Begin Reading
Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin’s Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
This book is dedicated to the very real community of Leavenworth, Washington. Thank you for welcoming me to your village and allowing me to take inspiration from the place you are lucky enough to call home.
CHAPTER
ONE
THE SCENT OF CITRUS enveloped the brewery as I dumped a bucket of Lemondrop hops into the brew. The new hop varietal had become an overnight sensation, with its notes of lemon, mint, melon, and green tea. Garrett Strong, my brewing partner, and I were using the new style of hop to enhance the fruit profile of one of our spring ales—the Lemon Kiss. Our first batch of the light and refreshing beer had been a huge hit. It was unlike anything we had brewed to date, thanks to the unique hop profiles. In addition to the Lemondrop hops, we had added two of the most popular varietals in the region—Calypso and Lotus—along with lemon zest and fresh squeezed lemon juice. The result was a bright and tangy IPA that reminded me of sipping iced lemonade on the back porch. It was perfect for spring. The only problem was keeping it on tap.
Luckily we had planned ahead for this weekend’s Maifest and brewed enough for the tourist crowds that would pack into the village for the traditional Maipole dance, Sip and Stroll, chainsaw carving, fun run, and outdoor spring markets. I knew that I was biased, but there really wasn’t a bad season to visit Leavenworth, Washington. Our charming version of Bavaria tucked into the northern Cascade Mountains was worth the trek through the Snoqualmie Pass in the dead of winter when everything was draped with a crystalline blanket of white. The trip through the winding narrow passage with spring in full bloom was the stuff of dreams.
I had recently moved into town after years living in a farmhouse with a small hop field on the outskirts of the village. Not a day passed that I didn’t feel a deep sense of gratitude for my decision to move. My “commute” to work now involved a short walk past the miniature golf course and rows of German-inspired buildings with their sand and limestone walls, tiled rooflines, half-timber framing, and balconies with window boxes overflowing with vibrant trailing geraniums, petunias, and ivy. No restaurant, delicatessen, shop, or hotel spared any expense when it came to colorful floral displays for Maifest. The abundant blooms dripped like a cascading waterfall from one story to the next.
Nitro, the nanobrewery where I had been working for nearly a year, sat just off Front Street, the main thoroughfare. I loved the scent of boiling grains and working up a sweat on brew days. Today was no exception. Garrett and I had gotten an early start. Maifest activities kicked off later, which meant the tasting room would be buzzing with activity by early afternoon.
With that deadline in mind, I turned my attention to the brew and used a large metal paddle to stir the hops.
Garrett tugged off a pair of rubber boots, placing them on a shoe rack next to the stainless steel tanks. He had finished hosing down the equipment. Prior to learning the trade myself, I had always thought brewing was simply like baking or cooking, where you mixed a few ingredients together. But I had come to understand it was so much more. At least 75 percent of our time in the brewery involved cleaning. “Man, it smells amazing, Sloan. I think this batch is going to be even better than our first round,” he said with a crooked grin.
That tended to be true. Garrett, like many brewmasters, took meticulous notes during each stage of the brewing process, from how long to steep the grains to ratios of hops and yeast. There was no way to identically craft the exact same beer each time. Often in second and third iterations of a beer, we would make minor adjustments to pull out specific flavors or reduce the bitterness. It was a constant tweaking and one of the reasons that brewing had turned into my dream job. It might be hard, physical labor, but it was never boring.
Garrett mopped sweat from his brow and removed his chemistry goggles. “I think that’s it. Not bad for an early start. Now I need a coffee—or a pot of coffee.”
I smiled. Garrett and I had opposite rhythms, which worked well in our professional relationship. We had recently transformed the upper floor of the building he had inherited from his great-aunt Tess into “beercation” suites. Four guest rooms, themed after the four elements of beer—water, yeast, hops, and grains—offered visitors a unique immersive experience that included a beer-infused breakfast, brewery tours, and complimentary tastings. We had officially opened for guests in January and had seen steady bookings ever since. There wasn’t a weekend between now and Oktoberfest that we weren’t sold out. Garrett had wisely decided that it was time for another set of hands at Nitro and had hired two college students who were home for summer vacation, Casey and Jack, to help pour pints, wait tables, prep pub fare, and wash dishes. Our permanent hire, Kat, had taken on a larger role building out our social media presence, managing guest reservations, and being our go-to person in the taproom. She had mastered how to pour a perfect pint and the subtle nuances of each of our beer profiles in a short amount of time.
I finished stirring the hops and climbed down the stainless steel ladder. “I wouldn’t turn down a coffee. Kat should be done with breakfast cleanup. Then she and I are going to review the special Maifest weekend menu and make sure Casey and Jack are ready for the onslaught of beer enthusiasts.”
“Sounds good. I’ll go wash up and get ready to open the tasting room.” Garrett tossed his chemistry goggles into a bucket of cleaning solution. “After I down a cup of coffee.”
“I’m right behind you.” I chuckled, kicking off my boots. Then I wiped the paddle with cleaning solution and hung it on the rack on the far wall. I stopped in the bathroom to douse my face with water. My olive-toned cheeks were pink from exertion. I cooled them with a splash of cold water and retied my long dark hair into a high ponytail. I found myself staring in the mirror a minute too long.
