by Meg Muldoon
We stood there in silence for a while, reminiscing about those days. Then Warren let out a long, beleaguered breath.
“What’s troubling you, Grandpa?” I asked, noticing the abrupt change in his mood.
He stroked his white beard and looked off into the distance the way he did when he was worried about something.
“Aw, nothing.”
“What is it?”
He looked around the brew house.
“Just a feeling, I guess. Like I might be a fool for doing something like this at my age,” he said. “Maybe I ought to be setting myself up on some nice tropical island instead of starting a brewery. I hear Kauai is nice. I’m no young buck, you know. And this line of work was made for young bucks.”
“That’s not tru—”
“Yes it is,” he said. “I’m an old man. But that’s okay. I never much minded being different from all the rest, Cinny Bee. I’m an eccentric. Always have been and always will be. But it’s just that sometimes I wonder if I’m not being foolish thinking I can do something like this at my advanced age.”
He looked down for a moment.
“I guess I’m just afraid of looking like a fool and falling flat on my face for the whole town to see. That’s all.”
Being his granddaughter, I sometimes forgot that Warren wasn’t invincible. He was human, just like the rest of us, and had his share of doubts. Though he rarely let such doubts show to anyone, least of all, to me.
“Are you kidding?” I said. “You know how much buzz you’ve got going around this place? People are just dying to see what kind of beer Warren and his young, pretty Scottish wife are cooking up. This place is going to be packed all summer, and you know it.”
“But what if I’m in over my head, Cinny Bee? What if I can’t make the cut?”
I looked into his eyes.
“You’ve got me,” I said. “And you’ve got Aileen. And you’ve got Daniel. Okay? Everything’s going to be just fine. I promise. Come hell or high water. Or plumbing problems, for that matter.”
I smiled again. But he just sighed and then pulled something from his pocket.
“I got another one of these today,” he said, pushing a folded-up piece of paper into my hand.
My heart sank as I unfolded it. My eyes scanned over the crude scrawl, that familiar feeling of anger and helplessness coursing through me as I read the cruel words:
“Go Back to Scotland, Gramps.”
I bit my lower lip and shook my head.
It had been the second menacing note of its kind to grace the brew house door in as many weeks.
“Where’d you find it?” I said.
“Taped to the front door,” Warren said, sighing. “Like always.”
“I’m going to have Daniel look into this,” I said, stuffing the note into the pocket of my jeans, feeling mad as a pack of killer bees.
“Cin, it was probably just kids,” Warren said. “There’s no use in taking up the Sheriff’s time with any of it when—”
There was a sudden loud rap on the doorjamb separating the brew house from the pub, followed by the sound of footsteps.
“Sorry to interrupt,” a deep voice boomed.
Chapter 7
It wasn’t lost on me that while the man had knocked, he had stepped into the brewery without really asking.
I wondered how long he’d been standing there, listening to our conversation.
“Why, howdy Rip,” Warren said, nodding in the tall man’s direction. “It’s awful early for you, isn’t it?”
“Aw, you know,” Rip Lawrence said. “Early bird catches the worm and all that. We were supposed to have an early delivery at the brew house this morning, but they’re behind schedule. Thought I would take the opportunity to come down here and see how progress was going.”
While Rip spoke, I sized him up.
Easily over 6 feet tall – Rip sported a thick ginger-colored beard, the way he’d always had, and he still had those shifty, hawk-like eyes that had a way of putting me on edge. Today he was wearing an oversized black hoody with the words “Back Alley Brewery” on it next to the logo of a tattooed 50s pin-up model. He finished the look off with a bright green elf’s hat – something that seemed wholly out of place, bizarre, and uncharacteristic.
But this was Christmas River, after all. I supposed folks were free to wear elf hats or Santa hats, or whatever holiday-inspired costumes they saw fit any time of the year.
Noticing our puzzled stares at his choice of headgear, he reached for his hat suddenly, crumpling it in his hands and holding it up.
