“Different, isn’t it?” Garrett extended his arms out to showcase the blindingly white warehouse.
“It doesn’t look anything like the old inn.” The last time I’d been inside the restaurant, it had looked completely different, with vinyl booths, wainscoting, and lace curtains. Garrett must have spent a small fortune demoing the space. And he must have gotten a deal on white paint.
“I’m sure it’s not the operation you’ve been used to,” he said with a sheepish smile. “But you want a tour?”
“Sure.” I gave him a thumbs-up and followed him to the office. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door.
“You really are from Seattle, aren’t you?” I joked. “No one locks up around here.”
Leavenworth is the kind of town where no one locks their doors. Break-ins are unheard of. The only robbery I’ve experienced is when one of my neighbors “borrowed” some of my overgrown rhubarb, then she “broke in” and left two fresh pies on our kitchen counter.
Garrett raised his eyebrow. “Huh. Well, I do.”
I couldn’t read him. My ability to size up people is like a sixth sense, a survival strategy I sharpened over years of carefully observing a rotation of foster parents, but Garrett wasn’t giving anything away.
The office wasn’t much bigger than my broom closet at home. He’d managed to squeeze two desks and rolling chairs, along with a filing cabinet and desktop printer, into the tight space. The white walls were covered in writing—recipes, formulas, and mathematical equations I couldn’t understand.
I pointed to the pens hanging from strings tied above the doorframe. “Writing on the walls? I thought they taught us not to do that in school.”
He licked his finger and wiped a small section of orange pen off the wall. “Dry-erase paint. One of the only tricks from the corporate world that I held on to. It’s easy for me to work things out in a big space.”
Profound. That philosophy could have applied to my life. I needed a big space to work out what had happened with Mac.
To Garrett I said, “Genius. I like it.”
“Feel free to use anything you want in here. I know it’s kind of tight, but we probably won’t be in here at the same time much.” His eyes landed on three open bags of Doritos on the desk. He blushed slightly and moved them to the top of the filing cabinet. “Sorry, I like to snack while I’m doing research and development on new recipes.”
“Don’t apologize, but don’t leave those lying around—I have a serious addiction to Doritos. I can’t promise that I won’t devour an entire bag.” Especially now, I thought to myself. I might need more than Doritos to get through the next few days. One thing about life in a small town was that everyone was sure to come out for Garrett’s grand opening. Since I had found Mac with the beer wench, I’d been successful at staying underground. I wasn’t sure I was ready to face the entire town and the Krause family.
“Hans told me that you and I had a lot in common. You can’t go wrong with Doritos.” Then his lips tensed and his brow furrowed. “Do what you want with Doritos, but in all seriousness, whatever you do, be sure to lock the door anytime you leave. Even if you’re coming out to the brewery. This is my working lab, and I don’t want anyone else wandering in here.”
“You got it.” I nodded, hoping my face shared his solemn attitude.
“Ready for the rest of the tour?” He held the door open for me.
As I followed him out of the office, I glanced at the recipes on the walls behind me. I knew brewmasters were protective of their creations, but this seemed borderline obsessive. Keeping your office on total lockdown in a building that no one else had access to, in our tiny town of two thousand residents?
I tagged behind Garrett with an equal mix of excitement over starting something new and a stomach queasy with worry that I was leaving behind the safety of the only family I’d ever known.
CHAPTER
SIX
“WE’RE DOING THE SOFT OPENING tomorrow?” I asked as I siphoned a taster from the clarifying tank. The liquid in the long turkey baster shimmered against the stainless steel tank. I took a sip, swirling the golden-colored ale in my mouth before swallowing. “Did you dry hop this?”
Garrett let out a low whistle. “I’m impressed. Hans told me you have an extraordinary nose.” He waved me over to the side of the tank and opened a viewing window. “Check it out.” Hops floated on the top of the beer, bobbing like sea lions on the ocean.
