Any Luck at All: Asheville Brewing #1

by Denise Grover Swank

  Three days later he was dead. Her heart ached with the loss.

  Mr. Manning pulled a pair of reading glasses from his jacket pocket and perched them on his nose. He shot Georgie a forced grin. “Eyesight’s not what it used to be.”

  She gave him a tight smile, her stomach doing flips.

  “If Henry’s reading this to you, that means I’m dead, but don’t mourn me. I’ve lived a long, full life with few regrets, and those few I do have I’m hoping to rectify with this will.” Mr. Manning picked up a glass of water and swallowed several gulps.

  “Good boy,” Dottie said. “Flush away the bad karma.”

  Bad karma? That didn’t bode well.

  He set down the glass and continued to read. “I’ll start with my work family first. To Tom Magee, my plant manager, my fishing buddy, and dear friend, I leave my fishing equipment. You won’t be able to tell me any more whoppers, old boy. I’ll be watching over you, keeping you honest.”

  The middle-aged man grinned and nodded his acknowledgment.

  “To Rita, you were a joy and a treasure. I’ve left you fifteen thousand dollars for not only cleaning my house but watching over me. Now I’ve finally gotten my way and can buy you a decent car.”

  Tears ran down Rita’s face and Dottie pulled another crystal from her pocket and put it in the woman’s hand, whispering something into her ear. Idly, Georgie wondered how many crystals she had in there.

  “To River,” Mr. Manning continued. “You’ve become like a son to me. To you, I leave my father’s pocket watch. It should go to someone who appreciates the meaning of such things.”

  The man in the off-the-rack suit looked stunned at the announcement. His eyes turned glassy and he cleared his throat before he said, “Thank you.”

  Dottie reached over and patted his arm.

  “And now on to Prescott,” the attorney said.

  Georgie noticed that the letter hadn’t yet addressed two of the people at the end of the table—Dottie and the young man with dark hair and brooding eyes. What was the significance of that?

  Dread filled her gut.

  The attorney dabbed his face again before continuing. “Dear Prescott. We’ve had our differences, son, some of them my doing and some of them yours. I wish I’d spent more time with you when you were a boy, and I wish you’d corrected my mistakes, rather than following my lead when it came to raising your own children.”

  Georgie’s gaze shot to Lee, who was already giving her a questioning glance. Did he think she’d spilled the family secret during her visit with her grandfather? Although it wasn’t much of a secret that Prescott Buchanan had devoted far more of his life to his business than his family.

  The attorney continued. “You built your own life, and I confess that was partly my doing, but now I want to give your children the chance to make different choices.”

  Adalia perked up at that, turning to Georgie with a questioning look, her short blond curls bouncing around her shoulders.

  Georgie made a face that suggested she was just as clueless.

  Mr. Manning took a deep breath, as if he were a soldier preparing for battle, then enunciated each word carefully. “The brewery, the house, and everything in it, other than what’s already been stated, goes to Prescott’s four children.”

  Mass chaos broke out, everyone shouting at once.

  “This is outrageous!” Prescott shouted as he got to his feet. “I will fight this!”

  Lee jerked his gaze to the attorney. “How could this happen?”

  Victoria was already patting Lee’s arm. “Don’t worry. We can fight this.”

  Georgie just stared at them in shock. Was Lee such an ass-kisser that he’d give up his inheritance to placate their father?

  Adalia sat back in her seat and turned to Georgie. “Four children. Why did he say that? Dad only has three children.”

  Because it turned out Beau Buchanan had somehow known Prescott’s dirty little secret.

  Horror filled Georgie as she turned to face the young man at the end of the table. And she wondered why she hadn’t seen it before. He shared her father’s cheekbones. And dark eyes. His hair was the same dark color her father’s had been. Georgie and her siblings’ coloring had come from their mother.

  “Georgie?” Adalia demanded.

  “There are four,” Georgie said quietly, unable to take her eyes off her younger brother. While she’d known of him, she’d never seen him. Not even a photo.

