by Jean Oram
Moe felt an invisible band tighten around his forehead. “How long do you propose we work together? Just until we’re through the trial period, or longer?”
“The next two months for sure. Possibly longer if things go well.” In other words, if they didn’t lose the pubs in September, they’d keep the partnership going.
He scanned the pages, hoping to see the jobs he despised assigned to her. Unfortunately, the proposal wasn’t that specific. He tried to imagine himself fussing with orders, payroll, as well as inventory, shipments, promotions, negotiating deals with suppliers, not to mention developing recipes for new beers, instead of simply tapping other brewmasters’ kegs.
What if he found a way to buy Brew Babies, then flipped it? Maybe he could work for the new owner without any headaches. Profits from the sale would cover the cost of in vitro, even creating a cushion so they could fail a time or two.
Why did he feel disappointed that in vitro might truly become a viable possibility?
He shook his head, dismissing thoughts of baby-making from his mind. He needed to think like an owner. Like The Man. And if he bought and sold Brew Babies, then what? He wasn’t the man in control of his own destiny.
But if he bought it…headaches. And they’d all be his to deal with.
Moe’s damp thumbprints were making the paper stretch and wrinkle, and he relaxed his grip, trying to keep the papers pristine.
“Barkeeping forty or more hours a week,” he said, “along with all of this doesn’t leave me with a lot of personal time.”
That band around his forehead was getting mighty tight.
“Moe…” There was amusement in her tone, and he wasn’t sure he liked the hint of condescension that came with it. “You would be the owner, the manager. You’d hire out barkeeping.”
Moe cleared his throat again, feeling ridiculous for not thinking like someone above a bartender. You didn’t do the lower level jobs if you could hire them out.
But the idea of no longer tending the bar left him feeling…well, it was similar to the idea of in vitro being possible again. As though his life wasn’t quite in line with his inner feelings.
Before he could sort out the meaning of it all, Kimi began speaking. “You’ve added entertainment and a larger menu to Brew Babies, making the pub a part of the community. You’ve increased profits substantially over the past few years, and I’d love to hear your thoughts on what can be done here in the city.”
“Yeah, of course.” That was the easy stuff. The fun stuff.
If that was the stuff he got to do, he’d be okay. Plus, there’d be more money coming into their household. And Amy would be able to work part-time after the kids came, or go wherever her heart took her.
He should find the money and make the pub happen.
Be the owner. Be the boss. Take control of his financial future and not leave it to someone else to decide when and where he made his money.
“Yeah, let’s figure this out and do it.” He stood, shaking Kimi’s hand.
She beamed at him. “Thank you, Moe. Thank you so much.” She clamped both hands around his.
As he exited the office after discussing the specifics of their new partnership, he bumped into Kimi’s brother. The pale, doughy man, who called himself a professional gamer, looked agitated, his eyebrows drawn low.
“Spencer, good to see you.” He gave his hand a brisk shake.
Spencer angled a thumb toward Kimi’s office. “She wants to manage your pub with you.”
“She does.”
“Why didn’t you ask me?”
“I didn’t realize you were interested.” Or qualified. Moe scratched his cheek.
“Dad and I used to talk about the businesses a bit. I might know stuff that could help you guys out.”
“Maybe you could help Kimi with her place?”
“You know how it is working with a sister. A super bossy one.” He smiled. “But yeah, I’ll help her where I can. Offer’s open to you, too. It’s been a rough month, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah. And thanks.”
“How long will you two work together?”
“Well, assuming I can scratch up the cash to buy this place, for however long it benefits us both.”
Spencer was shifting from foot to foot, eating lint-covered gummy candies from the pocket of his jeans. “My dad always liked you. Wished you’d joined the family.”
“Right,” Moe said awkwardly.
“But you didn’t.”
“I didn’t.” He’d managed to dodge that one. Barely. He’d dated Kimi for a few months—just long enough for both of them to realize it would never work.
He excused himself, thoughts of Spencer falling from his mind as he tried to figure out where he was going to come up with approximately two hundred thousand dollars in two months and make himself both a manager and an owner.
Amy stared at Dr. Nash Leham under the unforgiving lights of his office’s exam room. When had artificial insemination become so expensive? All those add-on costs such as testing, the storage of extracted eggs and doctor visits added up. Especially since the success rate wasn’t one hundred percent.
“Is there some sort of employee discount?” she asked hopefully, even though she knew there wouldn’t be.
She’d asked Moe to marry her, then purchased a house to combine their two households and have room for a family, and she couldn’t afford to make a baby, let alone two.
“We don’t do in vitro here in Blueberry Springs,” Nash replied. “You also don’t work here any longer.”
“I still have my nursing certificate. It’s up-to-date.”
Mark your calendars! She was officially pleading.
“Do you have a health plan at the pub?” Nash glanced at her with those bright blue eyes, obviously taking in more of her story than she figured the average doctor would.
“It’s not good enough to cover this.”
“You’ve been married less than a month. These things take time.” His tone was even and kind. He was using his doctor’s voice; the one reserved for patients who were quickly approaching the unhinged stage.