Typically, hops are added during the boiling process. Dry hopping is a unique way to infuse a beer with extra hop flavor and aroma. Instead of hopping during the brewing process, in dry hopping, fresh hops are added in after the beer’s been fermenting for several days. The taste is unmistakable.
“This really has a bite,” I said, handing Garrett the taster so I could get a closer look at the floating hops.
“Not too bitter, is it?” Garrett asked. “I’ve been working on how long to leave them in. The last batch I left in too long, and I wasn’t thrilled with the flavor profile. I mean, I drank it, but it wasn’t my best effort.”
Garrett had spoken a universal truth among brewers—no matter the taste or flavor, there’s an unspoken code that if you pour a pint, you finish it. Over the years, I had put up with my fair share of undrinkable beers, thanks to the code. I shut the hatch and stepped off the ladder. “Can I have another taste?”
Garrett handed me the taster.
Taking another sip, I let the beer settle on my tongue. When I led brewery tours at Der Keller, this was always my favorite part. I quizzed guests on what they tasted. Usually the first thing that people noticed was that the beer wasn’t carbonated. Carbonation is the final step in the brewing process. Even without a frothy head or bubbles, once a beer has been clarified, it’s remarkably drinkable. Farm-style beers from England and France are often served uncarbonated.
The first pass of Garrett’s beer left my tongue tingling from intense citrus flavors like grapefruit and oranges. The beer had a nice hoppy finish without being too bitter.
“It’s so clean,” I said to Garrett. “Tons of fruit on the front, but no aftertaste. Very nice.”
Garrett hid a smile. “Thanks. I’ve been perfecting this recipe for a couple years. I still have one more batch of hops to throw in.”
“You’ve done a great job. This is one of the better beers I’ve tasted in a long time. And that’s saying a lot. What are you calling it?”
“Citrus IPA.”
“Really?” I raised my eyebrows.
“Yeah.” Garrett looked confused. “Why?”
No wonder Hans said that Garrett needed my help.
“A beer this good deserves a name worthy of it.” I twisted the wedding ring on my finger. For some reason, I hadn’t been able to take it off yet.
“I never thought of that.” Garrett removed his chemistry goggles and cleaned them on his shirt.
“That’s why you hired me. We’ll come up with something.”
Returning the goggles to his face, Garrett climbed to the top of the shiny silver tank and peeked inside the access window. “One more round of hops, and we should be ready to keg.”
“What’s the plan for food?”
“Food?” Garrett looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language.
“You know, food for the pub. What are we serving with the beer?”
Garrett climbed off the ladder and pushed the goggles back on his forehead. His dark hair had a slight curl. “I’m glad you brought that up. I hear that you’re a culinary star, so I’m going to leave food up to you. My idea of bar food is pretzels, nuts, and a few bowls of chips, but I know that’s not going to cut it or meet the state regulations for serving alcohol.”
Pretzels and nuts were fine at a sports bar, but launching a new brewery definitely called for something more refined, and Garrett was right: our liquor license required us to offer small plates. I knew that Garrett had hired me for my brewing and culinary skills, but Hans hadn’t m
ade it clear whether Garrett wanted me to manage the kitchen or provide ideas. I decided to tread carefully for the moment. “What do you think about a menu revolving around the beer?”
“Like what?”
“I’m thinking simple pub fare—nothing extravagant. I sketched out a few ideas at home, but wanted to sample the product first. That way I can create recipes that complement each beer.”
Garrett pushed his hair from his eye again. “That sounds awesome, and way better than bowls of Doritos.”
“Oh, there will be Doritos.” I smiled and looked at the brewery. The cavernous space with its stark white walls reminded me more of a clean lab than a cheery pub. Nitro’s outdoor façade blended in with Leavenworth’s pastoral vibe. Garrett had left the chocolate brown balcony, spires, and carved lion’s head crest intact. City code demanded that every building in the town square had to adhere to German aesthetics. However, what business owners did inside was completely up to them. Garrett had obviously decided not to embrace German heritage in his redesign. I appreciated the fact that there wasn’t baroque music playing or that the walls weren’t plastered with coats of arms and nutcrackers, but the cold space was too severe.
