I picked the table farthest from the door and squeezed my long legs under the bench.
Hans returned with two pewter beer steins engraved with the Der Keller family logo. Placing a stein in front of me, he paused for a second and stared at a cedar hop lattice that needed mending. I recognized the warm red color of the beer as our award-winning Doppelbock.
Doppelbock is the strongest beer style we brew. For such a hearty beer, it’s very drinkable, with heavy malt and almost no bitterness. Most beers weigh in with 5 to 6 percent alcohol content. Our Doppelbock has an alcohol content of 10 percent. One pint of this baby, and most newbies would start to spin. But I was no newbie and was more than ready for a stiff drink.
“Thanks, good choice,” I said, forcing a smile.
Hans removed his tool belt and rested it on the table. He adjusted the dull navy baseball cap on his head and tilted it toward my stein. “Drink slow. It’s good for your soul.”
Hans is eight years younger than Mac. You’d never know it based on their work ethic and maturity. Hans was a scrawny teenager when Mac and I married. Ever since, he’s been the kid brother I never had.
I stuck my nose in the custom stein with the Der Keller logo (two lions waving German flags) before taking a sip. Old habits die hard. I’d tasted this beer a thousand times. The recipe hadn’t changed, but I every time I drank it, I ended up catching a hint of something different. Today I picked up a full-bodied, roasted flavor with a hint of toffee. One sip confirmed Hans knew exactly what I needed. The dark amber malt felt like liquid gold on my throat. Hopefully the alcohol would kick in soon and make me forget what I’d seen.
“Are you going to spill, or am I going to have to extract information out of you like usual?” Hans hadn’t touched his beer.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He picked up his stein and set it on the table again, as if he’d had second thoughts about drinking. “You know, you’re not the most forthcoming person, Sloan. I love you, and I understand why, but…” He trailed off.
I took another swig of the beer, but despite my best efforts to keep my shaky hands steady, I managed to spill it on the table. Hans noticed, but didn’t say a word. Instead, he dabbed the table with a napkin and waited for me.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I said, clutching the frosty pewter pint.
“How about the beginning?” Hans pushed the beer-soaked cloth napkin to the edge of the table.
It didn’t take long to fill Hans in on the gory details of catching his brother shagging the beer wench, as she would forevermore be known.
When I finished relaying the scene to Hans, he sat without responding for a minute. My beer was nearly empty. Hans’s stein was full. I can’t stand the bottom quarter of a pint. Beer should be ice-cold and full of carbonation. There’s no way to avoid the warm dregs of the last of a pint. I grabbed my stein and dumped the warm beer on the hop vines.
“Are you going to drink that?” I asked Hans.
He shook his head and offered me his full glass.
“And are you up for driving me home?”
He reached over and picked a few hops from the vine. Fingering one, he nodded again and tossed it to me. I breathed in the scent. The smell of hops returned my heart rate to normal. Hops are a known relaxant. I often sleep with a stash under my pillow to help unwind at night.
Hans crushed the hops in his hand and threw the shreds on the ground. “Sometimes I can’t believe Mac is my brother.” Then he yanked another hop cone from the vine and rubbed it between his hands. “Don’t take this the wrong way, because I’m not condoning his behavior, but I know that he loves you.”
I followed suit and ran my fingers over the hop. “He has a funny way of showing it.” The oil from the hops coated my fingers.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Change the locks? If he’s so enamored with the beer wench, he can go shack up with her.”
Hans started to respond, but I cut him off in midstream.
“Oh no! Alex. What am I going to say to Alex? This will crush him. And—your parents? The town? Oh my God! I’m going to be the laughingstock of the entire village, aren’t I? Or am I already? Does everyone already know that Mac’s been cheating on me?”
Hans reached his arm across the table and rested it on my hand. “Slow down. Breathe.”
I took a deep breath.
“That’s it.” He took a screwdriver out of his tool belt and tightened a loose bolt on the picnic table. “No one in town knows, and we’ll make sure we keep it that way.”
