The Cure For What Ales You

by Ellie Alexander

  “I could definitely use a hand, but first I need to run to the grocery store and grab a few items.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Garrett said as we walked to the front together. I left him at the long exposed-wood bar, and headed for the front door.

  Warm air greeted me as I stepped outside. Blue sky stretched to the top of Wedge Mountain, and the Enchantment Plateau was streaked with the last remnants of winter’s snow. Waxy green leaves rippled in the trees and pastel ribbons and banners hung from streetlamps and balconies. When I turned onto Front Street, I was greeted by the sight of dozens of vendors setting up tents in the park. The aroma of grilling brats and roasting nuts made me pause. Was it too early for lunch?

  There was no denying Leavenworth’s charm. Every shop and storefront was designed to resemble a quaint German village. The brightly colored buildings with balconies and exposed timber framing were painted with unique murals like a cascading waterfall and a goat farmer shepherding his flock. Nesting dolls, gorgeous cuckoo clocks, beer steins, and Hummel figurines in the storefront windows made it easy to forget this wasn’t Rothenburg or Schiltach. A wooden gazebo flanked by a massive weeping willow tree had been adorned with more flowers than most wedding venues. Keg barrels lined both sides of the street. They had been repurposed to display even more spring blooms. Each overflowed with fragrant hyacinths, primroses, tulips, and camellias.

  The giant blue and white Maipole stood upright in its post. Tomorrow it would take center stage in the Maifest parade, where dancers in colorful pinafores and lederhosen would perform the traditional Maipole dance. Beautiful silk ribbons would stretch from the top of the pole to each dancer’s hands. They would weave around the pole in a seamless rhythm, ducking under ribbons and creating a magical pattern of rippling colors. It was the highlight of the parade.

  I continued past the gazebo, which had been adorned with six-foot-wide flower baskets filled with deep purple and lilac blooms. Nearly every shop and restaurant had propped open their front doors to welcome in shoppers and hungry tourists. Der Keller, the Krause family brewery, sat at the far edge of Front Street. The building itself was a sight to behold, with its sloped A-frame roofline, hand-carved trim and wooden shutters, and iron accents. Der Keller’s outdoor patio had been decked out for the festival with strands of twinkle lights, strings of baby blue-and-white-checkered flags, topiaries, and more hanging baskets. Staff wearing Trachten shirts placed menus on the outdoor tables while a German oompah band warmed up.

  The Festhalle was directly across the street from Der Keller. Throughout the busy weekend, a variety of bands and musicians would perform on the stage. An outdoor fruit and flower market took over the grounds next to the Festhalle. Rows and rows of long tables had been constructed where local farmers and artisans were selling hop starts, flowering currants, blueberry bushes, heirloom fruit trees, and fresh cut flower bunches.

  The excitement was palpable. Plenty of tourists had already arrived. I enjoyed watching them delight at the sight of the bustling village and the sweeping alpine views. A couple was trying to take a selfie at the end of Front Street in order to get the view of the gazebo, village, and the jutting alps behind them and yellow balsamroot blooming on the building next to them.

  “Would you like me to take your picture?” I asked. It was commonplace for those of us who called Leavenworth home to stop and offer to snap photos for tourists. It didn’t take any extra effort on my part, and it was one simple way (unlike April’s in-your-face style) to make our guests feel welcome.

  “That would be great. Thank you so much.” The young woman handed me her phone. I took a few shots, making sure the Maipole and snowcapped mountains were centered behind them.

  After I returned her phone, I was about to cross the street toward the flower market when a flash of movement caught my eye. A woman sprinted out of a narrow alleyway between the coffeehouse and wine shop on the opposite side of the street. She caught my eye. Our gazes locked on one another.

  I froze.

  I knew her face. I’d been carrying around a picture of that same face for months. She looked exactly like Marianne. Her silver hair flapped in the breeze. Her dark brown eyes were wild with fear.

  My legs wouldn’t move. I stood in the middle of the town square, unable to make sense of what I was seeing.

  She broke eye contact first. Her manic stare drifting behind me.

