"That's positive," he muttered.
Barry painted himself as a hometown guy, someone who grew up a handful of miles down the coast and cared about seeing this region thrive. These days, he lived in Boston and developed commercial real estate. He talked a big game about investing in Maine-based passion projects intended to grow the local economy, but a solid year after our first meeting and his verbal commitment to this distillery, he hadn't written a single check.
Each time we met, he insisted he needed one more thing before pulling the trigger. More detailed financial projections, preliminary approval from the town council for a liquor license, a site walk-through. It made sense—I was asking for tens of millions of dollars to make this happen—but I was growing tired of the hurry up and wait routine. I couldn't determine whether Barry was a flaky guy or not fully committed. His interest seemed to shift with the lunar cycle and that didn't fill me with much confidence.
"Tasting room," he announced, drawing invisible lines along the west side of the space. "We'd put the tasting room here. Keep it intimate, a little dark. Like a speakeasy. We want a space that evokes that air of secrecy and sin, you know?" He turned toward the ocean, facing east. "Save the sunlight for the restaurant. We can add twenty percent to the price of everything on the menu when we're garnishing with ocean views like these." He pivoted, holding his arms open to the wide space. "And the rest of it, well, that's where you show off racks of distilling barrels. Make the work of a distillery part of its art."
Whether flaky or not fully committed, when Barry was on, he was all the way on. His instincts were solid, and ideas—an on-site display garden to emphasize the locally grown ingredients—strengthened my plans.
"Love it," I agreed. "Let's walk the perimeter." I gestured to the wide doors on the opposite end of the space. "Back when this was a functioning cider house, this is where the wagons came in from the orchards. As you can see, it would make for the perfect patio area. Big enough to host large events like weddings and live music. With the right setup, it could house summertime farmers markets, food truck nights, and festivals. Bring in some potted trees and bushes and it's small enough for cocktail parties or bridal showers."
Barry glanced around, nodding. "The ocean view is worth the price of construction."
I was counting on it. This whole thing was a gamble of unbelievable proportions and every time our meetings ended without an exchange of funds, the stakes increased.
"Why not cider?" he asked.
I frowned at him as we rounded the building. "I'm not sure I follow you."
"This is a cider house." He shook his hands at the structure, as if his point was obvious. I knew where he was going with this, but I wasn't copping to that. He proposed crafting something different every time we met. "We should make cider. The hard cider market is—"
"Declining," I interrupted. "It boomed three years ago and it's on the way down. Beyond that, it's more labor intensive. Gin and vodka are mainstays."
Opening a distillery hadn't crossed my mind until a few years ago, when a tourist insisted on buying all of my house-made gin. I'd never sold my honey-steeped liquor by the bottle before, but this woman wasn't exiting the tavern without it. She offered a deranged amount of money, an amount that made refusing even more deranged. Before leaving, her husband told me it was time to expand beyond fried seafood and beer if someone was willing to drop that kind of cash on a case of gin.
As I didn't enjoy unsolicited advice, I ignored his suggestion. I went back to tooling around with small-batch liquors in my spare time and convinced myself there was no place for a high-end gin joint in Talbott's Cove. But then the deranged woman's friends showed up. They'd heard about this scenic town and its artisanal gin, and they'd traveled here from Boston to see it for themselves—and buy a case of their own.
That was when I realized it wasn't isolated to opening an upmarket gin joint. These deranged people spent the weekend at the local inn, shopped all over the village, chartered sunset boat cruises around Penobscot Bay. They poured money all over a region reckoning with warmer ocean temperatures and permanent shifts in the fishing industry, with declining employment and rising hopelessness. If they came for gin, others would too.
"Right, right," Barry murmured. "And you're sure we can't get in on the hard seltzer market?"
"As a marquee product, no, we can't get into hard seltzers." How I managed to respond without snapping at him was a mystery. "We could work on adding a specialty seltzer to the menu once we have the right equipment in place."