After I drained Hans’s beer, I allowed him to lead me out to where he’d parked his Jeep. I didn’t believe him. In a town this size, everyone was going to be talking about one thing—me.
CHAPTER
FOUR
THREE WEEKS LATER, MY ANGER at Mac hadn’t subsided. In fact, if anything it was worse. After kicking him out and hiding in my bedroom for longer than I wanted to admit, I finally decided that I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of making me feel humiliated. If anyone should have been ashamed, it was him. So when Hans called to check in and mentioned that a new nanobrewery was looking for help, I jumped at the chance, not caring what anyone in town might think.
For the next few days, I researched everything I could about Nitro, Leavenworth’s newest taproom and my new temporary place of employment. I’d been working with the Krause family at Der Keller for my entire adult life. The idea of branching out was equally exhilarating and terrifying. As was evident by the queasy feeling in my stomach the morning of my first day. I barely touched my morning coffee and changed outfits at least five times.
Relax, Sloan, I told myself as I finally decided on a black pencil skirt and a charcoal gray blouse. I pulled my hair into a tight ponytail and was relieved that at least for the moment my natural waves were cooperating. My hair is so thick that it has a tendency to frizz and escape from attempts to tie it back.
Glancing at the cuckoo clock mounted above the fireplace, I called down the hallway, “Alex, grab your stuff. We’ve got to get moving.”
When Mac and I purchased our farmhouse ten years ago, he fell in love with the rambling yard. The house was situated on several acres of land a few minutes from the town square. Mac had needed to wipe drool off his chin when our real estate agent had opened the doors to the wraparound back porch to showcase the acreage. To me the giant space, with overgrown blackberry bushes and ivy vines, looked like a major project. Not to Mac.
“Think of the hops, baby,” he said, squeezing my shoulder. “We’ll level this all out and run rows and rows of Smaragd hops.” Turning to flash his signature smile at our agent, he gasped, “Full sun!”
While they explored the weed-infested yard, I wandered through the interior of the house on my own. Mac could have the backyard. I claimed the kitchen—with its high exposed-beam ceilings, clapboard walls, brick fireplace, and wood-burning bread oven. I fell in love with the cozy vibe of the inviting space and the idea that I’d serve my family from the same kitchen that had dished up warm meals to hungry farmhands and family members for decades.
Over the next few years, I made the kitchen my own by painting the walls a warm buttercream and decorating with rustic farm accents like old tin milk pails, barnwood frames, and vintage wicker baskets filled with hand-pressed tea towels and sacks of flour. Transforming the space to its original roots became my mission.
The sound of Alex’s footsteps racing along the reclaimed hardwood floors pulled me from my memory. What was I going to do with this place now? A mini hop farm and nearly four thousand square feet of farmhouse were more than I needed or wanted for just Alex and me.
No time to think about that now. I had to get Alex to school and myself to my new job. I grabbed a yogurt from the fridge and an apple from the bowl on the kitchen island.
“You ready?” I asked, ruffling Alex’s shaggy auburn waves as he came into the kitchen.
He playfully tossed m
y hand away and adjusted the athletic bag hanging from his shoulder. A pair of muddy soccer cleats banged against the counter. “When are you going to stop doing that, Mom? I’m not a kid anymore, you know.”
“I know.” I tucked the yogurt and apple into my purse and opened the front door. “After you, big man.”
In the last few months, Alex had shot up. It was strange to have to look up to meet my son’s eyes. “We have to hurry; I don’t want to be late on my first day.”
“When have you ever been late?” Alex said, and then sprinted outside to our black Mercedes, an anniversary present from Mac (more like a guilt present). Fancy cars aren’t my thing—the Mercedes was Mac’s style. He had thrown a huge party for our anniversary last year, invited the entire town, and surprised me with the Mercedes tied with a big red bow. I would have preferred Hans’s beat-up Jeep.
