Avery smiled. “You’re welcome. Now, what can I get you? Are you hungry? I’ve got great sandwich fixings. Black forest ham, honeyed turkey breast—”
“Roast beef sounds good. Roast beef and cheddar.”
“Roast beef and cheddar it is.”
“Don’t forget the scotch and soda.”
Avery pursed her lips. “I’m afraid I’m fresh out of scotch.” In fact, she didn’t have any liquor in the café at all. Then she thought of the two beers left from Trace’s six-pack. “Could I interest you in a beer?”
“Out of scotch?” He gave Avery a sour look. “Your daddy’s really letting this place go to hell.”
Avery fought a grin. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”
“Fine, a beer then.”
She spun toward the kitchen, pulled out one of Trace’s IPAs, pried open the top, and grabbed the first aid kit from the pantry before returning to the table. “Here you go. You sip on this while I look at your feet.”
She knelt, gently lifted his foot, and found it chewed up from walking over a mile along a dark country road to get here. Trace was going to be beside himself.
“Hey,” he said with surprise in his voice, “this is good. I don’t usually like beer, but this ain’t bad.”
“You remember Ethan Hayes?”
“Harlan’s grandson. Sure.”
For not knowing current time and place very well, his memory for the past sure was sharp. “Ethan and Harlan brew this beer.”
“Heh,” he chuckled. “The old man loves sharing his hobby with that boy.”
Avery wet cotton balls with hydrogen peroxide and cleaned the bottom of one foot, doing her best the get the embedded gravel out. Since George didn’t complain, she kept working.
“Wish I could be half the father to Trace and Zane as Harlan is to that grandson of his.”
The sadness in his voice tugged at Avery’s heart. “I’m sure you’re a great father. I know Trace loves you.”
He smiled, his gaze distant. “That boy is my pride and joy. Zane’s a good boy down deep, but he’s a wild one. Trace . . . man, that kid’s got heart. Real heart, you know? That’s something you can’t teach. A kid’s either got it or he doesn’t. Trace’s got it in spades.”
Mr. Hutton drank more beer, and Avery started on the other foot, letting the silence linger. Her thoughts turned to Trace. She agreed with George, Trace did have a lot of heart. And a lot of compassion. And kindness. All of which she loved about him.
“Where is everyone?” Mr. Hutton asked, looking around again. “Can’t play poker with two.”
She pulled out her phone. “I’ll call Trace to see when he’ll be back. Maybe he can bring enough friends for a game.”
Or tell her what to say to his father to placate him until Trace returned.
“Ha. Trace don’t play cards,” George said. “Trace don’t gamble. Trace don’t do nothin’ wrong.”
Avery listened to Trace’s rich voice on his message, and yearning pulled in her chest. She ached to apologize for what she’d said earlier. “Hey, it’s me. Your dad showed up at the café. Don’t worry—aside from cut-up feet, he’s fine. I’m bandaging him up and getting him something to eat; then I’ll bring him home and wait there with him.” She hesitated. “I’d really like to talk later. I didn’t mean to insult you with what I said about JT today. I don’t see you that way, I just . . .” She sighed. “Well, maybe we can talk about it later.”
Mr. Hutton didn’t even seem to know Avery made the call. He was still talking about Trace. “Trace don’t smoke. Trace don’t drink. Trace don’t touch drugs.”
Avery frowned up at Mr. Hutton, confused. “You mean Zane?”
“No. Zane’s got mischief in his blood. Always in trouble. If his mama and I had Zane first, we’d never have had Trace. But Trace.” He shook his head. “The perfect kid. A natural athlete, comes home with straight As, always happy.” He grew serious and sad. “Boy could have really made something of himself.”
Avery added antibiotic ointment to George’s feet and wrapped them with gauze. “He has made something of himself,” she said, trying to clarify which son he was talking about. “He’s a police officer. I’d say that’s pretty great.”
“No, that’s Zane, and ironic as hell. But he says troublemakers make the best cops because they think like criminals.”