Any Luck at All
Asheville Brewing #1
A.R. Casella
Denise Grover Swank
Copyright © 2020 by A.R. Casella and Denise Grover Swank
Cover: Okay Creations
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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To the Franceses: two strong women, generations apart
—ARC
* * *
To my girls: never settle
—DGS
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Also by A.R. Casella and Denise Grover Swank
Also by Denise Grover Swank
About the Author
About the Author
Chapter One
“How much longer is this going to take?” Prescott Lee Buchanan said in a condescending tone, his fingers drumming on the conference table.
Georgie Buchanan knew that drumming all too well. She’d lived with it for her entire childhood.
“The attorney said we’re waiting on something,” she told her father.
“I don’t understand why we’re even here for the will reading,” Georgie’s baby sister, Adalia, moaned. “I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen Grandpa Buchanan. The last time was over a decade ago. He’s not going to leave us anything. I heard his brewery’s basically worthless.”
Georgie’s brother, Lee, who was the middle child but always acted like he was the most important one, shot Adalia an irritated glare. “Unfortunately, Adalia, life isn’t a free-for-all. Sometimes there are duties and obligations, and they’re not always fun and games.”
Adalia slapped her ink-stained hand on the table and leaned forward. “I know you don’t think much of my life, Junior, but at least I’m not Dad’s puppet.”
“That will be enough, Adalia,” Prescott snapped. Then he turned to Lee. “Junior, go and see what’s taking so long.”
Irritation flickered in Lee’s eyes. Georgie knew how much he hated to be called Junior, and if he jumped up to do their father’s bidding, he’d be proving Adalia’s point.
Lee’s girlfriend, Victoria, stood with a grace that made Georgie feel like a backwoods hick, which was saying something since Georgie had created and built a company that she’d just sold for five million dollars. Of course, her father would argue that a company that sells feminine products was nothing to brag about.
Victoria gave Prescott a smile that suggested a comradery Georgie had never shared with her father. “I’ll get answers,” she said in a commanding tone that was probably reassuring to her clients but was grating on Georgie’s nerves. “Professional courtesy.”
The woman, a corporate attorney who was tall and skinny enough to be a supermodel, walked out of the room, her gray pencil skirt so tight Georgie wondered how she could walk at all.
“They have high-priced call girls here?” Adalia asked in a dry tone.
One of the men sitting at the opposite end of the table covered his mouth with his hand, but Georgie could tell he was trying to hide his laughter. He’d walked in after she was seated and she’d let her gaze linger on him for longer than was polite. Tall, dark, and handsome was definitely Georgie’s type, and it had been far too long since her last boyfriend. Still, the reading of her grandfather’s will hardly seemed like the place to pick up a guy.
“Have you no impulse control at all, Adalia?” Lee demanded, the veins in his neck bulging.
“There’s something to be said for saying how you feel instead of keeping it all bottled up inside,” Adalia said with a smirk. Then she glanced back at Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome and the people around him. “Am I right?”
There were a handful of people Georgie didn’t recognize at the table. A man wearing jeans and a button-down shirt who looked to be in his late fifties. A middle-aged Latina woman wearing a simple floral dress. The smirking man, who looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, wore a black suit that was obviously off the rack and not tailored like Prescott’s and Lee’s. The man who sat next to him was around the same age, dressed in khakis, a button-down shirt that still had creases that hadn’t quite been ironed out from the packaging, and a cheap black tie. He sat stoically in his chair, mostly watching her father but occasionally sneaking glances at her and her siblings. And in the center of them all, at the head of the table opposite Georgie’s father, sat the one non-Buchanan person Georgie recognized, an elderly woman with short, curly lavender hair, who had on a bright pink business suit that looked like it was straight from the 1980s, shoulder pads and all. Dottie Hendrickson was dressed just as colorfully as she had been when Georgie had met her a few weeks ago at her grandfather’s brewery.
When Georgie had asked the legal assistant about all the nonfamily newcomers who’d shown up for the reading of the will, the woman had said, “He bequeathed a few odds and ends to them.”
They’d all sat at the opposite end of the room, as if Prescott had sectioned off a kids’ table for them. Of course. Prescott was flanked by his three children in their finest black attire: Georgie and Adalia on one side—with an empty chair between Georgie and her father—and Lee and Victoria on the other, Lee glued to his father’s side, of course, and Victoria’s vacated seat next to him.
