at me and gestures at a tray of plates on the island.
“Bangers and mash and the fish and chips for the back booth, and the burger at the end of the bar,” he barks before turning back to the grill.
Davey—the teenage part-time help—pokes his head from behind the half-wall that hides the dishwashing station before ducking back out of sight. Smart young man.