  I started to move toward her, but she bolted back down the alleyway.

  “Wait!” I called, running after her.

  She vanished.

  When I made it through the alleyway, there was no sign of her. Where could she have gone?

  Or did I need to ask myself a different question?

  Was she real?

  I blinked hard. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? Or, worse, was I really losing it?

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  “SLOAN, YOU HAVE GOT to get yourself together,” I told myself. There was no sign of the woman, and nowhere for her to have gone. Maybe it was time for me to seek some professional help. I had thought that I was managing my stress, but if I was imagining Marianne skirting through alleyways, that couldn’t be a good sign. I blinked and rubbed my eyes, trying to shake off the internal sense of mounting anxiety. Had I made it up? I let out a long sigh before continuing toward the grocery store.

  My hands were clammy and my breathing shallow.

  “Get it together,” I repeated, hoping that if I said it enough, I might believe it.

  Sounds of laughter and chatter muffled together as I half stumbled into the store, which like everything else in the village, looked as if it belonged on a postcard from the Alps. Its brocade façade and hand-painted picturesque mural of a farmers’ market made it a popular spot for tourists to snap selfies.

  I passed by bundles of firewood for riverside bonfires and a freezer stocked with bags of ice and headed inside. The smell of peppernut cookies (or Pfeffernüsse if you sprechen Deutsch) sent a rush of hunger to my stomach. No one in the village, except my mother-in-law, Ursula, made the spicy cookies infused with black pepper, cinnamon, nutmeg, and anise better than the bakery attached to the grocery store.

  I resisted the temptation, kept my head down, and made a beeline for the baking aisle. The grocery store stocked vacation treats, like the packages of s’mores supplies and local German pastries on display near the front door. Tourists staying at local guesthouses flocked in for milk and cereal, deli sandwiches for day hikes and picnics on Blackbird Island, and cold drinks for floating the Wenatchee River. The store also imported a variety of goods directly from Germany. It was my go-to spot for German chocolates and rich, spicy mustards during the regular workweek. Most villagers avoided shopping during festival weekends. I gathered everything I needed for the trifle and soup and made my way to the register.

  “Hey, Sloan.” The grocery clerk greeted me with a wide grin. He was a friend of Alex’s.

  “How’s it going? Are you ready for the rush?” I hoped that my voice sounded normal. I was still in a daze from my standoff in the middle of the street. The last thing I needed was for Alex to worry about me.

  “Yeah. It’s every staff member on deck this weekend. It’s going to be busy, but my shifts fly by when it’s packed.”

  “True.” I paid for the groceries and promised to pass on a hello to Alex.

  Alex was helping at Der Keller this weekend. It was his first official job. Sure, it was for the family business, but nonetheless it felt like a tectonic shift to have my son earning a wage and finding his own space in the world. Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was squeezing his pudgy little hand on the first day of preschool and trying to reassure him (and myself) that everything would be okay?

  After Mac and I split, Otto and Ursula offered me a percentage of their successful empire. I wasn’t ready to return to day-to-day operations at Der Keller, but Hans and I agreed to remain partners and steer Mac in the right direction. Surprisingly, Mac thrived with his newfound responsibil
ity. Maybe that was what he had needed. He had taken a backseat while his parents were at the helm of the successful brewery, but now, with them easing into retirement, he had begun to shine. Hans and I were equally stunned and relieved.

  Mac had hired a very competent manager, who oversaw staffing needs so that he could focus on brew operations, including the transition from bottling to canning. I had been impressed with his resolve. It didn’t change my feelings about our future, or lack thereof, but Mac was Alex’s father. We would forever share our son, so despite my lingering anger and hurt over his choices, I didn’t wish him ill. I wanted him to succeed for Alex’s sake.

  Alex had recently turned sixteen, which meant he could officially become a Der Keller team member, something that he had been talking about for at least five years. The brewery was his legacy. He had beamed with pride the first time he put on his uniform—a crisp blue and white Trachten shirt, suspenders, and black lederhosen. This weekend should be a good test for him, I thought as I left the store and retraced my steps to Nitro.