I chose my words carefully, not wanting to offend Garrett. “It might be nice to add some warmth in here. What if we wrap those beams with string lights? I get that you’re deviating from the German theme, and trust me, I’ve seen enough lederhosen in my years here to last a lifetime, but I think it needs a little splash of color.”
He scratched his head. “Do you think people are going to be mad that I took down my aunt’s dusty tchotchkes? Every square inch of wall was covered with German kitsch.”
“Welcome to Leavenworth.” I winked. “But, no, I don’t think you should worry. In fact I think it’s good to set yourself apart, especially since you’re not on Front Street. I mean, there are a few crazies around who think that everyone should dress the part to please tourists, but I’m not worried about that. A few lights and prints on the walls should make it feel a tad more welcoming.”
Garrett nodded. “Right.”
“Did you happen to save any photographs of the inn or family pictures? I could create a display to pay homage to your aunt.”
“Great idea.” Garrett’s eyes brightened. “I have stacks of framed photos upstairs. I’ll bring them down.” He bit his bottom lip. “Are you sure this isn’t going be too much work?”
“No work at all. I love doing projects like this.” That was true, but I hoped that I hadn’t oversold my capabilities. I had less than twenty-four hours to create an upscale beer menu and transform Nitro for opening night.
Time to get to work.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
GARRETT SPENT THE REST OF the morning and early afternoon walking me through Nitro’s operations. His long-term plans included expanding the tasting room into a full-scale pub and bottling plant.
After lunch he suggested we take a break, so I decided to head home and start on a menu. The drive up Front Street was particularly gorgeous. I passed the wooden gazebo in the center of town. Beer barrels flanked each side and had been draped with red and white flower garlands. Every storefront boasted rounded arches, turrets, or rooftop gardens. White stucco three-story A-frames were trimmed with dark brown wood and bursting with lush flower boxes. German and American flags hung from windows and lined the street.
I took the long route, past the orchards and vineyards. The sky was alive with color and a handful of wispy clouds. I turned onto Mountain Home Road and wound up the hill to our family farmhouse. Every time I approached the driveway that led to our restored turn-of-the-century home and hop farm, I said a silent thanks. Never could I have imagined living in the clapboard house with its wraparound front porch and acres of organic land when I was growing up. However, today, a wave of sadness came over me as I parked in front of the mailbox. Thanks to Mac’s indiscretions, the farmhouse and the stable life I had worked so hard to carve out were in jeopardy.
I pushed the thought away and focused on the task at hand—food. If I was going to survive the destruction of my marriage (and I had every intention of surviving), I would have to put one foot in front of the other, like I always had. I swung open the unlocked front door and stepped inside to a deafening silence. Focus, Sloan, I reminded myself as I scanned the antique pie safe where I kept my cookbooks. My collection of cookbooks could qualify me for an episode of Hoarders.
Citrus, I thought as I flipped through recipe after recipe at the kitchen island. What will pair with a citrus IPA? Then inspiration struck. I wouldn’t make appetizers to simply complement the beer. I’d make them with the beer.
I tugged off the skirt I’d worn to make a professional first impression. Given Garrett’s nerdy attire, I figured I was safe to change. I pulled on a pair of jeans and my favorite T-shirt, which read REAL WOMEN DRINK BEER.
Next, I checked the industrial fridge and freezer that Mac had insisted we install in the garage. Mac liked to entertain, so we kept it stocked. I never knew when I would have to whip something together at the last minute after he’d called to say he was bringing regional distributors or a new vendor partner home for dinner.
I grabbed a bag of oranges, a bunch of fresh cilantro, a couple of red onions, and organic chicken breasts. That should make a nice skewer. Now I needed the beer. I grabbed an empty Der Keller growler, slipped on a pair of flip-flops, and headed back to the car.