Alex threw his backpack and athletic bag on the back seat of the car and stuffed his long legs into the front. He’d definitely inherited his leanness from me. “Mom, I don’t want you to worry about being late. Drop me off at Carly’s. I’ll walk from there.”
“You sure? I thought you two were on a break.”
I busied myself fiddling with the mirrors and clicking on the radio. As long as we didn’t make eye contact, Alex would divulge details about school, friends, and his emerging world of girlfriends. The car was like a traveling therapy office.
“Yeah, it’s cool. We’re kind of hanging a little.” He didn’t notice me check his appearance in the side mirror.
He’s so beautiful, I thought, trying to fight the lump forming in my throat. He’d been graced with Mac’s full frame and my olive skin. His pale blue eyes were flecked with gold. I could still see the outline of the baby I’d rocked in my arms in his maturing face, but it was beginning to firm into adulthood. Time was a fickle beast. I wouldn’t have traded the wisecracking kid sitting next to me, but there were moments when I ached for the memory of his baby skin and pudgy little legs.
Nothing about his laid-back teenage body revealed that he was upset about Mac and me. But I knew better. I watched him twist a strand of hair on the back of his neck, a nervous habit left over from his toddler days. Getting him to talk to me was going to take a slow and deliberate effort. There was no need to rush him.
We pulled into Carly’s driveway, and Alex leaned over to give me a kiss on the cheek. “Love you, Mom. Good luck today. I know you’re going to be great.”
I hoped he was right.
CHAPTER
FIVE
I STEERED THE MERCEDES ONTO the one-lane highway that led into town. Nitro was conveniently located near the town square. The sun cast a flaxen glow on the mountains. It wouldn’t be too long before they were capped with snow and bustling with backcountry adventurers. Skiers and snowshoers flocked to our Cascadian Alps every winter. In true European spirit, Leavenworth welcomed the cold weather visitors with spicy mugs of hot mulled wine, outdoor bonfires, sleigh rides, and holiday markets. Kids would sled and sip hot cocoa under a canopy of festive lights and decorations while their parents played the part of der Weihnachtsmann (Father Christmas) and filled bags with handmade toys and chocolates. The village would truly become a winter wonderland soon, but for the moment I drank in Leavenworth’s beauty as I passed acres of organic farmland, ripe apple and pear orchards, and small family vineyards where rows and rows of cluster-laden grapevines stretched along the ridge.
On the drive I reviewed everything I’d learned about Nitro. The new taproom, dining area, and brew operation would be Leavenworth’s first nanobrewery.
The distinction between brewery sizes is all about production. Nanobreweries have been spreading like wildfire across the Pacific Northwest. There’s a big debate in the brewing community about who fits or doesn’t fit within the nano criteria.
At Der Keller, we produced about fifteen thousand barrels of beer each year, giving us the title of microbrewery. To give you some perspective, the big guys—those national watered-down brands sold in cans in grocery stores across the country—produce upwards of two million barrels of beer annually. Nanos produce much smaller quantities of beer, which gives them the freedom to experiment with flavors and grains.
The word around Leavenworth was that everyone wanted what Nitro’s owner, Garrett Strong, was brewing.
Garrett had hired me sight unseen, thanks to Hans. I’d learned that Garrett had spent ten years home brewing in Seattle while working as an engineer. When his great-aunt Tess died last fall, she’d left him a historic building off Front Street that he’d been refurbishing for the past few months. I’d heard rumors about him, but he’d been keeping to himself since he arrived in town, which only fueled local speculation.
“I think you’ll really like him, Sloan,” Hans had said as he cracked open a bottle of session ale on my back porch. “He needs someone to help him with marketing, food, and the tasting room. He’s kind of in his head, but he has the nose.”
“Having the nose” was a constant topic of discussion in the Krause family. Otto had the nose, but neither of his sons did. That didn’t bother Hans, as his preferred art form involved a hammer and chisel, but Mac had tried desperately to develop his palate. From beer classes to tours in Germany, he’d spent years trying to find his nose. Nothing worked.