She didn’t speak, unsure what to say to a man who assumed she had a traditional marriage. How did Nash always manage to stay out of the Blueberry Springs gossip circles when they swirled all around him like whirlpools?
“Do you expect to have issues with fertility?” he asked.
She gave a quick shrug.
“Have you been tested?”
She shook her head, her ears heating. She’d worked comfortably alongside Nash off and on for years, which was why she’d come to him. She didn’t expect to feel this bashful or embarrassed.
“I assume everything is in order,” she mumbled.
“Well then?” He was probing, and she’d counted on him simply setting her up and sending her off.
“Moe and I don’t have that kind of marriage.”
Nash remained silent, loosely clasping his clipboard, his head titled to the side.
“Our plan is to have children together via artificial insemination.”
Nash still didn’t speak, giving her way too much conversational rope with which to hang herself. He didn’t need to know the embarrassing truth about how her well-meaning best friend had swooped in to help her, when her love life kept pushing up daisies. She didn’t have all the time in the world to have kids. She needed this to work. “It’s a platonic marriage. A marriage between friends.”
“But you two dated in the past?”
Why did everyone get hung up on that part?
She cleared her throat and rolled her hunched shoulders back. “We’re in a good place right now. Sex would only complicate things.”
“It would also provide children at no cost.”
He handed her an ovulation-tracking calendar with a dry smile. She heaved a sigh, wondering how she was going to break it to her husband that the only way they could afford to conceive kids was the old-fashioned way—by getting naked.
Am
y pulled a few pints of dark ale behind the bar in Brew Babies, her eyes drifting toward the back office, where Moe had been working all night.
He’d spent the afternoon with Kimi discussing her partnership offer, and Amy had spent the afternoon in the doctor’s office. She hoped he had better news than she did. Maybe news that they were secretly wealthy, so she wouldn’t have to go begging her parents for money to provide them with grandchildren. Perfect little beings full of love, laughter and joy.
She knew her folks didn’t mind being asked to help, and that it made them feel needed, but she was getting tired of frequently finding herself in a position where she had to ask. Although with her mom having her pay for the wedding, she might be done saying yes to bailing Amy out.
Either way, she would sort something out. But in the meantime, she’d work on a fail-safe plan, like Moe always did.
Moe. Sweet Moe. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet, not even asking how her appointment had gone when she’d slipped in ten minutes late for her shift. She kept waiting for him to come out of the office and pour drafts alongside her, to ensure the beer flowed fast, like it always did on a profitable poker night. But instead he’d spent more time at his desk than usual, and she wondered if maybe things hadn’t gone well for him today, either.
The pub, warm and boisterous, enveloped her in its familiar buzz, from the whoop of a hand of cards being won to the kitchen bell dinging to indicate an order was up. The jukebox started, playing some tired old song from the seventies, which meant John Abcott would be up dancing with his new wife, Gloria, in no time.
Amy glanced to her right again, her attention pulled to the hallway that led to the alley, the washrooms, the small brew room and Moe’s small office. He’d been popping out to chat with customers almost every hour on the hour, the tension easing off of him before he’d go back in again. He was due for another break soon.
Something cold spilled over Amy’s hand and, sighing, she tipped the glass to pour off what Moe would certainly call too much head. He claimed it was her impatience that caused her to produce too much foam, but she knew it was because she didn’t have the special knack he did. But tonight it was because there were way too many beers to pour, as they were understaffed without him out here. He needed to get that agreement in place with Kimi so he could download the dreary work to her and return to the bar and the life he loved.
Mary Alice Bernfield sat a few stools down, trying the new sampler of the latest brews Moe had tapped late last night.
“I do like this one,” she told Marissa, pointing to a darker beer.
A loud whoop went up at the table behind her, causing her to jump.
“Amy! This round you’re working on is on me!” Frankie Smith, the winner of the hand, called out.
She nodded, keeping an eye on the table beside him, which was full of smokejumpers in training. They were getting loud and she made a mental note to be a little slower in topping up their drinks.
“Want a pint of the dark?” Marissa asked Mary Alice, reaching up to pat at her glossy black bun and fix a hairpin.
The woman shook her head. “This’ll do. I need to head home soon. Just closed up the store for the night and was in need of a nightcap.”
“You came to the right place.” Over her shoulder, Marissa asked Amy, “Did more soda come in? We’re almost out.”
“There’s more in the brew room.”
“Nope. This is it.”
Amy glanced out at the crowd. They had a few designated drivers in the house tonight, such as Oz Reiter, who no longer drank. They all got free soda and refills upon refills. That combined with the rye and Cokes that were on special tonight meant they’d be out of soft drinks by tomorrow.
“Moe ordered some last week. Didn’t it come in?”
Marissa shook her head. “Two shipments have come in, but no soda.”
“Weird.” Kimi really needed to step in and take care of these things for Moe, as they were slipping through the cracks. There was only so much one man could keep track of. “I’ll see if he can put a rush on it.”
Mary Alice turned to Amy. “Where is that hunky hubby of yours?”