"Yeah, something seasonal and locally inspired," he replied, snapping his fingers. "It would coincide with the rotating menu."
"We'd need dedicated equipment for seltzer," I added. "It requires testing."
Barry laughed as if developing a carbonated liquor beverage with organic ingredients was a simple task. "You can do that now. Test it out at your tavern. Do some market research."
I didn't respond to that. Instead, I steered Barry toward the northernmost tip of the property which backed up to a thick grove of maple trees. "This land makes for the perfect pollinator garden and apiary. It's the right distance from the primary outdoor spaces so we won't end up with bees buzzing around the clientele, but still close enough to include it in the educational walking tour."
"People fuckin' love bees," he mused. "Can't we do rum with bees?"
"Do what with bees?"
I marched away from the intended garden plot and toward the area I'd sketched out for deliveries and parking. The purpose of this meeting was to visit the site and then work through other elements critical to the business plan. We needed to make headway on licensing and zoning, as well as the paperwork necessary for overhauling a historical building. We needed to hire contractors, agree on budgets, and formalize partnership agreements with all the area farmers I'd tapped for this work.
"Rum," he repeated, jogging to catch up with me. "Doesn't Maine have a long, sordid history with the rum trade? Weren't there stories about rum barrels washing up on the shores after pirates and privateers intercepted ships? Capitalizing on a pirate connection would be a better way to leverage local history than the cider house angle."
I stopped at the front side of the building, dropped my hands to my waist and ignored Barry's presence for a second. After walking Brooke home, I'd managed three hours of fitful, furious sleep in which I'd dreamed about marching into the massive estate sitting atop the hill bearing her family's name and throwing her on the first bed I found. Telling her that, as long as she was in my tavern, I intended to interfere as much as I fucking wanted. I woke up with the kind of erection powered by regret and masochism. The kind that couldn't be helped.
That left me standing here, hot despite a brisk snap in the air, exhausted and aching all over. And I still had to put on a good face for the man with the money.
"Not sure about rum, Barry," I answered, exasperated as hell and working my ass off to keep it contained. I ran a hand over my head as I blew out a breath. I needed to chug some water and get a sizeable lunch in my belly if I was going to survive the rest of this day. "I think that was farther south. Cape Cod or Block Island Sound, maybe. I'll check into it, but you should know rum distilling also requires specialized equipment. The more we add, the higher the bill."
He considered this. "And it muddies the message. Are we rum or gin or cider? Who knows? Too confusing. You have to home in on one core competency."
I gave him a thoughtful look as I bit the hell out of my tongue. "Yeah, you're right about that."
Barry shifted to study the side of the building that would greet visitors. He lifted his arms, holding his hands out wide. "Down East Distillery," he announced. "The home of fine artisanal spirits."
I wasn't getting my hopes up, but— "This is the place?"
"This is it," he agreed, clapping his hands together. "Lots of history and local lore to play with. I love it." He smiled at me, the kind of grin that made me wonder whether he knew exactly how much he'd jerked me
around this past year. "Let's do this thing."
* * *
Right smack in the middle of the lunch rush—before I'd gotten around to eating or drinking much of anything myself—Sheriff Jackson Lau strolled into my tavern. Moseyed up to the bar and gestured for my attention as if I had all the time in the world for him. He kept the peace well enough, but he didn't have to do it with that holier-than-thou, merit-badging Boy Scout routine. Being the next best thing to Captain America had to get boring.
Regardless of my feelings about Lau, I had some trouble with his type. My record was clean and my closets free of skeletons, but I kept my distance from authority figures. More often than not, their power was like a penis. Always taking it out and waving it around, slapping people in the face with it, shoving it down other's throats. The worst of them would shove it right up your ass and then expect you to thank them for their service.
I met his gaze briefly before turning back to the taps. "What brings you in, sheriff?"
He rested an arm on the bar, leaned in close. "I need a moment of your time, Harniczek."
"Never would've guessed," I muttered. "As you can see, my hands are full. Sit a minute, order a sandwich. Then, we'll talk."