Don’t get me wrong—the Krause men knew beer. Both brothers could have offered a college-level course on the brewing process, but having the ability to smell each unique ingredient and hop variety in a single mug was a skill you either had or didn’t. It couldn’t be taught.
“You know a little something about that, don’t you?” Hans had teased.
Since neither of Otto’s offspring had inherited his discerning sniffer, he had set his sights on me. Convinced I had magic nostrils, he’d taken me under his wing. “Sloan, ja, you have it. You have the nose.” I wasn’t sure that he was right, but I had enjoyed working under his direction.
Now that is all changing, I thought as I navigated through downtown and turned off Front Street onto Ninth. Nitro was located two blocks from the main village on Commercial Street, near Waterfront Park, with its lush walking trails that wound along the Wenatchee River and onto Blackbird Island. I pulled into an empty parking space and took a minute to listen to the calming sound of the rushing river and watch fish fly from its banks. On the hill opposite the river, mountain goats noshed on grass at Leavenworth’s outdoor mini-golf course.
Here goes nothing, I thought as I sucked air through my “special” nose and strolled through the front doors of Nitro.
“Hello?” I called as I entered the building. My voice echoed off the stark white walls, and my heels clicked on the cement floor.
I studied the space. Comparing Nitro to Der Keller would have been unfair. The original tasting room and small cellar where Otto and Ursula started had grown into a two-block conglomerate with warehouses, bottling plants, grain storage silos, loading docks, and a restaurant and tasting room.
At first glance, Nitro appeared to be more like the Krause family’s humble roots. I’d have guessed the space to be about five thousand square feet with twenty-five-foot-high ceilings and cement walls painted in a glaring white. Everything was white, from floor to ceiling. The only things breaking the monotony were a few beer charts and posters of chemistry tables and formulas for fermenting.
This guy really has a thing for science, I thought.
An assortment of barstools and tables were arranged in the front of a bar that divided the tasting room from the brewery equipment in the back. Shrink-wrapped boxes of pint glasses sat unpacked on the bar. I walked past the twenty-foot bar carved from distressed wood and into the brewery.
Garrett scored points on the cleanliness scale. From mash tuns to the clarifying tanks, the stainless steel sparkled. That was good. Nothing turned me off more than a brewer who skimped on sanitation. Any reputable brewmaster knew that cleaning was half the equation when it came to producing high-quality craft beer.
The soun
d of someone clearing his voice behind me made me jump. “You must be Sloan.” Garrett Strong approached me from a small walled-in office in the farthest corner of the brewery. He stood at over six feet with the physique of a basketball player and professor rolled into one. His dark hair fell over one of his hickory-colored eyes.
He brushed the hair behind chemistry goggles resting on his forehead and extended his hand. “I’ve never met anyone named Sloan.”
I shook his hand. “And I’ve never met anyone named Garrett.” Shrugging, I gave him a wink. “I guess that makes us even.”
He tossed his head back in a laugh that transformed his face. Dropping my hand, he stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. “You look like someone I know. Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so.” I felt overdressed in my skirt and tailored shirt.
Readjusting his goggles, he appraised me with a frown. “Are you sure? There’s something really familiar about you. Really familiar.”
I shrugged. “I don’t think we’ve met, but maybe you saw my picture on Der Keller’s Web site or something?”
He tapped his index finger on his chin and thought for a second. I got the sense that he wasn’t convinced, but he dropped it and motioned toward the brewery. “Yeah, that could be it. So what do you think? Did you ever see the place when my aunt Tess owned it?”
“Yeah.” I swallowed and managed a nod. Was it just me, or had there been a tiny spark of electricity when we touched? It was probably my nerves. Kicking Mac out had left me feeling unsettled and unsteady, even though I knew it was the right choice.
Death on Tap Page 2