Of the Buchanan contingent, Georgie was the only one who’d seen Beau at all in recent years. She’d paid him a visit a few weeks ago, at his request. He’d called to congratulate her on the sale of her company, something her own father had still not done, and invited her to come to Asheville in the near future. Something in his voice had told her the visit should come sooner rather than later, and with no new project yet in the works, she’d made an impulsive decision (not her usual) and hopped on a plane. He hadn’t looked like the picture of health, but then again, he’d been in his late eighties. Still, she hadn’t expected him to die so quickly.
During her two-day visit, he’d taken her on a tour of Buchanan Brewery, the oldest brewery in Asheville, North Carolina, a city which had become a hotbed for beer brewing…and apparently left Buchanan Brewery in its dust. The equipment was old, some of the staff even older, including the woman currently holding court opposite Georgie’s father. Dottie was the tasting room manager.
Dottie smiled at Georgie now, her eyes twinkling as though she was privy to an amusing secret.
Georgie’s back stiffened. Wait. Was she?
She was about to say something to her father, but Victoria and an older man with salt-and-pepper h
air—Georgie’s grandfather’s estate attorney—walked in arm in arm, smiling and laughing as though they’d been close for ages.
Georgie wanted to gag.
She’d been in the business world long enough to know a woman could get ahead either by flirting her way to the top or becoming a hard-ass who took no crap.
She’d gone the latter route.
So why did she still let her father and brother walk all over her?
Georgie didn’t have time to think about it because the attorney walked in with Victoria and escorted her to her leather chair, pulling it out for her to sit down.
“Thank you for your patience,” the man said as he moved to an empty seat in the middle, standing behind the chair. “For those of you who don’t know, I’m Henry Manning, Beau Buchanan’s attorney, and everyone present has been mentioned in the will. Again, thank you for your patience, but we had to be certain we had everything in order before we began.”
“I still don’t understand the need for all the pomp and circumstance,” Prescott grumbled. “Just hand us a copy of the will and be done with it.”
The attorney gave Prescott a tight smile. “These were the wishes of your father, Prescott. I am merely his instrument.”
The way he held Georgie’s father’s gaze suggested the two men had already made an acquaintance and it hadn’t gone well.
The assistant Georgie had spoken to earlier walked in, carrying a legal box with a lid. She set it down on the console table behind Mr. Manning.
“Before we begin,” the attorney said, “can I get anyone anything to drink? Water? Coffee?”
“Will you just read the damn will already?” Prescott demanded.
To his credit, Mr. Manning ignored him and turned to the people at the opposite end of the table.
“Water sounds like a good idea,” Dottie said, getting to her feet. “Everyone needs water.”
“We don’t need water,” Prescott said, tugging at his tie. “We need to find out what the old man said, and then get out of here so I can start making arrangements to sell off the brewery.”
Dottie’s smile momentarily froze, then got bigger. “Nonsense. You’ve all had a very long day, what with your mourning at the funeral and all. Water’s just what you need.”
The mourning comment was a not-so-carefully concealed jab. Georgie had been the most upset, but to be fair, none of her siblings had really known the man. Their father had made sure of that.
For some reason, her gaze shot to the handsome man in the ill-fitting suit. His jaw had a firm set, and all vestiges of humor had fled from his face. Their eyes met for a moment, and Georgie shifted her gaze, unnerved by the judgment she saw there.
Dottie turned to face the attorney. “Henry, I’ll just go fetch some glasses.”
Henry, Georgie thought. Interesting. She clearly knew him as more than a passing acquaintance. Either that, or she was at an age where she didn’t stand on ceremony. Georgie suspected it was some combination of the two.
“We don’t need water!” Prescott shouted, his face turning red.
“Just let the woman get some water,” Lee groaned, pushing his chair back from the table.
Dottie headed for the door but stopped and pinched Prescott’s cheek. “Patience, my boy. You never really understood the concept, but you’re not too old to learn it now.”
She walked out of the room as every member of the Buchanan family stared at her in shock. She’d dared to touch the Prescott Buchanan.
Georgie couldn’t remember the last time she’d physically touched her father, and she struggled to hide a grin at the woman’s outrageousness.
“This is ridiculous,” Prescott sneered. “No one needs water!”
“I need water,” Adalia said, tilting her head and giving her father a mischievous look.
“I could use some water,” the Hispanic woman said in a small voice.
“Who are you again?” Georgie’s father demanded.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Mr. Manning said, a fine sheen of perspiration covering his forehead. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the sweat, then stuffed it back into his pocket. Another second ticked by, and he lifted his arm to look at his watch even though there was a clock on the wall next to him.
