Griffin grins slyly. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”
We shut the doors of my pickup truck without locking them and walk toward our soon-to-be bar. Just seeing it standing there, all wood and stone, but knowing what it will be … shit, it makes all this stress worth it.
In downtown Beaufort, mom-and-pop stores dot the streets along with white-posted porches of antebellum mansions. A fresh spring breeze tinged with sea salt gently passes us as we pause to take in the location.
The site is an old hardware store we bought with the intent to tear down and rebuild. Our property features a rare corner parking lot in the middle of the downtown area, where space is at a premium, so it was worth every penny. We were able to buy the brewery space and equipment, plus the building lot and construction costs. Up next is the décor and menu, and I sure as hell have a vision for that, plus an idea of the cash needed. But now the license is stalled for the lot to be a legal bar for alcohol, in other words, using the brewery we bought to make an actual income rather than small-scale distribution. With nearly all my savings in these two investments, I need that license yesterday.
Griffin told me going into this that it was a high-risk venture and my answer back was that those are the investments that are high reward. I’m starting to second-guess my mindset going into this. I may have been blinded but I know one simple thing for certain: it’s always been my dream to open up a bar near the ocean.
“Good location,” I say, keeping it positive as another gust of sea breeze goes by us. Griffin nods, turning to look around as if he’s seeing it for the first time when I know he’s been down here nearly every day for months.
Shoving my hands into my jean pockets, and listening to the slow traffic running down the street, I pay close attention to this old street that used to be Main Street according to the details on the listing.
Our bar, assuming all goes well, is right next door to an art gallery. Next to that is an event space used mostly for weddings, along with school and corporate events. At the other end of the block is a funeral home.
Whether due to tragedy or celebration, people always need a spot to drink and this is the perfect location for a bar.
The sound of a circular saw reverberates through the place as Griffin and I enter the wide wooden door with iron details. That door was the first thing I bought for this place. Before we even had an address or knew we’d be in this town. That door is what I want everyone to see. It’s smoked and worn down. A showpiece of what I want to feel like a modern Irish pub. We’ve got a simple design for the bar laid out, but we’ve still got to put those finishing touches on everything that will make it the vision I’ve had in my head for years.
Griffin and I talk with the contractor and a couple of carpenters about next week’s work.
Since he’s local, sun-kissed and has that southern twang with a constant charming smile, Griffin blends right in. I, on the other hand, look and sound like a Yankee, or so I’ve been told. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been asked, “What brought you down here?” in the week I’ve been here.
As Griffin and I review the plans on the only installed booth with the smell of fresh paint and sawdust all around us, he stops in the middle of his sentence.
“You okay?”
I meet his gaze. “I’m fine. Just imagining this bar filled, with a TV right there,” I say and gesture to the far corner. “A college game on and this whole town in here, drinking our beer while they cheer on the home team.”
Griffin comically mimics a roar of cheers and a huff of a laugh leaves me.
“Everything’s coming together,” I say then raise an imaginary glass and click my tongue when he pretends to clink his imaginary glass against mine.
“Missed you, bro,” he tells me with a grin.
Nodding, I tell him that I’m glad I’m here with him. Glad isn’t the right word, though. I can’t shake this feeling that’s come over me since I got here. I don’t think I like it. But part of me is excited as all hell by it.
It’s just nerves. That’s all this is. I’m sure of it.
We head outside with the intention of checking out our competition in town, a.k.a. having a few beers around town, and lean on my truck for a few moments, taking advantage of the fresh air and catching some late afternoon rays of sun.
The sound of keys jingling approaches up the sidewalk, and next thing I know a gorgeous woman, petite with long blond hair, walks by us, then waits on the corner for the light to change so she can cross the street.
Griffin is saying something but his voice turns into background noise, my eyes drawn to her like she said my name even though I know she didn’t.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and an eerie feeling of déjà vu comes over me.
Long strands of blond hair cascade down her back. She wears a pastel floral skirt along with a simple cream tank top to match. I don’t recognize her as anyone I’ve run into since I’ve been in this town, but I feel like I know her.
The light changes and as I watch her cross the street, something stirs from within me. Despite the fact that I didn’t get the closest look, the prick of familiarity with her is so strong.
“You ever see that girl before?” I blurt out, interrupting Griffin as I tip my chin in her direction. It’s a small town. He told me once that everyone knows everyone.
He turns his head to get a good look at her and his brow furrows. “Yeah, sure. She’s a few years younger than me, I think. My uncle knew her family, or at least he knew her father. Pretty sure everyone did. Magnolia Williamson.”
“Magnolia,” I say, repeating her name so I can ease my voice over the softly spoken syllables. I don’t remember ever meeting a Magnolia. She disappears out of my line of sight and I turn my attention back to Griffin. “I don’t know anyone named Magnolia, but she seems familiar.”
“Her father ran some faulty investment scheme that went downhill. He lost a lot of money for a lot of people. Then the asshole went and died a few years ago and left her to pick up the pieces. Gum?”
Griffin holds out a stick of Wrigley’s gum for me to take.
“No thanks,” I say and wave him off.
He squints and looks at me as he shoves the piece into his mouth. “Why so curious?”
I shrug and swing around to the door of my pickup.
“She reminds me of a girl I once knew. But her name was Rose.”
Magnolia
Placing another sold sign on the original piece from a local artist, I let the sense of pride I’m feeling prance into a smile on my face. The new website is working like a dream.
And that was my idea.
A giddy little dance, one that lasts all of five seconds and ends with me looking over my shoulder to make sure no one passing by the empty art gallery was watching, is my reward. That and a bigger paycheck.
The art in the gallery is stunning and photography can’t capture it. Video sure does a hell of a good job, though. My black heels go clickety-click on the old worn barn floors of the gallery as I make my way back to the counter. It’s the only piece of furniture in this place, bar the two simple white benches at the very front by the twin bay windows. We have art displayed both on the wall and on easels. No drinks are allowed in here so we don’t have a reason for tables, unless we’re holding an event.