Up to Me (Shore Secrets)

by Christi Barth

“Every bit.” He shoved up the sleeves of his red Henley. “This was all farmland until a few years ago. I’m no farmer. I don’t give a shit about soy yields, and cows stink up the place too much. But some nice vines I can turn into the best whiskey, gin and vodka on the East Coast? That’s what I always dreamed of doing to this plot of land.”

  Gray envied the sureness in his tone. Have a dream, make it happen. Gray’s dream right now was to get a dream of what he wanted his life to be. “How long did it take?”

  “A year of nonstop work before I could open the tasting room. I’m a one-man operation. Mostly. I’ve got a friend who helps with the finances. Some volunteers who pull shifts pouring for the visitors.”

  “And me—willing, cheap labor.”

  “That’s right.” His mouth quirked into a smirk. “Whenever I can con some idiot into helping with the bottling and labeling, I do.”

  A tall man, as Black Irish as they came with about fifteen years on Gray, bent his head to step through the doorway. He balanced an elaborate wicker picnic hamper on his hip. “Is it really a con? Because I thought I was getting bribed. Or at least bartered. Didn’t you say you’d plow out my driveway next winter if I put in the sweat equity of bottling your homespun hooch?”

  Ward scratched the back of his neck. “You remember that, huh? I thought at that point in the poker game you were too drunk to retain whatever promises I made.”

  “I wouldn’t forget. Not if I did ten straight shots of Jäger. Or a whole bottle of whatever you’re pouring for us today. Plowing sucks ass. Shoveling’s even worse. Too damn cold.” He set down the hamper and held out a hand to Gray. “Joel McMurray. I’m the guy who won’t be freezing his nuts off when the first blizzard of the season hits.”

  “Gray Locke.” They shook. “And I’ve got nothing as memorable as fully thawed nuts going for me.”

  “Not true.” Ward jerked his chin at Gray. “This guy’s the one who had my back when Chuck and his crew jumped me the other night.”

  Joel clapped him on the shoulder. “You came out of the shadows to fight evil. I’d call that memorable. For Christ’s sake, you’re Batman.”

  “It would be if it were true. I don’t have Batman’s billions. Or, even better than his money, his utility belt.” Because what red-blooded American didn’t want electric batarangs, freeze grenades, a bat beacon and goo globules hanging from his hips?

  “Yeah. That would be great.” Joel sighed, and it was echoed by the other two men. Great. Now Gray was thinking about Batman. Which really meant his thoughts went straight to Catwoman. And how hot Ella would look dressed up for Halloween in a leather suit with a tail.

  Ward looked at his watch. “Tourists are going to start showing up any minute.”

  “Better hide. They find out you’re the mastermind behind all this, you’ll get pestered with a million questions. Happened to me this morning.” Joel scrubbed his hand across his face. “Stupid shit, like whether our eggs are organic or not. Why people dip Monte Cristo sandwiches into strawberry preserves. What am I supposed to tell them? That it’s actually called a croque-monsieur and American chefs have to dumb down French cuisine?”

  “Shit.” Ward opened a door to a narrow staircase and jerked his head to indicate they should follow. “Every once in a while Joel goes on a rant, to remind us all that he graduated from the Culinary Institute of America. Just means he’s stuck wearing an idiotic, too-tall white hat to work. While I get to wear jeans and a Knicks cap.”

  Joel hefted the hamper. “It’s called a toque. The one hundred folds represent all the different ways I know how to cook an egg.”

  Funny. The guy looked more the type to take a chainsaw to a tree than a filet knife to a sea bass.

  “Right.” Ward aimed the sneer over his shoulder. “Like method number eighty-seven is all that different from method fifty-nine. Either way I’m washing it down with coffee and toast, so what does it matter?”

  The open weave metalwork of the steps creaked a little beneath Gray’s sneakers as he brought up the rear. “So, you’re a cook?”

  Laughter rolled out of Ward. “Nice one. A cook, huh? Joel threatened to kneecap me the last time I called him a cook.”

  “Threat. Promise. Whatever. It worked. But, Gray, I’ll let that insult of a question pass. For now. Since you’re a stranger and all. But after you eat the lunch I brought for us hard-working stiffs, you’ll know I’m a chef. I’m talking roast beef sandwiches with Gorgonzola mayo and caramelized onions and homemade sweet potato chips. Oh, and peanut butter brownies for dessert.”