He offered a brisk shake of his head that annoyed the actual fuck out of me. "No can do, Harniczek. I'm on duty and have a tight schedule to keep."
Always by the book with this one. I glared at him as I loaded a tray with freshly poured beers. "Uh huh. Yeah. So, you want avocado on that BLT or no?"
The sheriff mulled this over as he settled onto a stool. "I wouldn't mind some avocado, if it's no trouble." When I shook my head, he continued, "And an iced tea, if you have any. I'm trying to cut back on the soda."
I reached for the pitcher of herbal tea produced by a local grower. They were hooking me up with juniper berries for house-made gin. I was experimenting with some tea-scented vodka too, but I wasn't convinced I could pull that one off in small batches. Wasn't convinced I could make it sound appealing either. "Is that so?"
"Annette brings a lot of sweetness to my life," he said, laughing. "In more ways than one."
"And that's why you're cutting back on the soda." This conversation was four minutes old and already far too long. "Got it." I punched his order into the point of sale system and kicked it up to the front of the queue. "That sandwich will be up in a minute. Mind giving me the general reason for your visit while we wait?"
I set a glass of tea down in front of him and grabbed the next set of tickets waiting for me. I glanced back at the sheriff while I lined up pint glasses under the taps. Waited. Cleared my throat. Waited a bit longer.
"Here's something you don't know," I said, lifting a pint glass in his direction. True to form, he waved me off. "I wasn't offering you a beer, sheriff. I understand you're a principled man and I'm not about to test those principles by pouring you a brew while on duty. Feeding you a sandwich is a big enough challenge. Now, since you're sitting here, I'm gonna teach you something. See this here?"
He followed my finger to the foam at the rim of the pint glass. "The head?"
"The proper term is barm," I said. "'Fill the barm to the brim but make it slim.' That's some bartender wisdom for you."
"I'll put that to good use the next time Annette and Brooke drag me out to trivia night," Lau replied. "It's always nice to have an ace in the hole with those two. They'll run roughshod if I'm not careful."
The mention of Brooke's name had me bobbling the trio of pint glasses pinched between my fingers. The idea of her and running roughshod…well, that was how my boots ended up soaked with beer. "Motherfuck," I hissed. I turned away from the sheriff to wash my hands. "It's brave of you to take on both of them at once. I wouldn't do that without an athletic cup and a case of Sauvignon Blanc."
"They're a package deal," he replied, shrugging. "If I didn't enthusiastically enjoy Brooke's company, Annette wouldn't have the time of day for me."
"And you do? Enthusiastically enjoy Brooke's company?" I added.
The sheriff paused long enough for me to take pleasure in his silence. Brooke wasn't for everyone. No one operated at her speed. Few could handle her. Even fewer understood her. I was positive I didn't.
"Your silence says it all, sheriff."
"No, you have the wrong idea," he insisted. "Brooke is a dear friend to Annette and she never ceases to amaze me with the things she says. But Annette worries about her and that makes me worry." I accepted a plate from one of my servers and set it in front of Lau. "I'm happy to have Brooke join us for trivia if that means fewer worries."
Nodding, I stepped away to revisit the drink orders I'd spilled on myself. It was important to keep the beer flowing, but it was also important to stop myself from asking why Jackson and Annette were concerned about Brooke. I had a few ideas on that matter and I could've compared notes all day, but she wasn't my problem.
Not. My. Problem.
"Why don't we step into your office," Lau suggested.
I glanced at his plate, clean save for some fries and a pickle. "You're as bad as the princess," I murmured. "Next time you come in here hungry, don't dick around with me, sheriff. Order a damn sandwich, you hear me?"
Standing, he counted out enough cash to cover four BLTs and tucked it beside the plate. "An excellent meal as always. Thank you."
I dropped the cash into the servers' tip drawer. I wasn't doing him any favors and he sure as shit wasn't doing me any.
