“What?” Harrison asked, genuinely interested in the answer. It seemed wise to be prepared for whatever she had planned next. Never go in unprepared. That was good advice for battling wildfires and petite, beguiling women.

“Tablecloths.” His dad set his jaw and stared mulishly at him. “Fresh flowers. Piles of fruit arranged on a bowl on the table, but woe to the man who actually picks one up and eats it.”

Meg fell into laughter. “If that’s your idea of a plague, Wallace, I’m beginning to realize why you’re such a miserable bastard all the time.”

Harrison could have easily enlightened Meg as to the true source of his dad’s misery. He’d never been a happy man—not the kind who laughed and played and enjoyed long walks on the beach—but Harrison could remember a time when he hadn’t been quite so hard.

Once upon a time, their house had been a home—well cared for and full of light, the sort of place most people only dreamed of growing up in. But that light had gone out the day his mother left. Even though Harrison had tried to get that flicker going again, his father quashed any and all attempts at illumination.

Better not to see the cracks. Better not to know what lurks in the corners.

“When I see an apple, I’m going to eat an apple,” his dad said. “And no one—not God and certainly not your dog trainer—is going to tell me otherwise.”

“I’m sure Sophie won’t start putting fruit out,” Harrison said, though he couldn’t be at all sure. That woman made him do things. She made him feel things. “Besides, I thought you liked her. You promised to send her a Christmas card and everything.”

“That was before she brought candles into my house,” his dad muttered.

Meg laughed again. “She doesn’t sound so bad, if you ask me.”

“Good thing no one asked you, then.”

Meg could have easily taken offense at his dad’s harsh words, but she was far too used to him to bother. Instead, she shrugged and took herself off to tend to customers at the window leading to the bowling alley side of the bar.

“I meant what I said about the tablecloths, Harrison,” his dad warned. “It always starts with tablecloths.”

Harrison pictured their kitchen table, the rough-hewn planks and serviceable build, and nodded his understanding. That table had been there for a decade, built by his dad’s own two hands. It might have been ugly, but it was functional. To cover it with something soft and floral would only make a mockery of it.

You can’t hide a table’s true nature.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored wall behind the bar, his expression grim and so much like his father’s it was uncanny. He might be younger and not quite so hard, but there was no denying they were cast from the same rough mold.

It was only a matter of time before he was just as old and miserable as his dad.