I knew why. I was hoping that my reflection might hold the key to who I was.
Everything I had thought I knew about my past and my family here in Leavenworth had come into question recently.
I had grown up in the foster care system. Being bounced from house to house had come with challenges, but it had also made me the strong, independent woman I was today. When I met Mac, my soon-to-be ex-husband, the experience of feeling like it was me against the world had shifted. His family—Otto, Ursula, and his younger brother, Hans—had welcomed me without judgment or expectation. For the last two decades, I had been a Krause. Otto and Ursula had become my surrogate parents and doting grandparents to my son, Alex. Then everything fell apart. I caught Mac cheating on me with the beer wench at Der Keller, the Krause family brewery and Leavenworth’s largest employer. The shock of Mac’s infidelity was nothing compared with what I had learned about Otto and Ursula. The sweet German couple who adopted me as one of their own and taught me their brewing legacy had been living a lie.
Sally, my caseworker from my foster care days, had uncovered information that linked the Krauses with Nazi war criminals and flagged them as potentia
l Nazi sympathizers. She had been convinced that Otto and Ursula had been funneling funds from Der Keller to Ernst, Otto’s uncle and one of the last living members of the Nazi regime who had escaped to America after the war. I had confronted them immediately. They admitted that they had changed their names when they fled Germany in the 1970s. However, they insisted their move to Leavenworth wasn’t because of any Nazi ties. The exact opposite. Otto’s uncle shared an unfortunate connection—the same name as a former member of the regime wanted for atrocities so dark it was impossible to fathom. I had wanted to believe them, but I had lost trust.
Fortunately, thanks to Sally and a friend of hers in the FBI, the Krauses had been exonerated. It had been a huge relief when Sally called a few weeks after my heart-to-heart with the Krauses to tell me the news.
“Sloan, I have an update for you,” she had said, her voice breathless and rushed on the call. “I was mistaken. We’ve been able to track down a cousin of Otto’s who is still living in Germany. The Krauses are telling the truth. Ernst, who has since passed away, was cleared of any misdoings. He did not fight with the Nazis. He had the misfortune of sharing a name identical to a war criminal and nothing more.”
I had told her it was a great relief to know that the surrogate parents who had taken me in and made me feel like one of them, and who had helped me raise Alex, were the people I believed them to be—kind, empathetic, and caring.
Sally had apologized profusely for her mistaken logic. I didn’t blame her. Her theory had been solid. The Krauses were connected to my personal past. Ursula had received a letter from a woman named Marianne, who had visited Leavenworth in the 1970s with a young girl who bore a strong resemblance to me. According to Ursula, Marianne and a man named Forest, claiming to be her brother, arrived in the village under the guise of buying Der Keller. At the time, the brewery was just getting off the ground. Forest offered them a lucrative cash buyout, something that Otto and Ursula considered strongly. Only the offer was a scam. Forest had no intention of purchasing Der Keller. He had a history of swindling people like the Krauses who were new to the country and still learning the lay of the land and the language.
Marianne had taken off with me and vanished. Shortly afterward, I was placed in the care of the state. Sally had found incomplete pieces of my old case files and discovered that an agent, whose name was redacted, had been responsible for putting me in care. She had theorized that Otto and Ursula’s story about Forest was fake. That the real reason Marianne and Forest had been in Leavenworth was to provide surveillance on the Krauses. She had believed that Marianne was responsible for making sure I was protected.
Of course, none of that turned out to be true, which left me with a new mystery—who was Marianne?
On the night that Mac and I got married, Ursula discovered a note from Marianne on their front porch. It said that I was in danger, but I’d be safe in Leavenworth, and should Ursula ever need her help, she left a PO box number in Spokane.
Ever since, I had been writing weekly to the PO box with no response. Sally had tapped into her resources as well, with similar silence. It was a long shot. The letter had been written sixteen years ago; what were the odds that the PO box still belonged to Marianne? Lately, another thought had been creeping into my head. What were the odds that Marianne was even alive? If I hadn’t heard from her after all these years, maybe there was a reason.
There was one looming problem. The Krauses still hadn’t told Mac or Hans about their past or the fact that their family name wasn’t even Krause. I had been stuck in the middle. Ursula had begged me for more time, and I agreed. Maybe it was the wrong choice, but it wasn’t my story to tell.
Stop, Sloan. I splashed more water on my face and tried to center my thoughts.
For the past few weeks, I’d been starting to feel like I was losing it. I would wake up covered in sweat from nightmares I couldn’t remember. My memories of my time before foster care were fuzzy at best, but that hadn’t stopped me from trying to recall every tiny flash of a memory until my brain hurt. On more than one occasion, I had thought I had seen a woman who resembled Marianne around the village—near the gazebo, at Der Keller, on Blackbird Island. I had always prided myself on my ability to keep my emotions in check. Suddenly, that was in jeopardy, along with everything else.
