But I never missed a month.
When I wasn’t working, I spent time at Augie’s.
Dot kept the building secure.
I helped restore what I could safely and legally maintain.
I repaired the ice machine.
Serviced refrigeration equipment.
Replaced worn appliance components.
And coordinated licensed contractors for work that required permits or specialized trades.
We inspected the building carefully.
Some repairs could wait.
Others couldn’t.
There were plumbing issues.
Old wiring.
A ventilation system that needed attention.
And moisture damage near the rear storage area.
I learned more about owning commercial property than I’d ever expected.
Dot kept records.
So did I.
Every invoice.
Every inspection.
Every improvement.
I knew the bank would eventually want to see a realistic operating plan.
And I wanted to understand exactly what I was buying.
Sometimes Dot brought coffee while I worked.
She’d sit on one of the old stools and tell stories about Grandpa.
How he’d remember customers’ favorite songs.
How he’d offer free coffee to anyone coming from a memorial service.
How he’d quietly arrange rides for regulars who needed help getting home.
He’d worked hard.
But Dot said the thing people remembered most was that he made them feel welcome.
One evening, I asked what Grandpa thought of my father.
Dot considered the question.
Then smiled sadly.
“He loved Dale.”
I nodded.
She continued.
“But your grandpa used to say your dad was quicker to replace something than understand why it stopped working.”
I looked toward the jukebox beneath its blanket.
Dot followed my gaze.
Then said, “Augie always believed somebody in the family would figure out how to fix that machine properly.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
Then she smiled.
“Looks like he was right.”
Meanwhile, my family continued living their lives.
Mom called occasionally.
She asked whether I was still upset about the jukebox.
I told her it was somewhere safe.
She sounded relieved.
I didn’t explain where.
I wasn’t ready.
Dad sent a brief message one Father’s Day.
“You still upset over that old machine?”
I read it.
Then put my phone away.
I didn’t know how to answer without reopening everything.
Kaylee remained busy with real estate.
She posted photographs of beautifully staged homes.
Announced new listings.
Celebrated sales.
Occasionally, she mentioned that she and Dad were working on a special family project.
I knew what she meant.
Augie’s.
Dot showed me the letters Kaylee sent.
Each offer arrived with more confidence.
Sometimes Kaylee described Dad’s plans in detail.
A modern lounge.
Updated furniture.
New lighting.
A small stage in the back room.
And a streaming music system to replace the old jukebox.
One afternoon, Kaylee visited the building while I was working in the rear storage area.
I heard her voice near the front.
“Dot, this place has so much potential.”
I stayed quiet.
Not because I was hiding to create a confrontation later.
I simply didn’t want to discuss my plans with someone who had never asked what I wanted.
Kaylee walked through the room describing the improvements she imagined.
She wanted to remove the old reception-room partitions.
Use the space for events.
And create a modern entertainment area.
Dot listened politely.
Then asked what she’d do about music.
Kaylee laughed.
“Bluetooth speakers. Nobody uses old jukeboxes anymore.”
I looked toward the moving blanket covering the machine only a few feet away.
For a moment, I felt sad.
Then Kaylee added.
“My brother likes that old stuff. He fixes machines for a living.”
Dot smiled.
“Does he?”
Kaylee nodded.
“That’s his whole thing.”
She said it casually.
As though what I did were an amusing little hobby rather than a career.
After she left, Dot came into the back room carrying a fruit basket Kaylee had brought.
She held out a pear.
“Want one?”
I laughed.
“Sure.”
We ate pears beside Grandpa’s jukebox.
Neither of us mentioned the conversation again.
The second year was the hardest.
I was exhausted.
My hands ached.
The work never seemed to end.
Sometimes I stood inside Augie’s late at night, listening to the old refrigeration equipment cycle on and off, wondering whether I was being foolish.
I’d spent so much time and money on a place that wasn’t yet mine.
What if the business failed?
What if I couldn’t secure the loan?
What if I reopened the bar and nobody came?
Dot never pretended those concerns were unreasonable.
She helped me examine them.
We reviewed operating costs.
Insurance.
Licensing.
Staffing.
Food-service requirements.
Potential revenue.
And what the property might be worth if the business didn’t succeed.
I developed a conservative plan.
I wasn’t going to reopen Augie’s as a large nightclub.
I wanted a neighborhood tavern and casual gathering place.
A restored bar.
Simple food.
Live local music on selected evenings.
A few nonalcoholic specialties.
And a room where people could sit comfortably, talk, and listen to old records.
I wanted the building to feel like itself.
Not frozen in the past.
Not turned into a museum.
Just cared for.
The kind of place Grandpa would recognize if he walked through the green door.
By the beginning of the third spring, I had saved a little more than forty-one thousand dollars.
Dot and I agreed on a purchase price of one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.
It was below the higher offer Dad had been discussing through Kaylee.
But it reflected Dot’s own decision, the property’s condition, and the terms we’d negotiated in advance.
She knew what the building needed.
She also knew how much time I’d already invested in understanding those needs.
The credit union approved financing after reviewing my income, savings, credit history, purchase agreement, property appraisal, and renovation budget.
I contributed forty thousand dollars toward the purchase.
The remaining amount was financed through the approved loan.
Closing costs and repairs were accounted for separately.
The transaction took several weeks to complete.
There were title searches.
Insurance documents.
Property inspections.
Loan disclosures.
Signatures.
Then, one Tuesday in April, I sat across from the closing attorney and signed the final documents.
When everything was complete, I received confirmation that the deed had been recorded.
Hollis August Mercer.
Property owner.
I stared at my name.
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
Then Dot reached across the table.
“Congratulations.”
I looked up.
She smiled.
“Augie would be proud.”
My eyes filled.
I shook her hand.
Then laughed softly.
“I think he’d ask whether I checked the plumbing first.”
Dot began laughing.
“He absolutely would.”
We left the closing office together.
Outside, the afternoon was bright and windy.
I stood beside my van holding the folder.
For three years, I’d been saving, working, planning, and repairing.
Now the building belonged to me.
Not because Dad gave it to me.
Not because Kaylee approved.
Not because anyone decided I deserved a turn.
Because I’d earned the money, secured the financing, and completed a lawful purchase from the person who owned it.
That evening, I returned to Augie’s.
I opened the green door.
The brass bell above it rang softly.
For a moment, I stood in the empty room.
Then I walked toward the jukebox.