  “What?” Adalia screeched. “How?”

  “Come now, Adalia,” Victoria sneered. “You’re a grown woman. You know how these things work.”

  Adalia turned to Georgie. “You knew?”

  “We both did,” Lee said quietly. “We found out a few years ago by accident.”

  “And no one thought to tell me?” Adalia asked, her voice so full of pain it hurt Georgie’s heart. She wanted to reach out and comfort her sister, to tell her they hadn’t meant for it to go so long. Adalia had been going through a bad stretch, and she and Lee had decided it wasn’t a good time to tell their baby sister. And then there had never been a good time after that. Oh, by the way, Lee and I found out that Dad cheated on Mom, and we have a brother only a few months older than you. How’s the weather?

  But now this was a huge mess, and Adalia’s hurt feelings were entirely justified.

  “Addy,” Lee said, his voice full of apology.

  “Don’t you even try to explain it!” Adalia said to her brother, then turned her icy stare on Prescott. “And you! How dare you cheat on our mother!”

  “Here, dear,” Dottie said, getting up and putting yet another stone in front of Adalia.

  “I don’t think a crystal’s gonna fix this, Aunt Dottie,” River said in a dry tone.

  “Nonsense,” Dottie said, her eyes burning brightly. “Nothing’s broken that can’t be put back together.”

  Georgie wasn’t so sure about that.

  Chapter Two

  Watching the Buchanan family made River feel like a rubbernecker checking out an accident by the side of the road. It was more uncomfortable than the suit he was wearing, which was saying something.

  He caught the eye of the pretty blonde again, the one with her hair pulled back in a bun so tight it looked like it hurt. Georgie. Beau had told him a little about her visit, although he hadn’t mentioned a damn thing about passing over his son and giving the brewery to his grandkids. Prescott had been pretty upfront about wanting to pawn Beau’s legacy, and probably Beau had expected that. Maybe the kids wouldn’t sell, although he suspected four strangers could run a business together better than this crew.

  He doubted any of them knew jack about beer.

  There were tears in Georgie’s eyes, which made his stomach wrench a little. Beau’s son and grandson were obviously blowhards—well, Junior, at least—but the granddaughters seemed okay. Still, he felt worse for the guy sitting next to him. The secret son. For everything that had been said around and about him, he hadn’t said a word. He’d just soaked it all in like he was used to listening, to reacting rather than acting.

  River knew what it felt like to be the kid who got left behind—literally, in his case—and it sucked. Now, this guy had become the sideshow in this hoity-toity circus, through the mere act of being born. The look in his eyes said he could take it, though—that maybe this was something he’d been waiting for, his chance to claim whatever piece of the Buchanan pie he felt he was owed.

  In this case, a fourth of Beau’s estate.

  It was time for the rest of them to leave.

  “Maybe we should get out of here,” he said, to which all of the other non-Buchanans eagerly nodded. “Give the family some space. You’ve already addressed the parts of the will that relate to us, right, Henry? Any reason for us to stay?”

  Henry gave him a panicked look. His handkerchief was as wet as if he’d soaked it in one of Aunt Dottie’s water pitchers. He clearly didn’t enjoy the thought of being left with the Buchanans, and really, who
could blame him.

  “Good idea, dear,” Aunt Dottie said. “But if I remember correctly, I’m supposed to stay until the end.”

  Adalia had picked up the crystal his aunt had given her and was turning it around in her hand as if she might hurl it at someone—who the target would be was anyone’s guess—but her eyes flew up at his aunt’s comment. “You knew I had another brother before I did!”

  Her tone was shrill, and Prescott picked up his glass of water, untouched, of course, and banged it down on the table. “You will stop acting like a child this instant, Adalia. We’ve had enough of your display.”

  She’d been saucy enough earlier that River expected her to throw back a comment, but she didn’t. She just sat back in her chair, her mouth in a thin line, like she was forcing herself to hold back all the things she wanted to say. Or maybe she was just trying not to cry. With her short curly hair, she looked every bit the part of the little sister. Somehow that made it worse. He didn’t think much of men who intimidated women.