  Despite the dent Gray and Ella had made in the breakfast buffet just an hour ago, his mouth watered. And he figured that antagonizing a guy who had a couple of inches on him and probably twenty pounds of muscle was a bad idea. “I’ll go ahead and apologize for my ignorance right now. How about you teach me the difference?”

  “A cook can nuke a box of macaroni and cheese. A chef has creativity—and gets a fat-ass paycheck for the privilege. Plus, I get to boss around my sous-chefs. Hell, that part’s so much fun, I’d do that even without a paycheck.”

  “If we’re going to stand around all day jawing, can we at least do it while we crank the labelmaker? Those whiskey bottles don’t turn themselves.” Ward led the way past the racks of barrels to a smaller room. Also lined with shelves, these were packed with boxes and empty bottles. In the middle sat a stainless steel worktable. The whole room smelled faintly like wet cereal. He slapped his hand on something that looked like a rotisserie.

  “The process is simple. Assembly line—I’ll place the bottle and turn the crank. Once the label’s on, Joel puts the bottle in a box. Gray, you’ll pull the filled boxes and put out bottles for us. We’ll trade out every ten minutes, because turning that crank’s a bitch.” He narrowed his eyes at Gray. “You sure you’re up for this menial labor?”

  Just like his interactions with Ella, hanging out down here could be legitimately classified as research. But Gray knew better. He’d come because it sounded cool to be part of making a bottle of whiskey. Period. Not that he’d mention that in his official Ruffano & McIntosh report. Nah, he’d spin it so that it sounded like he’d bled Joel and Ward dry for info. It was what his company expected. Was what Gray excelled at...and something he was sick to death of doing. Hopefully nobody on either side would ever be the wiser.

  He shoved his sleeves halfway up his arms. “It was my idea, remember? I’m always up for a new experience.”

  “A sucker born every minute,” said Joel with a roll of his eyes.

  Finally. An opening so he could make a cursory stab at doing his job and salve his conscience. Or at least come up with a couple of sentences for his final report. He stuck four fingers of each hand into a bottle and carried them over to the worktable. “I was wondering about that. Do you guys hang out with tourists all the time?”

  Ward threaded a thick roll of labels onto the spool. They were the distinctive blue of the lake with silver lettering. Very classy for something that started as a one-man operation. “You mean are you special, or would we fake being friends with anyone for free labor?”

  “More or less.”

  “Nah, I’ve got enough friends who help out whenever I’m in a pinch.” He turned the big crank. Half a turn, an adjustment, then the rest of the way and the first bottle was done.

  “Fast,” marveled Gray. For a contraption that didn’t even use electricity, it zipped right along.

  “Once we get on a roll, we can put out more than fifteen bottles a minute. Hit a good stride and we’ll finish the whiskey and move on to vodka and gin bottles.” Ward paused, then jerked his thumb at the line of filled bottles on the counter. “Whatever we finish, you’ll get to taste. That ought to keep your motor revved.”

  Joel lifted out the first bottle. “But to answer your question, yes. We hang out with visitors—that’s the
more polite term the tourist board encourages us to use—all the time.”

  “Isn’t that weird?” Gray knew it was the right question to ask, because it was what people asked him all the time. He often used the cover of a sales consultant. Made the joke that he spent more time in hotel rooms than in his own living room. It inevitably led to him being asked if it was weird having to talk to strangers day in and day out. Trouble was, Gray didn’t have the answer they expected. He fricking loved it. He loved the different viewpoints and backgrounds. The weird-ass deep discussions that you only felt safe having with a total stranger.

  “It’s pretty great.” Joel deftly boxed three bottles. “It makes our small town feel five sizes bigger. There’s always someone new to talk to, some whacked-out story to hear at the bar after my shift ends. Different walks of life, different places—we get all sorts here. Keeps it fresh.”

  “Never boring. Sometimes too un-boring,” huffed Ward. “Like when you unexpectedly get jumped by your old classmates. But mostly the visitors are cool.”