“Hunky?” Amy had just picked up the tray holding the half-dozen beers she’d poured for Frankie’s table, and nearly dropped it when she glanced up, spying the man in question leaning against the poster-covered wall where the hallway and pub’s big room met.
Moe caught Amy’s eye and winked before bending to hear what Gran, an elderly lady who liked to keep most people in town on their toes with her quick wit, was saying. Amy bet she was suggesting, once again, that Moe try his hand at distilling sherry, and that she, a seasoned connoisseur, could personally critique each new batch, pro bono.
Kind and casual as always, Moe was smiling, giving Gran as much time as she needed to state her case. Recently, the woman had become a bit of a night owl, a change in medications resetting her internal clock, and she found the pub a lively and fun place to spend her newfound energy, much to the chagrin of her granddaughters, Cynthia and Beth.
“I do like him with his shorter hair,” Mary Alice stated, turning to study Amy’s face.
The clean, crisp lines of his cheekbones still took her by surprise, and she half-expected an unruly lock to fall into his eyes. “Yeah, it’s nice,” Amy said noncommittally, hoisting the tray once again, determined not to provide any body language tells that would give the gossip something to go on where her attraction to Moe was concerned.
“Any more of those wedding kisses happening?” Mary Alice called, her voice carrying across the pub just as the jukebox song ended.
Amy nearly tripped, her eyes flying to Moe’s. His glittered in amusement as he escorted Gran to the door where the town’s new cab driver, Ahmed, was waiting to transport her back to the nursing home.
“Take care,” Moe said, leaning down so Gran could place a dry kiss on his cheek. He disappeared back into his office as Amy neared Frankie’s table.
It was poker night. Didn’t Moe remember he was supposed to stay out on the floor to help handle things? Real things like mixing drinks and settling tabs.
How long would it take him to get Kimi on board and all this taken care of?
“You should get another poker table,” suggested Dale, one of the men waiting for a turn to join the game.
“Ricky, I can see your cards,” Amy called over her shoulder to the player with the royal flush. He instantly pulled his hand to his chest, eyes darting back and forth to see if anyone else had managed a peek.
“Moe just brought in a third one this week,” she told Dale, weaving her way between chairs to deliver the beers.
“Why do we have to use a special table? Can’t we just play wherever?”
“You can ask.”
“No way,” one of the men piped up, having overheard the conversation. “It’s not the same without the felt-covered poker tables.”
“Plus, they have cup holders so you don’t knock your beer over,” Ricky added, causing Dale to sigh.
Moe had found the latest poker table in a pawn shop. He had been slowly adding tables after Nicola Samuels-Haber, the town’s community planner who also planned community events, had stopped running poker night in the community center. The weekly event at Brew Babies was the most profitable by far, with drink and appetizer sales going through the roof.
“I still say you need another,” Dale replied, his arms crossed.
He was the only one who seemed to be waiting for a table to play at tonight and, according to Moe, a lineup increased demand.
“Can I get you another pale ale?” she asked him as she continued to weave between seated players to deliver fresh brews and retrieve empty glasses.
“Keep ’em coming,” he replied with another sigh.
The table of smokejumpers behind her erupted in laughter just before one of the poker players laid down his cards and all the rest groaned in defeat. Frankie leaned back as Amy reached to place his fresh beer in the cup holder between hi
m and Scott Malone. Frankie’s elbow hit the glass, sending the frigid liquid splashing all over her.
He apologized and stood in one smooth move, poising a napkin over Amy’s chest before catching himself.
“My fault,” she said with a gasp, setting down her tray. Marissa tossed a small towel across the table on her way by. “Accidents happen.”
“Too bad your shirt wasn’t white,” one of the smokejumpers joked as he pushed his chair aside so she could access the puddle that had dripped off of her and onto the floor.
“Yeah, I love getting beer stains out of white clothes.”
“Dude, not cool,” Scott replied, standing. The town’s only law officer wasn’t in uniform, but held himself with such authority it was as good as wearing a badge.
“Just saying,” the smokejumper said. “A little wet T-shirt contest would keep things lively.” He shot a grin to his buddies and elbowed the closest one, and their laughter hit headache levels. These guys had spent the day learning how to leap out of perfectly good planes into fire zones, and the mix of alcohol and residual adrenaline seemed to be amping up their testosterone levels.
Chair legs screeched on the floor as the men of Blueberry Springs stood in unison, facing the smokejumpers, a solid wall of support.
“Guys, it’s all cool.” Amy gave a light laugh. “Really. It’s fine.”
“You’re not a piece of meat,” Scott said.
“I know that,” she said. “How about an appetizer? Anyone hungry?”
Her suggestion was ignored.
The jukebox was now pumping out something country, and the mouthy smokejumper snagged Amy, tugging the towel from her grip. “As an apology, dance with me.”
She pushed against his chest. “That’s not an apology, and I’m working.”
Before she could do anything more, Moe was there, forcing himself between the two of them.
“She’s not interested,” he said, his jaw flexing.
“Says who?” The smokejumper pushed out his chest, shoulders back. “I saw her first.”