  The door closed, and River realized Rita had already left the room. Smart lady.

  “See,” Aunt Dottie said brightly, although River knew her well enough to see beyond it, “aren’t you glad I got the glasses? A plastic bottle would never have made such an authoritative sound. You would have crushed it.”

  “Who is this woman?” Prescott asked Henry. “Is there any reason for her to stay?”

  The words were said with such distaste, River felt the urge to bite back, but this was his aunt’s moment too, and if anyone knew how to stand up for herself, it was Dottie Hendrickson. A man had attempted to mug her once, and she’d reduced him to tears in the space of five minutes, and not because she kept a can of mace in her purse. She’d engaged him in conversation, and he’d spilled his life story to her. She’d invited him home for tea, and he still sent her a card every Christmas. That was Aunt Dottie for you.

  “Dad…” Junior said, likely the first time he’d done anything to stand up to his father, but he needn’t have bothered.

  “Oh, bless your heart,” Aunt Dottie said. “I’m the woman who’s shared your father’s bed for the last twenty years.”

  And that was his cue.

  As voices rose on the other side of the room, River nodded to the guy next to him, whose name he still didn’t know. “Good luck, man. You’re going to need it.”

  For a second, he wondered if maybe he’d pissed the guy off, but then a corner of his mouth lifted up.

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  River got up and slapped Tom on the back. “Ready?”

  They walked away, River closing the door behind them, but as they left the room, he felt compelled to look back. He met Georgie’s eyes again, drawn to her despite himself, but she looked away as if embarrassed. He couldn’t blame her for that. He had a feeling everyone in that room would be talking about this will reading for years to come.

  Once they left the office and stepped onto North Market Street, River turned to Tom. “If they sell to one of the big companies, let me know, man. I can put in a word for you with Finn. No one wants to work for the corporate overlords.”

  Tom gave him a weird look. Had he overstepped? They’d always gotten along well, so the possibility hadn’t occurred to him.

  Before he could ask, Tom shook his head. “I’ll see how it plays out. I guess we know why Beau never talked about his family much. I feel like we just walked out of a reality TV show.”

  River went home to change out of the suit, something he was grateful he had time for before he met up with Finn. Finn had gone to the funeral too, but he’d ducked out afterward, saying something about a business meeting. Although they’d worked together for five years, River was happy to leave that kind of stuff to him. The business angle wasn’t something that spoke to him; brewing was what he loved. There was a certain kind of magic to brewing beer—you never knew exactly how it was going to turn out. Small differences could end up being big in the end. A little more of this, a little less of that, and suddenly you had a new flavor, the kind that kept people coming back.

  River didn’t have any official training—he’d never taken any classes—but he’d started when he was a teenager, schooled by Beau, who maybe should have known better. And Finn had taken a chance on him after they met at a local beer festival. Together they’d made Big Catch Brewing the go-to craft brewery in Asheville. And that was something to be proud of.

  About a month ago, Beau had invited River over for a drink. They’d sat on the back porch with a couple of brews—some of Big Catch’s stuff River had brought over—and shot the shit. It wasn’t so unusual for Beau to ask him over, even if Aunt Dottie wasn’t around, but something about Beau’s energy had seemed off—and wouldn’t his aunt have had a field day if he’d told her that—so it hadn’t surprised him when the tone turned serious.

  Beau had set his beer down and turned to look River in the eye. “Son,” he said, “you’re happy, aren’t you? Working with Finn? I didn’t know what to think of a man named after a fish appendage, but he seems like a good enough sort of fellow.”

  A little uneasy about where the conversation was going, River had nonetheless fallen into the joke. “Sure, once I got used to the smell.”

  But Beau’s expression had stayed serious, and so he’d responded in kind.

  “Yeah, Beau, I’m happy there. Who would have thought I’d have all of this after…well, you know.” He tapped the bottle in his hand. It was their Lake Trout Lager. Given their respective names, River and Finn, they’d gone in hard with the whole fishing theme—a joke that probably seemed funnier after a couple of drinks.

