“No.” Hannah shook her head. “No, of course it’s not. Just a lot to take in.”
Piper tried a different tack. “At the very least, this could be a way to convince Daniel we’re responsible and proactive citizens of the world. We could make over the bar, show him how dazzlingly capable we are, and get an early trip home to Los Angeles.”
Hannah raised an eyebrow.
“That’s not a bad idea. Not bad at all.” With a blown-out breath, her younger sister hopped off the stool, wiping her hands on the seat of her jeans. “I mean, we’d need a DJ booth, obviously.”
“Over there in the corner by the window?” Piper pointed. “I like it. People walking by would see MC Hannah spinning and trip over themselves to get inside.”
The sisters had their backs to each other as they completed a revolution around the bar. “This place isn’t big enough for a dance floor, but we could build a shelf along the wall for people to set their drinks. It could be standing room only.”
“Ooh. That’s totally an option for a new name. Standing Room Only.”
“Love.” Hannah pursed her lips. “We’d have to do a lot of cleaning.”
They shared a groan.
“Do you think we could fix these chairs?” Piper asked, running her finger along the back of a lopsided seat. “Maybe polish the bar?”
Hannah snorted. “I mean, what the fuck else are we doing?”
“God, you’re right. Can you believe it has only been five days?” Piper dug a knuckle into the corner of her eye. “What is the worst that can happen? We do a ton of work, spend all of our money, Daniel isn’t impressed and forces us to finish out our sentence, which should really just be my sentence?”
“Don’t split hairs. And the best that can happen is we go home early.”
They traded a thoughtful yet noncommittal shrug.
In that moment, the final shard of sunset peeked in through the grimy window, illuminating the mirror behind the plywood. There was a white corner of something on the other side, and without thinking, Piper moved in that direction, stepping over empty bottles to scoot behind the bar and pinch the white protrusion between her fingers. She gave it a tug and out came a photograph. In it, two people she didn’t recognize appeared to be singing in this very establishment, though a much cleaner version, their hair proclaiming them children of the eighties.
“Oh. A picture.” Hannah craned her neck to get a better look at the area behind the plywood. “You think there’s more?”
“We could pull this board down, but we’re either going to end up with splinters or a herd of spiders is going to ride out on the backs of mice, holding pitchforks.”
Hannah sighed. “After cleaning that upstairs toilet, I’m pretty desensitized to anything unpleasant. Let’s do it.”
Piper whimpered as she took hold of the plywood, Hannah’s grip tightening alongside hers. “Okay. One, two, three!”
They threw the wood board on the ground and leapt back, waiting for the repercussions, but none came. Instead, they were left staring at a mirror covered in old pictures. They traded a frown and stepped closer at the same time, each of them peeling down a photograph and studying it. “This guy looks familiar . . .” Piper said quietly. “He’s way younger in this shot, but I think he’s the one who was in here Sunday night. He said he remembered Mom.”
Hannah leaned over and looked. “Oh my gosh, that’s totally him.” Her laugh was disbelieving. “Damn, Gramps. He could get it back then.”
Piper chuckled. “Recognize anyone in yours?”
“No.” Hannah took down another. “Wait. Pipes.”
She was busy scanning the faces looking back at her from the past, so she didn’t immediately hear the hushed urgency in Hannah’s tone. But when the silence stretched, she looked over to find Hannah’s face pale, fingers shaking as she studied the photo. “What is it?” Piper asked, sidling up next to her sister. “Oh.”
Her hand flew to her suddenly pumping heart.
Whereas the brass statue of Henry had been impersonal and the fishing license had been grainy, an unsmiling man making a standard pose, this photo had life in it. Henry was laughing, a white towel thrown over one shoulder, a mustache shadowing his upper lip. His eyes . . . they leapt right off the glossy photograph’s surface, sparkling. So much like their own.
“That’s our dad.”
“Piper, he looks just like us.”
“Yeah . . .” She was having trouble catching her breath. She took Hannah’s hand, and they turned it over together. The handwriting was faded, but it was easy to make out the words, Henry Cross. And the year, 1991.
Neither of them said anything for long moments.
And maybe Piper was just overwhelmed by the physical proof that their birth father had really existed, a picture discovered while standing in his bar, but she suddenly felt . . . as if fate had placed her in that very spot. Their life before Los Angeles had always been a fragmented, vague thing. But it felt real now. Something to explore. Something that maybe had even been missing, without her knowing enough to acknowledge it.