“I’m a beer elf in this year’s Fourth of July parade, you see,” he said. “My customers get a kick out of seeing me in costume, so I try not to disappoint. Plus I find that this here is pretty warm on a cold morning.”
He placed the hat on a nearby table, smiling an oily smile. Then he glanced around the brewery.
Rip Lawrence was the co-owner and brewmaster of Back Alley Brewing, a hole-in-the-wall brewpub that had been a Christmas River mainstay for 15 years. The brewery, however, wasn’t the most welcoming place for a lot of Christmas Riverites, including myself. It attracted a certain kind of crowd: usually men with sleeve tattoos, motorcycles, and bad attitudes toward anybody who didn’t speak their lingo. Last summer, the brewery had made headlines by coming out with a bottled beer called “Chick Beer.” The brew was a light, washed-out pilsner that barely came in at a 4-percent alcohol content, playing into stereotypes about women only liking weak, watered-down beers. The brewery got into some hot water with the beer press over that brew.
Rip was the type that Warren was speaking of when he talked about the “young bucks” he was competing with in the brewing industry. But Rip wasn’t any spring chicken himself – he was in his mid-40s – even if he did dress like an adolescent skateboarder most of the time.
Though I guessed that when you were Warren’s age, anyone under the age of 65 qualified as a young buck.
Rip’s meandering eyes rested on me for a split-second, but they didn’t stay there long. They quickly shifted back over to Warren, almost as if I wasn’t even there. Which didn’t surprise me in the least: it was the same exact way he’d always treated me. Like I was barely there.
You see, back when we were in high school, my best friend Kara had fallen madly in love with Rip Lawrence, who was at least ten years older than us and, at the time, a cashier at the Christmas River Gas Mart. She’d make me go in there afterschool to see him sometimes, where he flirted plenty with her, leading her on, making her think there was something there that wasn’t.
I never much cared for Rip, seeing the way he toyed with her feelings. I think he picked up on my dislike for him: he hardly acknowledged my existence. A pattern which continued to this day.
“So, you got everything you need for the grand opening?” he said to Warren, stepping farther into the brewery.
“Yep. Everything’s on schedule,” Warren said, his voice lacking the friendliness it usually carried.
The old man crossed his arms and leaned on his back heels, watching as Rip made a full circle of the brewery. It didn’t escape my attention the way Rip was looking around: like he was a quality inspector for the State of Oregon or something.
“Well, I’m looking forward to trying all them beers you’ve got brewing,” Rip finally said. “I’ve only heard but good things from folks around here about your homebrews. Can’t wait to see how you do on the big stage.”
Warren shifted his feet, rather uncomfortably I noticed, and crossed his arms tighter against his chest.
“You and me both,” he said, coolly. “Are you going be here tomorrow night?”
Rip smiled, revealing a pair of yellowed, nicotine-stained teeth.
“Well, Back Alley’s having a little celebration of our own,” he said. “But I’ll see if I can’t break away from the festivities for a moment or two and come on down.”
Warren grunted and nodded his head sharply.
“You sure yo
u don’t need any help with anything?” Rip said, heading back toward the plastic dividing door where he’d first appeared. “I can offer plenty of expertise.”
Warren’s jawbone was tighter than a spool of thread.
“Nope, everything’s going along just fine,” the old man said. “Thanks for the thought, though. I do appreciate it.”
“It’s nothing at all,” Rip said. “Well, I guess I ought to be getting back.”
He nodded at my grandfather, ignoring me completely.
“You have yourself a good day, Warren.”
“Don’t forget your hat,” Warren said.
“My what?”
Warren nodded in the direction of the table where Rip had left his absurd elf hat.
“Your costume.”
Rip smirked, then walked over and grabbed it.
“Nice of you to look out for me so.”
The old man watched as Rip Lawrence slipped out of the brewery with as much stealth as he had slipped in.