I let out a long sigh and went to the kitchen. Garrett had left a coffee cup, a spoon, and carton of cream next to the pot. It was the simple things that made me wonder if perhaps our working relationship might turn into more at some point. Leaving the coffee ready for me, checking in on how my search for answers was going, always being game to try any of my brewing ideas, and listening, really listening to what I had to say. Or maybe I was interpreting his kindness differently because of my past with Mac. Not that Mac hadn’t cared about me. His style was grander—big gestures, expensive gifts—and a tiny piece of his attention.
I poured myself a cup and took another moment to ground myself in reality.
“Hey, Sloan,” Kat called, coming into the kitchen with a tray of breakfast dishes. “How did brewing go? I can’t believe Garrett was up before nine. That must be a record.”
“Good. We’re done. Now we wait.” I raised my cup of coffee. “How are the guests this morning?”
Kat set the tray next to the sink. Her bouncy curls bobbed as she plunged the dirty dishes into soapy water. “Easy. They loved the beer-battered breakfast potatoes and devoured the entire platter of apple strudel.”
“That’s what we like to see. Empty plates.”
Kat grinned, revealing deep dimples. “Empty plates mean easier cleanup.”
“Do you want coffee?” I took a sip of mine.
“No. I’m good. I’m saving myself because I have to meet April Ablin at Frühstück, remember?”
“Oh, that’s right. Sorry.” I grimaced. “Thanks for taking one for the team.” Poor Kat, she was due to get an earful at Frühstück, a popular breakfast spot known for its traditional morning spread of rye toast with marmalade, nougat cream, and thinly sliced meats and cheeses. April Ablin was Leavenworth’s most annoying resident. She had a penchant for finding ways to showcase the tackiest Americanized versions of German culture, from her rotating collection of dirndls to cheap plastic flags, nutcrackers, and other kitsch that she insisted each business owner in town display. Garrett and I were thorns in her side. We refused to succumb to the pressure. Like the rest of the village, the exterior of Nitro resembled Bavarian architecture, but we preferred to keep the interior modern with exposed ceilings and a clean beer chemistry vibe. Visitors who came to town to join in the revelry at our rotating festivals often dressed in German attire, but those of us who lived in the village year-round (excepting April) rarely donned lederhosen or a barmaid’s dress with a plunging neckline.
“Hopefully it will be quick,” Kat said, rinsing the dishes before arranging them in our industrial dishwasher. “I just have to get our assignments for tomorrow’s parade, and she said she had some extra ‘materials’ for us to put on display.”
“That’s code for something ridiculous,” I replied. “I’m envisioning Maipole bobbleheads, don’t you think?”
Kat laughed. “Yep. That sounds right. Don’t worry. I won’t bring back anything with ruffles or an apron for you.”
“And that’s why you’ll keep your job,” I kidded.
While Kat finished the dishes, I reviewed our menu for the weekend. Since Nitro is classified as a nanobrewery, we serve a very small bar menu including a daily soup, meat and cheese platters, and a beer-inspired dessert. When I had woken up with a nightmare the other night, I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I’d tried to relax myself by flipping through a magazine. A recipe for a British trifle caught my eye and gave me a spark of creativity.
“Okay, you want to hear my crazy idea for this weekend’s special dessert?” I asked Kat.
“Of course.”
“I’m thinking a beer trifle. We’ll make a lemon pound cake and soak it in our Lemon Kiss be
er. Then we’ll layer it with lemon custard, fresh strawberries, and whipped cream. What do you think?”
“Delish. Yeah, that sounds amazing.”
I’d never made a beer trifle, but if a traditional trifle could be soaked in liquor, why not craft beer? It was worth a shot.
“I want to be like you when I grow up, Sloan.” Kat finished loading the dishwasher. “You’re so fearless.”
Yeah, right. I wish. To Kat, I smiled. “Maybe outwardly. I promise, inside I’m a total mess.”
She dried her hands on a dish towel. “No way. I don’t believe it. You treat life the way you treat brewing and baking—fully diving in. Maybe I should tell April that you’re my hero. How do you think that will go over?”
“Now, that is an idea I can get behind.”
Kat grabbed her phone. “Wish me luck. I’ll be back soon unless I can’t escape April’s clutches.”
“Stay strong,” I called after her.
I checked the clock. It was after ten. Garrett would open the tasting room in an hour. I had time to pop over to the market to get the ingredients for my beer trifle as well as for a spring soup I wanted to serve in honor of Maifest—a fresh pea with bacon.
Garrett came downstairs freshly showered. He wore a pair of khaki shorts, a Nitro T-shirt, and a pair of hiking sandals. We kept it casual in the pub. “That felt good.” He returned his empty coffee cup to the sink. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this out loud, but there is something rewarding about having a new batch of beer done before noon.”
“Does this mean I’m going to convert your night owl tendencies?”
“No way. Not a chance, but with so much going on this weekend, it is a relief to have that done.” He opened one of the cupboards and took out bags of pretzels and Doritos. “I’m going to get the front prepped. Casey and Jack will be here in about thirty. Let me know if you need either of them to help out in here.”
The Cure For What Ales You Page 1