"Yes," I replied, surprising us both. "But I want the raisin bread, lightly toasted." I helped myself to his French press coffee and watched while he scooped the eggs onto a plate. "I'd also like a rain check for that dick appointment you missed."
"That I missed," he grumbled.
While he sliced the bread, I drifted into the adjoining dining room with my coffee. Binders, boxes, and file folders sat on several chairs. Architectural blueprints covered half the table, but I couldn't make sense of the plans. It seemed too big for a house and I couldn't imagine him tearing down the Galley and starting from scratch. It was a Talbott's Cove institution.
I was surprised I didn't notice any of this last night.
JJ came up behind me and set two plates on the table. "Your raisin toast," he said. "Sit, please."
I gestured to the blueprints. "What is this all about?"
He stared at the documents as he settled into his chair. After a moment, he replied, "I'll explain if you sit down."
Nodding, I dropped into the chair. He shot a pointed glance at the toast and I took a bite to appease him. "This is some quality raisin bread," I said. "Now, tell me what you're building."
He forked up a heap of scrambled eggs, still staring at the plans across the table. Eventually, he replied, "I'm building a distillery with a tasting room, restaurant, and event space."
Shocked, I gazed at him with the toast suspended an inch from my open mouth. "A distillery…and some other things? And where are you doing this? And how, exactly?"
His brows furrowed as he poked at the eggs. "Here in Talbott's Cove, on the site of the old cider mill, the one on the far end of the village. It's set back from the street, but close enough that people who come here for craft gin and vodka will stay for the bookstore, the gift shops, the inn, everything else." He took a bite, but still hadn't managed a glance in my direction. "It's contingent upon a million things. Inspections and feasibility studies and licenses and financing and my incredibly flaky business partner's daily whims."
I tore the toast into small pieces, bobbing my head as I considered this information. "You have a business partner? An accredited investor?"
And now he chooses to look at me.
"Yeah. Is that particularly surprising to you, Bam?"
I popped a piece of toast into my mouth. "It's not surprising, no. But I want to know who it is so I can look up his SEC filings."
He leaned back in his chair, layered his hands over his belly. "Why do you care? You're just here for the sex."
We gazed at each other for a moment that felt as heavy as midnight, and for once I yielded first. "Because this is my world. This is what I do. If you're working with someone who is promising to bring sizable capital investments to the table, I want to confirm whether this person is one of the good ones and he has a record of doing it right."
He tipped his chin up, studied me through narrowed eyes. "Again, why do you care? Why does he need to be one of the good ones, Brooke? As you've said, I'm the worst and this is a hopeless, dead-end town. Why does it matter whether we're doing it right?"
I hunched forward, flattened my hands on the tabletop. "You want me to confess something deep and meaningful, I can tell. Instead of doing that, why don't you run your business plan by me?"
He laughed into his coffee. "Isn't it a little early for a ritual beating?" For a minute, we ate in silence. Then he dropped his fork to the plate and said, "All right. Fine. Here's the quick version. Small-batch gin and vodka crafted entirely from locally sourced ingredients. Grains from nearby family farms, honey from an apiary in Beddington, juniper berries and herbs from growers all over New England. Clean, organic, sustainably produced."
"That's what you're brewing in the back room of the tavern?" I asked.
He bobbed his head as he sipped his coffee. "Yeah. It started out as an experiment, turned into a hobby, and now a solid percentage of the monthly profits come from distribution agreements with bars and restaurants all over the region."
"Nice. Word-of-mouth demand is the kind of proof point that opens more doors than any data set," I said.
He peered at me, frowning. "I thought you worked on Wall Street. Stocks and bonds and funds and…the rest of that stuff no one understands."
"Yeah, I do," I replied. Then, thinking better of it, I added, "I mean, I did. Obviously, I'm not there right now because I work out of my childhood bedroom as everyone truly aspires to do. My firm is at Broadway and Wall Street and they let me do this remote thing because being in New York City is not essential when one has a decent Wi-Fi connection, and I make a lot more money than their cadre of #MeToo miscreants. But yes, stocks, bonds, funds, and the rest of that stuff. Hedge funds, in particular. Before hedge funds, I managed a handful of different international market derivative desks. Derivatives trading bores the shit out of me, so I got the hell out of there. I spent a little time in venture cap, but I found all the idealistic people asking for money to be exhausting."
He polished off the rest of his eggs, wiped his mouth on a cloth napkin, and retreated into the kitchen without a word. Since this was JJ, I didn't question it. The boy liked to walk away and come back when it suited him. True to form, he returned with the French press and topped off my coffee.
"Thank you," I said. He waved me off as if he couldn't be bothered with my manners. "I want to hear the rest of your pitch. How does the cider house figure in?"
"The idea is to make a destination out of the production facility. Tasting room, restaurant, gardens, tours, the whole thing. The location has to be worth the trip and it has to photograph well because, like you said, word of mouth converts to social proof." He rounded the table and tapped his fingertips on the blueprint. "This is one of the proposed floor plans. This one allocates space to a fine dining restaurant as well as a fast-casual venue, both focused on showcasing the products and goods from local farming partners. I don't think we can sustain two dining facilities but my partner wanted to get an idea how it would look."