  “Good, good,” Beau had said distractedly.

  River sat up straighter. “Are you having trouble with the brewery?”

  Beau swatted the air, although they both knew Buchanan Brewery needed a major overhaul. The equipment was outdated, and it had been at least three years since the brewmaster, Lurch, had come up with anything new. Five years since he’d come up with anything good. Still, Beau was nothing if not loyal, and Lurch had once helped him out of a lurch (hence the nickname). He refused to replace the man, even though they were both far past the normal age of retirement. With as much competition as there was—a new brewery popping up every few months like a mushroom—they couldn’t keep skating by forever.

  “Don’t you worry about that,” Beau said. “I was considering some plans for the future, and I want to be sure you’re taken care of.”

  “We’ve talked about this before. You’ve already given me everything I could possibly want. As far as I’m concerned, the only plan you should be making is when you’re getting a haircut, because you’re starting to channel a serious Einstein vibe.”

  “Consider the source,” Beau had said with a smile. “Before long you’ll be able to pull that into a ponytail”—he winced—“and then one of those man buns.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll never let it go that far. Now, will you stop being morbid?”

  “Only once I die,” Beau had said, picking up the beer again. He took a long sip, looking off into the distance, and then said, “I’m thinking of asking my granddaughter to visit. It’s time.”

  Beau’s family had always fallen on the do-not-discuss list, or rather the do-not-discuss-unless-Beau-brings-it-up list. Not because he was the sort of man who kept secrets, or at least not until this whole will disaster, but because it had broken his heart. That was something River understood. He didn’t talk about his mother either.

  So he’d just nodded.

  Now, he wished he’d asked more questions. He wished a lot of things.

  After a stop at his loft on North Lexington—the suit went into the back of his closet until someone else died or got married, and he checked on the fermentation of his new test batch—he walked to Buchanan Brewery, feeling a whole hell of a lot more like himself in jeans and T-shirt. The South Slope location, which had been kind of iffy fifteen years ago when they’d first moved to this spot, was now ide
al. They had the street, just not the street appeal. There was a kind of hominess to the tasting room, though, like your grandparents’ somewhat mildewy basement. But maybe he just thought that because Beau had been the owner, and Aunt Dottie was the tasting room manager.

  The place was packed tonight, with so many people standing he couldn’t edge his way to the bar. Annoying from a logistics perspective, but it made him proud of Beau. Everyone wanted to raise a glass to him. A few people waved at River and slapped him on the back, some of them mutual acquaintances with Beau, others locals who patronized Big Catch, and then he caught sight of Finn sitting at a small two-top, chatting with a couple of pretty tourists, a blonde with pigtails and a brunette drinking a hard lemonade. Leave it to Finn to wheedle his way into a seat—and female company.

  “Over here, buddy!” Finn called. “Already got you a beer.”

  He wrestled his way over to the table, nearly tripping over a Chihuahua in an emotional support vest—his friend Maisie was so hearing about that—before he finally grabbed the seat across from his buddy.

  Although River had ditched his suit the first chance he got, Finn was still wearing his. Of course, Finn was the kind of guy who wore suits well, just like Junior from earlier, only not an asshole.

  “I’ll call you later,” Finn said to the blonde with the pigtails, and the two women took off, Finn’s date looking over her shoulder.

  “Let me guess,” River said, waiting for them to be out of hearing, “you told her you’re a big catch.”

  “Ha. Ha,” Finn said. “Very funny. You’re lucky that, loss of Beau aside, I’m in a very good mood.” He slid a pint across the table to him. “Beau Brown. I thought it only appropriate.” He picked up his own drink, a pint of the same, and they clinked glasses.

  “To Beau.”

  River’s throat felt a little thick at that, but he took a swig. Beau had been eighty-seven, for God’s sake. They didn’t have much reason to complain, did they?

  Somehow that didn’t matter like it should.