Free 3 A Brewski for the Old Man by Phyllis Smallman Page A

that solve? She was cutting herself at home.”
    “I don’t believe it.”
    “But it’s true. We’ve got to get help for her.” Her face pulled into worried lines. “My insurance won’t cover this and I can’t afford it.”
    “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for now.” Good going girl, let’s just hope psychiatrists take store coupons. “The most important thing is that we get her some help.” “How could she do this to me?”
    So stunning, it took my breath away. Maybe she didn’t mean to be that selfish. Maybe like most of us she was just at the end of her rope and was coping with all she could handle before this.
    I wanted to tell her about what Ray John was doing to her child. It was a great big lump in my throat, waiting to vomit out, but I’d promised Lacey, promised that I’d never tell her secret unless she gave me permission. I couldn’t violate that. Well, not yet anyway.
    “You try and find her some help and I’ll keep a real close eye on her,” I vowed.
    It turned out to be one of many promises I couldn’t keep in my life. But I started out with really good intentions.
    Skip Nayato, the bartender already down from Vermont for the season, was working in the stockroom, setting up the bar for the day and ordering new stock. The resort in the North where he worked in the summer had closed after Labor Day and, like lots of people in the service industry, he had made his way south. That’s how it is; lots of maids, gardeners and wait staff work the summers up in New England and Upper New York State and then come to Florida for the winter. It was early in the season to take on wait staff. I really didn’t need any more bodies until November when the first snowbirds would trickle in, but Skip and I had worked together before and I knew he was too good to pass up.
    Hurricane Myrna had not only wreaked havoc on the landscape the winter before, it had kept the tourists away. People saw the pictures of the destruction on television and didn’t realize Jacaranda was open for business. Many businesses that survived the hurricane failed in the tourist season that followed, including the place where Skip had worked. I was sure hoping the tourists would forget about hurricanes and come back in droves for the winter to save my ass.
    Given the situation with Lacey, I was glad that I’d taken Skip on so early. I asked him to work extra hours and cover for me. Hee Haw, bring on the debt.
    I checked the receipts from the night before. Not bad. I was mildly optimistic about my ability to stay afloat, and then I got on the phone and called Cordelia Grant, my friend who was a grief counselor. She’d know what to do for Lacey.
    “She needs a child psychiatrist but I have to tell you there is a real shortage of them in this area. It may take months to get an appointment.”
    “I don’t know why I say this, but I don’t think she’s got months. Lacey needs help now.”
    “Then call the family doctor. He may be able to treat her with antidepressants until she can get real help. You’ll need to talk to him anyway, so that’s a good place to start.”
    I called Rena. The phone rang in the store but no one answered.
    There was nothing more to be done for Lacey; it was time to look after my own business. At the Stop and Shop, I went inside to pay for the gas. The clerk asked, “Will there be anything else?”
    A six pack of Coors landed on the counter beside my hand. “And a brewski for the old man,” a baritone voice said behind me.

C H A P T E R 1 4
    I turned around to face my father, Tully Jenkins.
    “And a brewski for the old man,” I told the clerk.
    “How you doin’, Sherri?”
    “Not bad.”
    My cautious reply didn’t change his grin. “You?” I asked just to be polite.
    He gave me a ragged charming smile, “What can I say? I’m old, ugly and mean, but still able to get out of bed come morning.”
    He looked better than his assessment. Tully has every bad habit a man can have, some of which he’s