I couldn't make sense of the blueprint, but I nodded anyway. "If you get this right, it's going to be huge for the local economy."
"That's a big if," he said, laughing. "There's a lot of movement that needs to happen before the local economy feels a damn thing."
"And your investors? I know you mentioned a partner with a sense of whimsy and that troubles me. You shouldn't rely on someone like that. The kind of money I imagine you need is no problem for me. I'm willing to invest and—"
He brought his hand to my shoulder, drew it up my neck and into my hair. "I don't want to get into that with you. I need it to be separate."
"You need that separate from me?"—I tapped my chest—"Or me?"—I circled my hand between us.
"Yes and yes." He gathered my hair in his fist, held me steady as he barely brushed his lips over mine. It wasn't lost on me that we'd shared a bed and our bodies, but not a real kiss. This was the closest thing to it since high school and I didn't know what it meant that he was almost kissing me while asking me to stay the hell out of his business. "Please understand."
"I do, I mean, yeah, I get that. It's fine," I stammered. I did not get it and it was not fine. "You don't want to tell me who is bringing the capital to the table and I'm certain that makes sense to you, although I am going to offer you some suggestions because I invite myself into other people's problems. I know a number of investors who are big into food and beverage tourism ventures. I'm talking about people who open bars and restaurants every week, people who scout emerging foodie tourism markets, people who know the heartbeat of this business. Just off the top of my head, I can think of four or five investors who are actively looking for homegrown, niche market startups, especially ones with a sustainability angle. It's as easy as making email introductions if you're interested."
JJ was quiet while he rubbed his fingers over my scalp. I couldn't determine whether he was insulted or excited or his usual brand of grouchy. Then, "Thank you for…everything. I appreciate it. It's good to tal
k this out with someone who knows the town. But I have to say no. I'm all set."
I pressed my lips together and went right on staring at the blueprint I couldn't decipher. "Even if you won't take my money, I could help you. I could offer technical assistance on the financial side or connect you to talented branding and marketing people and"—I paused, glanced up at him as I found the words I never found for anyone else—"and I could fund this entire venture right now if you wanted to bail on that partner of yours. I could just give it to you."
He leaned forward, pressed his forehead to mine. Of all the touches we'd shared, this one made me feel the most exposed. "Bam, sweetheart, I'll give you all the rain checks for angry insult concussion sex you want. I'll let you bitch and moan about this town and I'll stop asking you why you came back, even though I think you want to get it off your chest. I'll set aside all the raisin bread I get from Vermont for you. But there is no way in hell I'd let you invest a penny in this project."
I twisted out of his arms as tears filled my eyes. I didn't know why I was crying, but I knew I had to leave immediately. "If you change your mind, you know how to find me," I called as I stepped into my shoes.
"Brooke, come back here and—"
I slammed the front door shut behind me.
Chapter Eighteen
Brooke
Duration: the measure of a bond price’s sensitivity to shifts in interest rates.
Annette: Hello, madam. You're awake early. Or was it a very late night?
Brooke: I'm always awake early. I make a lot of money in China. Their morning is our night.
Annette: Yes, this is true. However, I don't usually see you walking through the village first thing in the morning. Because you're usually so busy with China.
Brooke: Oh, yeah. I just went out for a walk.
Annette: You went for a walk? Since when do you walk?
Brooke: I walk. I walk all the time.
Annette: Yeah, from one room to another. You don't walk for, you know, the practice of walking.
Brooke: Well, I went for a walk today. Fresh air, birds, sunshine. It was glorious.
Annette: I have several questions about this but I'd like to start with this—how dare you?
Brooke: How dare I what?
Annette: Do whatever you're doing without telling me!
Brooke: We cannot be those women who walk together in the mornings. Honey, no. I love you but we can't get a set of matching visors. That's not our look.
Annette: Let's presume it was a very late night. Let's also presume that it was a satisfying outing for you, even if it's not one you're willing to discuss with me.
Brooke: Why is it so hard to believe that I went for a walk?
Annette: If it was an early morning outing of the amorous variety, I applaud you. Morning sex for me is an experience made possible by virtue of already being in bed. Getting up and going out for sex at that hour is commendable. If we gave out awards for outstanding performances in getting some, you'd win in the Early Morning, Out of the House category.
Brooke: How much coffee did you drink today? You're wired, sweet pea.
Annette: You only deflect when I'm close to the truth.
Brooke: I'm worried about you. Go over to the pharmacy and get your blood pressure checked.
Annette: I'm keeping an eye on you, Markham.
Brooke: Don't stop with one eye. Use both of them. That's why you have two.
* * *
Brooke: This is going to sound ridiculous, but I'm asking anyway.
Annette: I'm here for it. Give me all the ridiculous.
Brooke: Where can I get really good fried chicken?
Annette: Quantify "really good."
Brooke: I have to tell you a story in order to do that.
Annette: I love your stories. I'm going to refill my coffee and sit down with a cupcake for this.
