Chapter 2

Brad’s car wasn’t there yet, so Aspen and I continued into Brewski’s and snaked around tables in the dim lighting. The lighting varied depending on the barkeep running the place for the day. The servers don’t have a say in the matter. I knew this because on one occasion—the only one before this evening—when I came in from the bright late afternoon sunshine, my eyes hadn’t had time to adjust to the dim lighting, and I nearly tumbled over a table. All that got hurt was my pride and my wallet; my pride because I’d had to explain that I hadn’t been drinking before I came in; my wallet because I’d replaced the table of drinks I’d spilled. I’d asked the server about it, and she’d said they don’t have a say in the lighting issue, that it’s up to the bartender—the bartendress in this case—since the person behind the long bar was a woman. I’d been here with Brad that time as well because there was a Minnesota Twins baseball game on TV he’d wanted to see. 

After ordering a Diet Pepsi, I sat at a table in a corner and near the door so I could spot Brad when he came in. Aspen hunkered down beside my chair, half under the table, and laid his nose on his crossed front paws. My phone chimed with an incoming text.

Brad: —Running late. Be there as fast as I can.—

No surprise. I couldn’t remember a time he was ever early and few that he was on time. It had become the norm. As an attorney, he often got derailed by a client or by needing to complete and file a document by a deadline. So he said, anyway. I had no reason to doubt him. He stayed connected to his phone for business, but he didn’t carry that over into the rest of his life, which is why it surprised me when he texted this evening.

The breakup wouldn’t disrupt my life very much. Nor his. His job kept him so busy that he was rarely at his own apartment, much less able to visit me. And I was too busy getting established at the inn and didn’t want to take time away from it yet. I’d already suffered the loss of him as my best friend, so there wasn’t even that anymore. This was simply a formal letting go, so we could both move on.

I focused on a football game on the big screen TV, not paying much attention. I was a die-hard Minnesota Vikings fan. The game held little interest if they weren’t the team playing.

Finally, I glanced around the pub and then at my watch; Brad was forty-five minutes late, later than usual. I wanted to get this done and over with. The waiting just gave me anxiety. And for an alcoholic, anxiety while alone in a bar could lead to disaster and embarrassment from unintended consequences, no matter how much time was under one’s belt. Which reminded me it was high time I began looking for a new sponsor since moving here. Asking someone to be your sponsor was akin to asking someone out on a date. Terrifying yet rewarding if you get the “yes.” I rolled my eyes and finished my Diet Pepsi, preparing to leave. If Brad got hung up, it could be another hour. I’d rather wait at the inn, and he could meet me there.

I pushed my chair back, and Aspen roused to a sitting position. When the door opened, I expected to see Brad. Ivan surprised me instead.

“Ugh,” I muttered. I looked down and took a deep breath. To address him or pretend I didn’t see him—quite the dilemma. It was a choice I didn’t have to make after all since he marched toward my table, a snide grin on his face. 

“Alone?” he asked. “Or stood up by someone?”

“What do you want, Ivan?” I said, meeting his eyes. “Because I’m not in the mood for your—” 

“I’m meeting Roman,” he said and looked around the bar, then back at me. “Appears he’s not here yet.” He craned his neck, looked around the corner of the bar, and then nodded with a wave of recognition. “I guess he is.” 

Roman had been to the coffee shop at the inn a time or two with his dad. He was a barista at Hallowed Grounds Coffee Shop on the edge of town. A self-proclaimed coffee junkie, I’d been there too many times to count, and Roman had been my barista numerous times. He seemed like a good kid, though quiet. But with a dad as a church deacon, I would expect nothing less. 

“He’s twenty-one,” Ivan said, as if reading my mind. “Looks young for his age.” He made to leave.

“Do you have time to chat for a minute first?” I stood so I was at his level, a trick I’d learned in my life coach training and leadership courses. At five-foot-eight, I was nearly the same height as him. “I’d like to figure out how we can move forward and get along. We work at the same place—of which I’m the owner.”

He nodded and stuffed his fists inside the pockets of his jacket. “You’ve reminded me of that too many times for me to forget.”

“So what’s the problem? It can’t be something so little as the dog biscuit issue.” The Spirit Lake Inn had been baking specialty dog biscuits for the past several years and sold them to the public. When I’d taken ownership, Ivan saw it as a chance to do away with them, claiming my grandparents hadn’t hired him to bake for dogs and that he was a professional chef.

He stood a little taller and squared his shoulders. “This thing you call a little issue is demeaning to my profession.” He took a hand from his pocket and pointed to Aspen. “Dogs don’t belong in food establishments. And I didn’t go to school to learn how to bake for them.” He spat the word and made a face as if he had burped something up. 

I took a step back, Aspen stood, and I laid my hand against his neck. “Which is why I told you I’m happy to do it, Ivan. I love baking.”

“I know that because you use my kitchen. My kitchen. I’ve been the chef there for seventeen years. I’ve asked you not to use it, but you disrespect me and use it anyway.” 

His tone grew louder, and the patrons next to us turned their attention to our way. I smiled an apology, and the man nodded his understanding before he continued to open a bottle of wine. No cheap wine there. Apparently, they were celebrating and not breaking up. Ivan held up a finger to Roman, indicating he’d be there in a minute.

I took a second to gather my wits. “Ivan, I’m not disrespecting you. When I use the kitchen, if I use the last of something, I replace it. And I clean up after myself, so you’d never even know had you not seen me that once.”

“A chef always knows when someone else has been in his kitchen. That is my territory, and you have no business being in my territory.” 

Apparently, we were dogs now and marking our territory. Aspen sat on my feet as if telling me to stay calm.

“Well, I’m sorry we can’t agree to disagree with this. I own the inn, and I will use the kitchen. If you can’t accept that, maybe it’s time to look for work someplace else.” I looked at the table next to us as the man finished opening the wine bottle and discreetly slid his knife toward the opposite side of the table, as if one of us would use it as a weapon. 

“Are you firing me?” His tone was low yet threatening, and he cracked his knuckles on one hand, then the other. “I don’t think you want to do that. I was there long before you owned the place. And the inn will never survive without me.”

“My grandparents made it as successful as it is, Ivan. Not you. You are one of a team of people who makes the inn run as well as it does. One of a team.”

He turned his head to the side and then looked at me with eyes that turned my blood cold. “I will sabotage your business if you get rid of me. I’ll go somewhere else in Spirit Lake, and the inn will have no business at all.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” I mumbled. And after this altercation, I knew Ivan staying at the inn wasn’t an option. He had to go. The sous-chef, Tony Valentino, had skills near that of Ivan and was much easier for everyone to get along with. I took a breath. “Ivan, it’s clear you’re not happy with me at the inn. Go someplace that makes you happy, Spirit Lake or not. Life is too short. But please leave me the recipe for the dog biscuits.” At the mention of the word biscuits, Aspen’s ears perked up, and he gave me a hopeful glance. 

“I will not leave the inn or the dog biscuit recipe. The only way that’ll happen is over my dead body,” he said, jamming his fists in his pockets again. Aspen made a low, guttural sound. He didn’t appreciate Ivan’s refusal to cooperate any more than I did. I took another step back and nearly tripped over Brad’s foot. I’d been so focused on Ivan that I hadn’t even noticed he had arrived.