Warren began stroking his beard again, that worried expression returning to his face.
When he noticed me watching, he forced a smile.
“Nice of the young fella to inquire if I needed any help,” he said.
I raised my eyebrows.
“I’d call Rip Lawrence a lot of things,” I said. “But nice wouldn’t be one of them.”
“You don’t think he was here in a neighborly spirit?” Warren said.
I didn’t know Rip that well. All I had was my gut instinct about the man to go by.
And my gut told me that Rip Lawrence just wasn’t the neighborly type.
“No I don’t,” I said. “I don’t know why he was here, but it wasn’t in the spirit of camaraderie. I can tell you that.”
“I’ll admit, that ain’t the first time he’s been here and offered to help like that,” Warren said. “It makes me wonder…”
He trailed off, not finishing the sentence.
Then he shook his head.
“I don’t know, Cinny Bee,” he said. “Sometimes, I just don’t know.”
He sounded unsure and afraid.
Nothing like the invincible Warren that I had always known.
Chapter 8
Cinnamon’s Pies wasn’t even open for business yet, but already, sweat was pouring down the sides of my face like I was an athlete running a triathlon in a rainforest.
From what I’d been able to see of summer this year, which wasn’t much considering how busy the pie shop kept me, it seemed like a mild and pleasant season so far. The days were blue and breezy, the temperatures hovered in the mid to upper 70s, and the thunderstorms that we often got this time of year when things heated up had pretty much been nonexistent. Hell, a couple of days this last week, I’d actually had to wear a fleece pullover all day on account of the temperature being so unusually cool.
But the way the temperature was spiking today, and the way the sky looked – white and washed-out – spoke of different things altogether. It whispered of brutal heat and steaming concrete and folks getting nervous about wildfires. Of hot dust, sweaty days, and frustration levels going through the roof like a busted thermometer.
After living here for as long as I had, I didn’t have to consult the local news to know that a heatwave was in our midst. It was the first one of the season, and I had a feeling it was going to be a real doozy, too. Coming just in time for the Fourth of July.
“Damn, it’s hot in here,” I mumbled.
“Could be worse,” Tiana said, checking on the batch of Lemon Gingersnap pies baking in the oven. “You know, back when I worked in a restaurant in Milwaukee many years ago, there was this one summer when one of the cooks passed out because it was so hot and humid. He nearly burned himself to a crisp on the stovetop. I still don’t know if his eyebrows ever grew back.”
“Jeez, sounds terrible,” I said, though I was smiling at the quirky way Tiana told the story, as I detected a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
She closed the oven back up and added five minutes to the timer.
“For him, it was,” she said. “But for us waitresses, well, I’d venture to say that nobody shed a tear over him being laid up in the hospital. You see, he was a real crabby fella with a short temper. Some of us thought him burning off his eyebrows was just old lady karma coming back to bite him in the behind.”
She smiled slyly, and I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle.
Tiana didn’t look the part, but she had a real wicked sense of humor that I very much enjoyed during the long hours we spent working together in the kitchen.
I got a wooden spoon and gingerly stirred the filling for a batch of the Four Berry Pie, a brand new flavor that I had introduced just for the Fourth of July season. It had taken me all spring to get the pie just right, but I had finally found that magic balance of blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, cherries and vanilla pudding. I was mighty proud of the new addition to my pie menu, and it seemed that my customers were just as pleased with it as I was. So far this summer, it had been one of our top sellers.
“Looks like it’s going to be a real back-snapper of a day,” Tobias said, popping his head over the door that divided the dining room from the kitchen. “Why, I predict we’ll be sold out by 2 p.m. this afternoon.”
When he appeared, Tiana’s whole face brightened as if a raging bonfire had suddenly sprung up on her side of the kitchen.
Tobias noticed too, and he quickly looked down.
“Just, uh…” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Just thought I should let you ladies know. The line’s looking quite long out there this morn.”