  I found myself staring into storefronts in hopes that I might spot Marianne again, pausing at Father Christmas, a year-round holiday shop complete with paper snowflakes intermixed with hand-blown glass ornaments in the windows, and the outdoor store, which advertised rafting trips on the Wenatchee River. No luck. There was no sign of her.

  Garrett was wiping down the outdoor bistro tables on Nitro’s small enclosed patio when I rounded the corner. “Looks like you bought out the store,” he said, noting my shopping bags.

  “I had to stockpile before the tourists clean out the shelves. You know what it’s like.”

  “Yeah, locusts.” He scooted two tables apart. “The bar is ready. We’ve had three groups stop by and ask when we’ll be open. I told them to come back in a half hour.”

  “I better get baking, then.” I hurried to the kitchen to find Casey already slicing salami and cheese.

  Casey and Jack were twins who had grown up in Leavenworth and now attended the University of Washington in Seattle. I had learned to tell them apart by the slight curl at the bridge of Casey’s forehead. Otherwise the brothers were identical. They were both tall and skinny with a smattering of freckles, blond hair, and goofy grins. They had brought a new life to Nitro. Jack was a prankster, who hit it off immediately with customers, given his outgoing personality and ability to talk about anything from the best hidden backcountry trails to why soccer was the most popular sport in the world. Casey was more studious. He was an observer, who had taken great interest in the science of brewing, something Garrett appreciated.

  “Hi, Sloan, Garrett put me to work on the lunch platters and told me to check with you on what to do next.” Casey fanned slices of cured salami onto plates.

  “That’s perfect. If you could finish those and then make sure the bar is stocked with pint glasses, that would be great. I’m going to whip up a quick spring pea soup and a trifle for dessert.”

  Casey chatted about his experience taking a culinary class at college while I creamed butter, sugar, eggs, lemon juice, flour, and buttermilk together. The base of my trifle would be a lemon pound cake that I would soak with our Lemon Kiss. Then I planned to layer the sponge cake with fresh strawberries and whipped cream with a touch of fresh lemon zest and vanilla. We could serve them in mason jars for a sweet bar treat.

  The cake came together quickly, so I shifted my efforts to the pea soup. I chopped garlic and onions and sautéed them until they were translucent before adding fresh peas and chicken stock. Soon the kitchen churned out a melody of spring scents. Hopefully they would waft to the front and entice beer enthusiasts to order lunch.

  By the time my soup was ready, the taproom was packed with thirsty travelers eager to try our Northwest-style ales and lagers. Nitro had a completely different atmosphere compared with Der Keller. Garrett had spent the first half of his career working in high tech in Seattle and had designed our marketing materials with a nod to the chemistry of brewing. He had embraced his scientific roots with clean lines, exposed beam ceilings, and subtle nods to chemistry on our chalkboard menu, like our logo, which replaced atoms with hop cones, and our tagline: BEER HANDCRAFTED WITH SCIENCE SINCE 2017. A long barn-wood bar divided the brewery from the tasting room, where customers could pull up a barstool or gather at one of the many high-top tables.

  When Garrett had hired me to help him brew as well as run the kitchen and tasting room, I had suggested adding a few subtle touches to soften the sterile white walls. One fact that many craft beer aficionados didn’t understand was how much cleaning went into producing barrels of beer. The brewery’s level of cleanliness was on par with any scientific lab. However, part of the experience of drinking a handcrafted ale is the atmosphere. It hadn’t taken much convincing to get him to let me string soft golden twinkle lights from the ceiling and add black-and-white family photos and pictures of the building from the late 1800s to the walls. As time had gone on, we continued to bring in a few personal touches, with menus designed by Alex, fresh flowers in beer stein vases on the tables, and live guitar music on weekend nights.

  I delivered a tray of soup and snack plates to a few of the tables. Nearly everyone in the dining room was dressed in pastel checkered dresses or felt German hats—a telltale sign that it was a festival weekend. After I dropped off food orders, I squeezed behind the bar where Garrett was pulling pints. Jack was cleaning tables outside, and Casey was taking lunch orders.

