“I wanted to talk to you about carrying Sweet Salvation Brewery beer again.” She laid the blue presentation folder on the bar and flipped it open. “As you can see, we’ve got a plan in place to overcome the management challenges we had in the past.”
Charlie didn’t even bother to look down at the four-color charts. “Yeah, not having your crazy uncle—bless his departed heart—run the place is a huge step in the right direction.”
Her head snapped up. “Uncle Julian definitely had his quirks, but he kept the brewery going as best he could.”
He patted her hand. “Honey, I am not disregarding that. Saying a Sweet acts different than most folks is like saying the sky is blue. It is what it is.”
Miranda ground her teeth together to stop the family-defending retort desperate to get out. Letting her ugly hang out wasn’t going to get Charlie to sign on the dotted line. “Be that as it may, we want to bring you on board.”
“This is nothing against you or your family, but there is just no way I can agree to that.”
“Because of the bet with Logan Martin?”
“This has nothing to do with Logan.”
Miranda’s chest tightened until only a sliver of air found its way into her clenched lungs. “But we’ve got everything in place to be successful.”
“And you’ve also made one hell of an enemy in Tyrell Hawson.”
Next time she saw Olivia, she was going to kill her sister for making that stupid entertainment television pseudo-documentary. And while she was at it, she’d stuff the people who owned YouTube into an iron box and drop it into the Hamilton River.
“Sure, Tyrell’s mad right now, but he’ll get over it.” And chocolate will stop being fattening.
Charlie shook his head at her bold-faced lie. “I don’t think so. There’s talk that he wants to make it illegal to manufacture alcohol in Hamilton County. He’s already got the ladies church auxiliary lined up behind him.”
The foul taste of moldy bread filled her mouth. “Nothing will come of it.”
Even to her own ears, she didn’t sound like she meant it.
“So you say, but I’m not going to get caught up in the middle of a ground war. Especially not if I want to stay on Tyrell’s good side. If he starts making noise about turning Hamilton into a dry county that doesn’t sell alcohol at all, my business goes straight to hell.” Charlie pushed up from the stool and handed back her folder. “You seem like a nice girl. Always have. But I can’t risk my business. I’m retiring this year, and Tyson’s taking over. What kind of father would I be if I left my son in charge of a business destined to fail?”
She accepted the folder and held it tight to her chest, surprised it didn’t bounce in time with the hammering of her heart. “What if I can get Tyrell to agree to a truce?”
The big man’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed. Pity shone from his deep brown eyes as he regarded her. He opened and shut his mouth three times before getting out any words. “I’m a damn fool for even thinking about it.” He rubbed his hand across his jaw. “But if you can work things out with Tyrell—and that’s a big if—then I might give you a shot. It’s all I can promise.”
It took everything she had not to wrap her arms around the giant of a man and squeal. Instead she held out her hand. “I’ll take it.”
They shook hands before Miranda marched out of the honky-tonk without a plan but with a renewed sense of determination. She had a chance, and as long as she had a chance, she wasn’t going to stop fighting.
Miranda sped up the thirteen steps—one for each original colony—leading to the Hamilton County Courthouse’s wood and glass front door. Walking through the doors of the designated state historical site was like stepping back in time.
Iron heat registers lined the walls puffing out anemic bursts of heat that did little to alleviate the October chill from the air. Most of the heat went straight up to the vaulted ceilings, decorated with a fresco of the county’s founding fathers—even Matthew Sweet made an appearance. Now that had to just chap the old guard’s hides, but it put an extra spring in Miranda’s step as the click of her heels on the stone floor echoed across the lobby.
The scent of old paper hung heavy in the air, because the county council had yet to convert the plethora of historical land and tax documents into digital form. Now that smell made her feel almost as at home as Ruby Sue’s sweet tea.
Miranda and her sisters had been dragged to the courthouse on a monthly basis by the parents who were protesting a fine or a cease and desist letter from the county. Mrs. Macrina, one of the county executive’s secretaries, had always snuck a few cookies out to the girls while they waited for hours on the hard wooden bench in the hallway.
She paused at the stairs to fix the drooping ankle strap on her black heels. A man’s gruff order to wait here filtered up from below. The sheriff’s office was in the basement, and that’s where they’d gone as teenagers to bail their parents out after their mom had lit a bag of dog poop on fire on the courthouse steps in retaliation for having to pay to get the family’s ten dogs licensed at fifteen dollars a mutt. That incident had made the front page of the local paper and into the news briefs section of the large metro papers in Richmond and Washington, D.C.
Not surprisingly, her prom date had backed out after that. She’d spent the evening studying for her college entrance exams and counting down the days until she could leave Salvation
for good.
Shoe fixed, Miranda marched to the opaque glass door at the end of the lobby with the words “County Council” painted on it in gold foil.
She’d worked out her plan on the drive over. First, she’d outline the economic impact of people losing their jobs to the county executive, the mayor, and any council members in the office. Next, she’d explain the financial implications of fewer tax dollars going into the county’s coffers. Finally, she’d open up negotiations on building a road to the industrial park through the Sweet Salvation Brewery land. The whole thing was fair and completely reasonable.
Too bad Tyrell was not.