  Guess he’d finally found people who thought the same way he did. These guys were great. Gray wondered if it was some wacky mineral overload in Seneca Lake that made all the residents so easy to talk to. Because the people in this town just got him. And that hadn’t happened in a very long time. If ever.

  “Good to know.” Swinging around to grab more bottles, he whacked his wrist against the metal shelf. Pinpricks of pain exploded behind his eyes. “Son of a bitch, I swear that shelf moved.”

  Joel watched him shake out his arm. “There are better ways to spend your vacation here, you know. Less dangerous and less effort. Wine tasting, golf, fishing. I know a great spa...”

  “I’ve already been to the spa at Mayhew Manor.” Best five-minute massage of his life. So what if it was the only one? Gray seriously doubted anyone could top the seductive strength in Ella’s hands.

  “The Manor’s where I work.”

  Thumping more bottles down, Gray said, “Really? Then I guess I should thank you for the lamb chops I had last night. Awesome.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “So you’ve got this fancy culinary degree, and from what I could taste, mad skills in the kitchen. You could be working the Manhattan restaurant scene. Instead, you’re in a small town in the middle of nowhere. No press. No celebs to cook for...” Gray deliberately trailed off. And hoped Joel would take the verbal bait. Because, damn it, he couldn’t help himself. Habit and/or training had kicked in, made him sniff down certain conversational paths.

  But the phone call with Martin changed things. Sharpened to a diamond-fine point what a manipulative snake Gray worked for. Hard to even contemplate the slimy promotion deal he’d just been offered. Not with his head so full of Ella. Because it was hard enough to contemplate how to get closer to the beautiful brunette. Or at least without adding any more half-truths to the equation. So yeah, with his brain in a full-on tornado spin, he reverted to habit. The difference was that this time, Gray didn’t care as much what impact Joel’s answer would have. He was just plain curious.

  “No challenge to keep myself and my clientele interested?” Joel snorted. “Yeah, you’re not the first one to point that out. But it’s the opposite. A lot of places around here close down in the off-season. My restaurant absorbs the overflow and stays jam-packed with locals. I have to up my game to keep them interested, or I’ll hear about it, believe me.”

  “They’re okay with you going all fancy? Terrines instead of meatloaf?” Gray’s small hometown had a grand total of one diner. Menu never changed. Meatloaf, fried chicken, chicken fried steak and burgers. He knew it inside out. Most nights he did his homework at the counter while his mom finished her shift. They both took showers when they got home to get rid of the stink of grease.

  But now, thanks to the checks Gray sent his mom every month, she didn’t have to wear herself to the nub. She loved working in a flower shop, making pretty things every day. So he’d keep his crappy job until he had something that paid even better lined up. Different, and better. Which sounded damn impossible to him. So impossible that he’d resorted to telling an entire town about his impossible wish in a journal. Stupid. So stupid that Gray wondered if maybe that lake wasn’t just working its mineralized magic on the locals, but on him. It had to be something in the water turning him all soft and gooey on the inside. No other possible explanation.

  “Who says they’ve got a choice in what they eat? It’s my duty to educate the public,” Joel said in a snooty tone. Then he laughed and pushed the sleeves of his denim shirt higher. “So I mix it up with chicken and dumplings once in a while. Comfort food to comfort the masses. In general, I get to do whatever I want. My boss gives me free rein.”

  Gray put the conversational pieces together. From what Eugene told him, there was a good chance the entire hotel saw the bearer of the Mayhew name as the rightful wearer of the hotel’s crown. No matter how she felt about it. “Ella Mayhew?” he guessed.

  “You know her?” A beat as Joel slipped the bottle in between the cardboard dividers. Then a chuckle. “You’re him? The one she’s not-so-secretly dating?”

  So much for their plan. “Yeah.”

  Ward turned the crank harder. “You know, you asked to listen to classic rock while we label. Could you guys shut up and get to it? I put together a playlist of Ozzy and Pink Floyd. It’s cued up on my iPod.”

  “And it’ll be there later.” Joel shot Ward a dirty look. Got one ping-ponged back to him in return. “How does a guy who bit the head off of bats compare to the excitement of Ella finally dating again?”