Brooke: Dad has been talking about his time in the National Guard recently. When I say recently, I mean it's the only thing he's talked about for the past week and I'm ready to start plucking my eyelashes out if it will make him stop.
Annette: Your father was in the National Guard? I didn't know that!
Brooke: Allegedly. I haven't done any digging to confirm or deny the story, but this is the first I've heard of his service.
Annette: Weird. Go on.
Brooke: It seems he enlisted after high school, trained with the state National Guard during college in Orono, and then spent a few months in Texas after graduation.
Annette: He was deployed to…Texas?
Brooke: It's hazy. Can't be certain. Dementia is a liar. This could be a story he read once upon a time or something he watched on television. It could be a mashup of things he believes to be true.
Annette: I know he's older than my parents, but not so old that he would've been down at the Alamo.
Brooke: Who fucking knows. But he claims he had the best fried chicken of his entire life while in Texas. In one retelling, it was near Galveston. In another, it was Plano.
Annette: And now he's craving some Texas-style fried chicken.
Brooke: It's not about the chicken, but it also is about the chicken. Right now, he wants that memory and the safety and familiarity that comes with it, but he can't access it without the chicken. For the past few days, he's been somewhere between aggressively angry and ugly cry sad at all times.
Annette: Oh, honey. I'm so sorry. You should've reached out earlier. I can help with things like chicken and whatever else. You have enough on your hands. Ask for some damn help, woman.
Brooke: I never know when these things will spin out of control. Sometimes they're quick blips.
Annette: I love you and I know you're trying your ass off, but it sounds like it spun out of control several days ago. Give me the context so I can help you fix this.
Brooke: As the story goes—and I can't believe I'm saying this—he and a bunch of other National Guardsmen brought a chicken to a shop where they fried it for them.
Annette: You mean a package of chicken from a butcher.
Brooke: That isn't the way the story was told to me, no.
Annette: They brought a live chicken to a fry shop?
Brooke: Maybe that's how it goes in Texas. Maine has general stores where you can buy ammo and wedding dresses.
Annette: Forgive me for being obvious, but have you tried any of the fast food chicken options?
Brooke: There are grease stains on the wall in the dining room and bits of chicken stuck in the chandelier. One of the home health aides is on personal leave because Dad stabbed her with a drumstick. My hair smells like fried chicken and I'm afraid I'll never wash that scent out.
Brooke: We've tried everything.
Annette: Then…we need to find a live chicken fry shop?
Brooke: I have looked, but as you know, certain parts of this region don't maintain much internet presence.
Annette: You need someone who knows how to fry chicken in volume and saves the oil.
Brooke: What does that mean, saves the oil?
Annette: It's a flavor thing. Trust me. I'll ask around.
Annette: I'll also see if anyone has a hen they want to sell.
Brooke: What does a hen cost? I'm sure I have the cash on hand, but I'm wondering what the going rate is for live chickens.
Annette: Let's work on finding a chicken and a fryer first, okay? Then we'll get into the economics.
Brooke: Good plan. Thank you.
Annette: You're welcome and stop letting it get this bad before asking for help.
Brooke: I'm trying.
Annette: Try harder.
* * *
Annette: Jackson and I are going to that pub in Northport tonight, the one with the Trivia Tuesday. Are you in?
Brooke: Ugh, no. I can't.
Annette: What's going on?
Brooke: I'm just swamped. I'm sorry. I know how Jackson loves it when I tell him he's wrong about everything.
Annette: Are you all right?
>
Brooke: Yeah, totally. Just a lot on my plate right now.
Annette: How's your father doing?
Brooke: No major changes. He's watching the original Hawaii Five-Oh and Quincy, M.E. and that's giving him something to talk about. I'm just torn between being really fucking happy I can stream these old shows and really fucking appalled at the shit that was acceptable back then.
Brooke: Also, the hairstyles. Did flat irons not exist until 2004?
Annette: I wouldn't know. They don't work on my kind.
Brooke: You curly-haired girls are all alike.
Annette: What's happening with work? Do you have any big pitches or, I don't know, whatever happens in your world?
Brooke: I have a number of SEC filings coming up.
Annette: We're not talking about college football, right?
Brooke: Securities and Exchange Commission.
Annette: Right. That SEC.
Annette: Are you sure we can't convince you to come along?
Brooke: Not this time. Have fun at trivia.
Annette: Have fun on your morning walk.
Chapter Nineteen
JJ
Margin: the difference between the revenue produced by a good or service and the cost of production.
Brooke-Ashley Markham ruined my life on an unseasonably warm night last September. She dismantled all the good sense I had with the simple command of "Take off your pants" and tore down the years of distance I'd put between us since high school. Since kissing her once and wanting more.
Now, she ruined my life with her hair on my pillow and my dog's affections and text messages that simply proclaimed, I want you to fuck me tonight.
As if I was just a cock waiting around for some pussy to invite me in from the cold for the evening. As if the only things we exchanged were soft and hard, yes and no. As if we weren't building a new world from the old, broken one behind us. As if we meant to stop.
Far Cry: A Talbott’s Cove Novel Page 13
