Page 41 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
We’ve barely begun, so my mind goes blank with the possibilities. “I don’t know,” I say. “Any requests?”
“The Holiday,maybe?” she says. “I remember liking that, I think. Or maybe I just remember Jude Law looking hot in glasses. Who knows?”
“We’ll add it to the list,” I say. “Whatever we pick, though, let’s watch at your house. I have a surprise for you guys.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“My brother and I went to the hardware store the other day.”
She laughs.
“What?”
“I’m imagining you in a hardware store,” she says. “It’s inherently funny, like when people take pictures of their dog pretending to drive.”
“Laugh if you must, but I found something I think’ll help you with your mouse problem.”
“Yeah?” She looks up at me, shivers a little. “No death, though, right?”
I think of Cal’s ominous speech outside Mick’s but decide to keep all that to myself. “Yeah,” I say. “No death.”
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
“So, yay or nay on this new Union Craft IPA?” asks Zoe, the manager at Edgar Allan’s.
I think of Henry’s disgusted face in my parents’ backyard. “Nay. Tell them I love them, but this one’s just not doing it for me.”
“Check,” says Zoe. “Also, I agree. My philosophy: Beer shouldn’t hurt.”
We’re behind the bar working through her list of items to run by me. It’s lunchtime on a Friday, so the crowd is brisk. I pour some Miller Lites for two guys wearing suits, and I’m wondering if I should be making business decisions based on Henry’s opinions. I nearly texted him yesterday to see how his groin was doing, but I stopped myself because I’m a dignified, grown-ass woman. And now I think Zoe is talking about…chicken wings?
“Sorry, what?” I ask.
She looks up from her Rolling Stones planner. “Old Bay wings. Wanna move them off specials and make them permanent? We’ll have a riot if we get rid of them.”
“Done,” I say. “Give the people what they want.”
Zoe asks about scheduling our HVAC service and when we should have the health inspector come by. I approve increasing our stock ofEdgar Allan’s “Nevermore Drunk” merch. That tagline has always felt too frat boyish to me, but our T-shirts, bumper stickers, and koozies keep flying off the shelves. Again, give the people what they want.
Zoe could make these decisions in her sleep, but she likes to keep me involved, which I appreciate.
As she jots down notes, I notice a small black raven silhouette tattooed on her wrist. It’s woven into the Baltimore-themed sleeve that runs up her right arm.
“Is that new?” I ask.
“Yeah. What do you think?”
“I love it,” I say.
“Good, because it hurt like a motherfucker.”
“Worth it,” says one of the Miller Lite guys.
“Thanks, sweetie,” Zoe tells him. “I like your tie. Try to keep it out of your ketchup.”
Zoe brings in as many customers as the Poe statue. She’s hot and tough, but she knows exactly when to downshift to cute and docile. She’s about ten years younger than I am, but we have a lot in common. She came up as a bartender, too, but kept getting more and more responsibility because of how good she is. She was my right hand before Tim died. She’s more than that now—a hand and a half, at least.
“How do you like the décor, by the way?” she asks.