Georgie’s father glared at everyone while Lee was visibly annoyed, and Adalia looked like a cat who’d not only eaten the canary but a couple of chickens too. Victoria appeared bored, but she arguably always looked that way. Georgie just wanted this over with. Her family was definitely showing the rest of the room how they put the fun in dysfunction.
Dottie returned a couple of minutes later carrying a pitcher of water, while a woman trailed behind her with a tray full of glasses.
“Now, give everyone a glass,” Dottie instructed. “Everyone, whether they say they want one or not.”
The woman began to set them in front of people, starting with Georgie, then Adalia, and moving around the table. Dottie followed her, pouring water into each glass. She’d gotten halfway around the table and was just about to run out when a man walked in with another pitcher.
“If you had to insist on water,” Prescott sneered, “couldn’t you at least have gotten water bottles?”
“Water bottles?” Dottie asked with a chortle. “Well, aren’t you the funny man?”
Georgie burst into laughter, drawing shocked looks from both of her siblings. But she couldn’t help it—she’d never once heard anyone refer to her father as funny.
“See?” Dottie said, taking the pitcher and continuing to pour. “Even Georgie knows how silly that was.”
Georgie continued to laugh. The idea of someone calling Prescott Buchanan both funny and silly was too preposterous to bear.
Or maybe the stress of it all was getting to her.
“Georgie,” Adalia said in a concerned tone as she rested her hand on Georgie’s forearm. “Are you okay?”
She nodded as she wiped tears from her face.
“Look what you’ve done, Prescott. Now the poor girl’s crying.” Dottie tsked, continuing to move around the table. “She’s grieving over the damage those bottles do to the earth.” She stopped and shot Prescott a glare. “Plastic is the devil’s mischief. Don’t you forget it.” Then she gave Georgie a knowing look. “Georgie girl gets it.”
“Georgie girl?” Lee asked. “Just what were you doing down here to earn a nickname, Georgie?”
“You were down here?” Adalia asked. “In Asheville?”
Georgie cringed. “Grandpa Beau asked me to come visit.”
“When?” Adalia demanded.
“A few weeks ago.”
The hurt look on Adalia’s face said she was upset Lee had known and she hadn’t. Not that she ever picked up any of Georgie’s calls.
“Now, now,” Dottie said, pouring water into Lee’s glass. “All this squabbling isn’t healthy.” She set the pitcher down on the table, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a crystal. Setting it on the table, she began to wave her hand over it, as if wafting its essence toward Prescott. “Let’s get rid of some of that negative energy.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Prescott demanded, rolling his chair back so hard it hit the wall. The clock overhead fell off and landed in his lap.
Dottie pursed her lips and shook her head as she eyed him with a worried look. “That’s a bad omen. I told you that you should learn more patience.”
Then she walked back to the end of the table and resumed her seat, leaving the pitcher on the edge of the table between Prescott and Lee.
Prescott picked up the wall clock and stared at it as though intimidating it to give him an explanation for daring to jump off the wall and into his lap. Pushing out a breath of frustration, he put the clock on the conference table. “Can we please get this going?”
Mr. Manning’s entire face was red and covered in sweat, but he nodded to his assistant.
She opened the lid and handed the attorney several pages stapled together.
; “Beau had a trust,” he said, loosening his tie, “but he thought it might be easier for some of you to digest the terms if they were delivered in his own words.”
That suggested the will might not be as straightforward as her father expected. Georgie wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled or horrified. Her father’s narrowed eyes suggested he wasn’t expecting good news. The excitement in Dottie’s suggested she was fully aware of what was about to happen.
Oh mercy. Had her grandfather gone and given everything to his employees?
A little voice in the back of her head said they were probably more like family to him than his own family had been. She’d seen it herself when she’d toured the brewery. They’d loved Beau Buchanan, and it had made Georgie acutely aware of how much she didn’t know about him. She’d spent the rest of her visit asking him everything—about the brewery, his late wife, raising his only child. He’d shown her photos and told her stories that had made her sides ache with laughter. He’d been a charming man, and she’d found herself wondering how she had gone thirty-three years without getting to know him better. His conflict with her father was theirs, not hers, and despite not knowing all of the details, she suspected she knew who was at fault.
When she’d left, she’d promised to keep in touch and return soon. She’d called him last week, and he’d told her that he had a cold but not to worry. He’d be fine.
Three days later he was dead. Her heart ached with the loss.
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