  “Is Kat still gone?” I asked Garrett.

  Jack answered first. “I haven’t seen her since this morning.”

  Garrett topped off a pint of our signature Pucker Up IPA, a bright and hop-forward easy drinking pale ale that we kept on tap year-round, and handed it to a customer. “Yeah, come to think of it, I haven’t seen her since breakfast.”

  “Oh no.”

  “What?” He shot me a concerned look. “Do you think something is wrong?”

  “No, no. I’m sure she’s fine.” I set the tray on the bar. “It’s just that she met April for breakfast.”

  “Ah. Got it.” Garrett lined up a tasting tray to pour two-ounce samples of our spring line. “I hate to say this, but better her than us. She’s young. She can brush off the April energy, right?”

  I looked to the front door at that moment to see it open and Kat walk in wearing a fuchsia barmaid dress that barely covered her thighs. The neckline held no modesty either. It was cut low enough to reveal her belly button. She yanked the skirt down and scooted over to the bar. She dropped a box off on the counter and used her free hand to cover her chest.

  “Do I even want to know?” I asked with a grimace.

  “God, it’s so embarrassing. April mentioned that she needed another dancer for the parade. I’ve always wanted to be part of the Maipole Dance.” She paused and chomped on her bottom lip. “Big mistake. This is the dance costume she gave me. She said it was the only one left and from her personal collection.”

  The dress’s satin fabric and ruffles were straight from the page of a 1980s prom yearbook photo.

  “You look good,” Jack said, giving her a lopsided grin. “I mean, you blend in with the crowd here, right?”

  Kat rolled her eyes. “I’m not trying to look like a tourist.”

  Jack wisely ducked outside with a tray of beers for guests on the patio.

  I couldn’t stifle a chuckle. “Oh yeah, there is no doubt that dress is from April’s collection. How did she convince you to wear it?”

  “Don’t ask. She insisted. She said it was my duty as one of Nitro’s and Leavenworth’s ambassadors this weekend. What am I going to do?” Kat moaned. She turned halfway around. “Can you see my underwear?”

  “Only if you move.”

  She yanked the skirt down again. “I’m going to have to move tomorrow. That’s the whole point of the dance, isn’t it? So, basically I’m going to be flashing the entire town?”

  I felt sorry for her. “Go change. I’ll find something for you. Working at Der Keller
for so many years means that my closet has a fair number of German costumes, too. I’ll bring you a couple of options tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Sloan. I’m dying right now.” She wrapped her arms around her exposed chest and scooted upstairs.

  “Only April can create this kind of havoc. I swear she does it just to bug me. Who would send a young staffer out in that getup?” I said to Garrett. “That dress definitely falls into the not safe for work category.”

  Garrett threw his hands in the air. “Don’t look at me. I’m not about to touch this conversation with a ten-foot pole.”

  Poor Kat. I looked through the box that April had given her. It contained a stack of event brochures with maps and schedules of the weekend’s festivities. I was more than willing to distribute these in the pub, but as for the rest of the contents, not so much. April had included a variety of German flag pins, felt caps, and fake flower crowns. The handwritten note attached read Garrett and Sloan, it’s imperative your staff embraces the German spirit, or as I like to say, Spiritus for Maifest. Please make sure every member of your staff has their Bavarian bling on in full spring bloom to welcome our guests to the village.

  As always April had butchered her German. Spiritus did indeed translate to spirits, but not the kind of spirit April was referencing. I knew the term well from Otto’s bartending skills. He often created beer-inspired cocktails with his favorite spiritus, as in alcoholic spirits.

  Garrett took one look at April’s “bling” and shoved the box under the counter. “That’s not happening. The only bling we need at Nitro is in the form of frothy beer.”

  “You’re not going to get an argument from me, but I wouldn’t put it past April to come by and inspect whether we’re following her outlandish rules.”

  “Bring it on.” Garrett motioned to his chest. “I would love for her to stop in. She and I can have some words.” He turned his attention to a group waiting to order.

  I did the same.