"Make it quick," I said, waving him down the hallway toward my office. The hallway in which I'd found Brooke lurking last night. I needed to open a distillery just to work in a place free from her fingerprints.
I dropped into my desk chair while the sheriff sat across from me. "I'll make this quick," he said.
"Music to my ears," I muttered.
"Nathan Fitzsimmons is scheduled to leave rehab at the end of next month."
"Already?" I barked. The Fitzsimmons kid needed help. Real help. He needed professional people who knew how to help him unwind his addiction and live his life without going back to the pills again. "He's only been there, what—"
"Four months," Lau interrupted. "When he's discharged, it will be five."
"That doesn't seem like enough." I gripped the arm rests. That kid's parents went through hell trying to get him help. I couldn't count the number of times they'd checked him into detox. Couldn't count the number of times the sheriff's deputies were out at the Fitzsimmons house, hauling him away after a fight with his parents turned physical or they'd found him stealing the rug out from underneath them to pay for drugs. But I remembered the last time, when they decided enough was enough. "How does someone learn how to live a new life in only four or five months?"
Lau jerked a shoulder up. "Most opioid dependency programs are less than a month. Twenty-eight days, usually. This one treats both dependency as well as other mental health diagnoses. He was lucky to get a bed in this facility. It probably saved his life. Certainly kept him out of prison."
"That's great but how is he allowed to leave without—I don't know—going to some kind of transitional living or halfway house to help him back into the real world?"
"There are a slew of conditions to his release. He has court-ordered drug tests every week for a year as well as counseling, sobriety support groups, and regular meetings with his probation officer." Lau glanced down at the floor. "His PO believes he'll succeed, but he won't be able to do it alone."
Fuck me. Just…fuck me.
"The reason for your visit is revealed." I waited for Lau to deny it, but he only sat back with his hands folded in his lap. "I don't know how you'd like for me to help this kid. In case you haven't noticed, I run a tavern. It's not a good old-fashioned tavern because we don't put up travelers for the night, but we hold with the tradition of serving beer, wine, and spirits alongside food. That is no place for a young man making a run at sober living and I'm the farthest thing you'll find from a social worker."
"Think about it," the sheriff prompted. "Do
you think he has any chance of succeeding if he goes back home to his parents' house? That's his only option right now and we both know that won't work." He ran his hand through his hair, huffed out a rueful laugh. "Trust me, I've already tried that angle and it's a nonstarter. I've also approached a number of other residents. I'm asking you a favor, Harniczek."
"What are you suggesting, sheriff? I'm not in the market for a roommate."
"Maybe not, but you do have that vacant apartment on the back side of this building," he answered. "If my understanding of your zoning and property tax filings is accurate, that is."
That goddamn power penis. I did not need this shit today. Not on a couple of hours sleep and not with my muscles humming with every move and a woman in need of some roughshod no more than a five-minute walk from this very spot. "You want me to put this kid up in an apartment above a tavern? You think that will support his recovery?"
"According to the probation officer, Nathan's dependency is isolated to opioids. He's never been a drinker and doesn't see alcohol as a coping mechanism."
"How convenient." I leaned back in my chair, blew out a ragged breath. I hated this. I hated the sheriff coming into my business and asking for help. More than all that, I hated knowing the kid was in a bind and no one was willing to stand up. "What about your girlfriend's old apartment? She's not living there anymore."
He ran a hand along his jaw, his brows drawing together as he nodded. "That was one of my first considerations," he said. "But five other people have been asking after that apartment and she doesn't own the building. It's not her call."
"Now, that's convenient."
"I'm also hoping you're in need of a dishwasher," Lau continued. "Nathan needs a job and one that won't get hung up on his prior convictions."
I touched a hand to my chest. "And you think I’m that employer? You also think I'm willing to hire and house a kid who has spent the past five or six years of his life hooked on drugs and hope he doesn't replace that addiction with booze? You've gotta be out of your damn mind, Lau."
Far Cry: A Talbott’s Cove Novel Page 6