  “Christ. You’re a fucking girl sometimes, Joel. If I get you in the barbershop’s Secret Santa drawing this year, I’m giving you a frilly pink bow to put on your cleaver. The big one you use to chop the lamb shanks apart.”

  Gray coughed into his hand to hide the laughter he couldn’t swallow. These two were turning around the sour mood Martin had caused.

  “Hey, she’s not just my boss,” said Joel. “She’s my friend. Like a little sister. I want to be sure she’s okay.” A steely glare at Gray. The kind a protective older brother would give. “And that the guy almost-dating her is okay.”

  At that, Ward threw out his arms. “Fine. We’ll take a break after labeling four whole bottles. I’ll be sure to tell the customers upstairs there’s no limited edition PineSap Whiskey for them to take home because we had to make sure that precious Ella’s okay.”

  Joel clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to send a less bulky man halfway across the room. “Knew you’d see it my way.”

  Perfect. Gray seized the opportunity to clear his conscience. Well, one small quadrant of it, anyway. “That’s something I’d like to ask you guys. Is Ella, ah, fragile? Emotionally?”

  A deep guffaw bellowed from Ward. “Hell, no.”

  Gray didn’t think so either. But after talking to Eugene and a few others in his carefully casual stroll through town yesterday, he needed confirmation. Ward was one of her best friends. His pithy assessment carried more weight than all the others put together. It gave Gray a huge sense of relief. Cleared the path for him to move forward in romancing her. Well, aside from the giant toxic marsh of his job assignment smack dab in the middle of that forward path.

  Joel crossed his arms, as if deliberating his response. “She thought she was, for a while there. She just needed to believe in herself again to shake it.”

  “Where’d you get that idea?” demanded Ward. “Have you started listening to self-improvement tapes? Cause you’re spouting off like that shrink Ella used to see.”

  “I, uh, read it somewhere.” His gaze skittered away.

  Unless Joel was secretly reading psychiatry textbooks, Gray could only think of one thing that would cause such a cagy response. “Don’t tell me. You read it in the damned mailbox journal?”

  He turned h
is head and scratched the back of his neck, not looking at Gray. “Yeah.”

  Wow. “You people let this thing determine your lives, and then you quote it to each other?”

  “Don’t knock the journal,” Ward said, all cold and serious.

  “Oh, I’d like to knock it all the way to the bottom of the lake. This mystical journal of yours is seriously cock-blocking me.”

  Now Joel looked at him. And there was—shit, was that pity in his eyes? “I read your question about your job. And some of the answers.”

  Gray rolled his eyes. “Of course you did. Is this thing ever actually anonymous?”

  “Sure. But you’ve got to put effort into shielding your question. You know, change your handwriting. Not interject into an entry we know belongs to Ella. Basic stuff.”

  “Guess I missed the class in high school where they taught official town-journal subterfuge,” snapped Gray.

  Ward stroked his goatee. “Just because the journal’s pissing you off doesn’t make the advice it gives any less valid.”

  It was fun to hang out with Ward and Joel. Nice to feel like he was part of a posse—even though Gray knew it couldn’t last. He didn’t usually bother to try and make friends on his assignments. Sure, Gray would shoot the shit over nachos with whoever sat next to him at a bar. But hanging with someone more than once on a trip? That was something new. Something he couldn’t let himself get used to. Because it had an end date, just like whatever he was doing with Ella.

  No way, though, could he let their blind belief in the journal go unchallenged. “Thanks. But I’d get just as solid advice reading the fortune that comes with my next order of Mongolian Beef.”

  Opening the picnic hamper, Joel pulled out three cans of soda and handed them around. “You’re a good guy to worry about Ella. Hell, we’ve all perfected worrying about Ella to an art over the past three years. But we shouldn’t. Not anymore.”

  “You sound sure,” Gray noted.

  Ward planted his feet wide and braced his fists on his hips. “Ella’s a born leader. She was elected head cheerleader two years running. Drama club president. Choir president. Some fancy role in her sorority that earned her a trip to the national conference in Phoenix one year.” A grin whipsawed across Ward’s face so fast that Gray almost missed it. “She brought me back a shot glass in the shape of a cactus with a scorpion as the handle. Tackiest thing I’ve ever seen. We use it every time we make margaritas.”