Page 7 of Honeyed
“First of all, that sounds weird.” He grimaces. “Second, no. You know his answer. Liam is iffy about it too.”
“But Patrick ran the numbers and they don’t lie. We could afford a second Newton Street building. None of you would have to lift a finger.”
My idea for another storefront bloomed about six months ago when I took a trip to Savannah and saw the cutest local market. The feeling I got when I stepped foot inside was something I wanted to emulate, and I don’t often feel strongly in terms of business when it’s outside marketing and content. Something in my gut rang out, and I knew I needed to follow it.
Six months of conversations with my parents and siblings, scouting locations on Hope Crest’s main drag, drawing up a business plan, and researching local goods and vendors’ products to buy for said market, and I was still no closer.
Because of my stubborn father.
He said no at every turn, and unless I had full approval from everyone, I wasn’t going to get the money to spin our family business into a second location.
Not that I wanted it to be a restaurant or eatery; the market I envisioned would sell art and jewelry from local creators, furniture made in the area, our retail products like sauce and pastries, and more. It would be a celebration of our hometown and those nearby, and everyone who came from far and wide to visit Hope Pizza could take a little bit of our Pennsylvania sanctuary home with them.
“I don’t know, Al. Dad really seems dead set against it, and I already got in a fight with him about—”
“Who are you fighting with?”
Speak of the devil; my father appears behind Evan in the doorway of my office.
“You.” Evan chuckles. “Alana wants me to sway you into opening the market, but I’m already fighting you on adding the veal dish I created to the menu, so I said no.”
“Way to throw me under the bus, you little twerp.” I flick him a middle finger.
“Hey,” my father scolds me for the lewd gesture. “Both of you are such pains in my …” He trails off, because I know the man hates swearing at his children.
“We’ve talked about this, Alana.” Dad chooses to focus on our fight instead of menu squabbles with Evan, and my youngest brother darts around the corner like a coward. “For generations, our family has only ever had this restaurant. We’ve preserved, worked hard, haven’t expanded past our means, and we’ve been successful because of it. And now you want to live out some cockamamie idea because of what? Social media? Ridiculous.”
Dad blows me off like I’m some idiot instead of the woman responsible for half the product and merchandise money coming into the business. Yes, a local goods market would make amazing content for social media. There were small-town boutiques on the Internet raking in six and seven figures by selling products you couldn’t purchase anywhere else. But this wasn’t just so I could put my marketing muscles to work.
For the first time in my life, I want something just for myself. I want some separation, some autonomy. To take a breath from family life and having to see Warren every hour of the day. To do something just for me.
“It’s not ridiculous, and I don’t appreciate you speaking to me in a way you’d never speak to your sons.” My voice holds all the anger I won’t let fly.
“Alana, I treat you no differently,” Dad claims, but it doesn’t feel like it right now.
“Just go argue with Evan in the kitchen. I have work to do.” My molars grind together.
It’s too early, and I’m too raw from the funeral to get into this whole thing with him right now. I need time to formulate another plan of attack because talking clearly is getting us nowhere.
Dad gives me a sidelong glance, and I think I see a flicker of guilt in his eyes, but then he’s turning around. His big burly voice coming from the kitchen is as second nature to me as my own inner thoughts.
Blowing out a frustrated sigh because of both conversations that just transpired, I stare at the watercolor of the London skyline I bought when I visited two years ago. It hangs on the wall opposite my desk, and my office is the only one that’s decorated in the small hallway at the back of the restaurant. Patrick and Warren never bothered to personalize theirs, although I think Patrick has his wedding photo on his desk now.
Normally, I love being in my hometown, in my domain, but just for today, I wish I were somewhere else. Somewhere that doesn’t involve assisting my brother, fighting with my father, or trying to forget feelings for a man I’ve been in love with since I understood the emotion was different with a person that wasn’t a family member.
Right now, though, what I wish for most of all is for a whole pile of money to plop down in my lap so I can prove the naysayers wrong.
4
WARREN
Walking into my tiny office that’s located at the end of the hall from Patrick and Alana, I find August asleep in my desk chair.
Something in my chest gives way, and I nearly lose it. This week has been a battle, to say the least, and seeing this girl who doesn’t feel safe enough to sleep soundly at home is just the straw breaking the camel’s back.
Since Arthur’s funeral days ago, I’ve warred with every idea in my brain. Getting married to Alana is the best and worst option I’ve ever been presented with. On the one hand, it forces me past a line I’d never cross. On another, it could lose me the family who took me in when I felt alone.
Refusing the terms and not taking any of what he’d promised me is also an option.