The drive back to town took less than five minutes. The afternoon sun glimmered on the smooth surface of the Wenatchee River as I drove along its banks. We were between festivals in Leavenworth, which meant that Commercial Street had ample parking. Living in a small town that relied on tourism to fund the economy had its fair share of trade-offs. During Oktoberfest, Leavenworth’s population tripled. Having beer lovers pack into tents in the square and stumble into the pubs and shops was great for business, but it made going about day-to-day life nearly impossible for locals. In a few weeks, finding a parking space within a mile of the village square and beer hall would take an act of God.
Enjoy it while you can, I told myself as I pulled into a parking space in front of Nitro. Steering the car into the curb, I noticed Mac’s bumblebee yellow Hummer parked nearby. My stomach flipped. What the hell is he doing here?
Since I’d caught Mac with the beer wench, he’d been making unimaginative attempts at an apology, from flowers to chocolates and notes left on my front doorstep. All of them ended up in the trash. So far I’d been quite successful at avoiding him, which was a major feat in this town.
Why he was at Nitro was beyond me. I had to get rid of him fast.
“Garrett, I’m back,” I called as I thrust open the front door with a confidence I didn’t feel.
The sound of angry voices came from the back room.
“Suit yourself. This is the best offer you’re going to see,” I heard Mac holler. “You might want to reconsider. That’s a ton of money. If I walk out of here, you’re not getting another offer from me or anyone else in this town. That I can guarantee.”
I couldn’t hear Garrett’s response.
Whatever he said must not have gone over well. The office door slammed, and Mac stormed toward me.
He stopped in midstride. “Sloan, baby, what are you doing here?” He smoothed his tailored pale blue dress shirt and took a step closer.
I took a step back. “I work here now.”
With a glance over his shoulder, he said, “So I heard.” He rolled his eyes and moved closer to me. I could smell his expensive cologne and stale beer on his breath. “Listen, Sloan, you don’t want to work for that amateur. He’s nothing more than a glorified home brewer. Trust me, he has no idea what he’s doing.”
“Stop there.” I blocked him with my free hand and waved the empty growler at him with my other hand. “He happens to have some of the best beer I’ve ever tasted. Better than yours. I think he knows exactly what he’s doing.”
Mac’s face flushed with an
ger, but he kept his eyes neutral. “One good beer isn’t enough to support this entire operation.” The third button on his shirt looked like it was about to burst open. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was fuming or had been imbibing too much.
I wondered what the beer wench saw in his expanding belly. “Look. I’m not doing this,” I said, clutching the growler in my hand. “I don’t know why you’re trying to spy on me, but you need to leave—now!”
“Spying?” Mac sputtered. “I wasn’t spying. I’m here on business.”
“I don’t care. You’re clearly done with whatever business you had. Time to go.” I pointed to the door.
“Can we talk?” He inched closer to me and opened his baby blue eyes in a puppy-dog stare. “I miss you.”
Every muscle in my body tensed. “Get out.”
“Okay, okay, I’m going, but I’m not giving up on us. We had a good thing going, baby.”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to remind him that he threw everything we’d had out the window when he decided to shag the beer wench. Instead, I inhaled through my nostrils and remained silent.
Mac hung his head on the way to the door. He glanced down at my feet. “You’re wearing my favorite polish.”
I’m not a girly girl. The whole makeup thing doesn’t appeal to me. And let’s face it, when you’re hanging out in a brewpub all day, it isn’t really worth the effort. The one vice I afford myself is well-manicured toes. I have an entire bathroom drawer dedicated to nail polish. As Mac slammed the door, I looked at the polish adorning my toes. The slate gray polish had been one of my favorites, too. Not anymore. I planned to dump the bottle in the trash the second I got home.
“Sloan, is everything okay?” Garrett’s deep voice disrupted the silence.
How long had he been standing there?
“Yeah.” I held the growler under my arm and tried to twist the cap off. “I’m going to grab some IPA. I think I figured out a menu.”
The cap wouldn’t budge.
“Sorry, about my hus … about Mac.” I didn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t know what he’s trying to stir up, but I promise I’m not into drama. That won’t happen again.”
Death on Tap Page 3