“Thank you, Tobias,” I said, nodding. “We’ll prepare accordingly.”
He quickly disappeared back into the dining room. I could almost feel Tiana’s heart sink as he left without so much as looking in her direction.
It wasn’t any secret that Tiana had a crush the size of Texas on Tobias. She’d had it since I’d hired him way back in December. But Tobias, a veteran who had spent the better part of the past few years homeless, had told Tiana that he didn’t feel ready for a relationship. He’d told her, in so many words, that he had to focus on staying sober and employed, and couldn’t push his luck by adding romance on top of it.
I knew his decision had saddened Tiana greatly. But I also knew that despite what he told her, Tiana’s crush on Tobias hadn’t seemed to dissipate in the slightest. Her face still lit up whenever he was around, even though I knew she did her best to conceal it.
I wished that it could have been easy for the two of them. I wasn’t any matchmaker, but it seemed to me that they would have made such a great couple, filling in the blanks of each other’s lives. But I also knew that recovery wasn’t an easy path, and if Tobias said he wasn’t ready for a relationship, then he wasn’t ready. And either Tiana would just have to get over it and move on, or she’d continue waiting for him, hoping that one day he’d give her a chance.
So much of love came down to timing. I knew that from my own experience: Daniel and I could have easily been high school sweethearts, but because of life events, it was 17 years and a failed marriage before I found him again.
Not everyone was as lucky as I was to get a second chance, and part of me wondered if Tiana and Tobias were ever going to be more than two ships passing in the night.
I took a spoon and dipped it in the berry filling, tasting it to make sure it didn’t need any more additions. I held back from adding another squirt of lemon juice, realizing that my sour preference was most definitely not the same as my customers,’ and then I began filling up the pre-baked pie crusts with the filling. I was just about to place the filled pies in the oven when I heard a loud rap at the back door.
Tiana glanced over my shoulder and then back at me.
“You know, I’m gonna take a short break if that’s okay with you, Cin,” she said, nodding to where the noise had come from.
“Sure,” I said. “But you don’t have to take one now if you don’t want to
, Tiana.”
“Are you kidding? Sir Richard Allegheny is about to propose to Beatrice Rosebud, a lowly farm girl from the northern countryside,” Tiana said, grabbing the latest Harlequin romance book from her purse and lifting it so I could see. “I’ve been dying to see what happens all morning.”
“Well, in that case, take an extra-long break and enjoy,” I said.
“I most certainly will.”
I smiled, wondering if her latest obsession with romance novels wasn’t connected to her loneliness.
She walked over to the back door and opened it.
“Why, hello, Sheriff Brightman,” she said. “Nice seeing you today.”
“You as well, Tiana,” he said. “And I wish you’d just call me Daniel for once.”
“Naw, I think I’ll go on calling you Sheriff Brightman if that’s okay with you,” Tiana said. “It still tickles me that I know the Sheriff of Pohly County.”
I heard her footsteps steal across the back deck, and then I heard heavy boots shuffle into the kitchen.
I didn’t turn around to look at him as I took the batch of Four Berry pies to the oven and set the timer.
Chapter 9
I felt his eyes on me, but I didn’t meet them. I went back to the counter and grabbed a bag of oranges for a batch of the Orange Creamsicle pies, another new pie variety that had proved to be wildly popular so far this summer. I pulled an orange out and started zesting it.
His boots squeaked on the linoleum as he approached.
“It’s getting hot out there,” he finally said.
“Seems that way,” I said quietly.
“I’ve got a bad feeling that we’re in for a real busy Fourth,” he said. “You know how crime goes up with the heat anyway. Put a holiday, a parade, and some fireworks on top of that, and you’ve got yourself a recipe for one hellish day at the Sheriff’s Office.”
The orange in my hands had gone completely white on account of my furious zesting. I tossed it aside in favor of a new one.
Daniel let out a long sigh. Enough of one for me to actually glance over my shoulder to look at him.
