For the next few hours, we poured pint after pint and ran back and forth between the bar and the kitchen to keep up with food orders. Festival weekends were a lot of work, but they brought in serious cash. Over the next three days, we would likely quadruple our profits.
There was a late afternoon lull as customers headed to Front Street to watch the Bavarian Brass and Edelweiss dance troupe march to the gazebo, followed by a mini Maipole raising and the kickoff of the Sip and Stroll. Tomorrow the Festzug (or German march) would take place at noon. Nearly everyone in the village would participate in the festive parade. Tourists would line Front Street and watch the big Maipole raising and dance.
The Sip and Stroll was a new addition to the Maifest celebration this year. Makers of cider, wine, and beer, Nitro included, had been invited to set up tasting booths amongst the other vendors. Participants would receive souvenir tasting glasses that they would bring with them to each booth for delectable samples of pear cider and merlot.
Garrett flipped the sign on the door to SHUT as the last of our guests left to watch the action. “The twins should have everything set up for us. I just need to run upstairs and grab a sweatshirt in case it gets cold later. Otherwise, I think we should be set. Can you think of anything else we need?”
I picked up a handful of the glossy brochures April had given us. “I’ll bring a few of these. People always seem to misplace their maps.”
“Good idea. I’ll meet you over there in a few.”
“Sounds good.” I took the brochures and headed outside. Instead of walking directly to Front Street, I went by the back route, knowing that the main thoroughfare would be impossible to navigate with the crowds.
The streets and sidewalks were nearly empty, since everyone was crammed into Front Street. I passed the hospital on my right. It was constructed with natural woods, a high slanted green metal roof to allow for snow accumulation, and large windows that offered patients calming, healing views of the mountains. Visitors often mistook it for a spa. Which in my opinion was a good thing for anyone needing medical care on vacation.
I continued on past the Gingerbread Cottage, where the sweet and spicy aromas of cinnamon and nutmeg from the gingerbread made me consider a quick stop for a hit of sugar. The cookie shop was known for its elaborate gingerbread designs and delicious flavors. A white picket fence housed a storybook cottage. Giant cardboard cutouts of gingerbread cookies dotted the front lawn. I was so distracted by the whimsical window display of a four-foot-tall gingerbread Maipole and gingerbread men and women dancers that I walked right into someone.
“Sorry.” I looked up. Then I took a step back and gasped. The event brochures dropped from my hand and scattered on the sidewalk.
It was the woman I had seen earlier. This close-up made me even more convinced that she had to be Marianne. She had the same Greek features, long dark hair that had grayed with age, and doe-like eyes.
“Hey, I—” I started to speak, but she pressed her finger to her lips.
Her eyes were focused behind me. They were wide with fear. I half expected to turn and see one of Leavenworth’s resident brown bears standing behind me.
I turned around to see what she was looking at.
There was nothing.
The streets were empty.
I turned back around just in time to see her run off again.
What the hell?
CHAPTER
THREE
THIS TIME I DIDN’T bother to chase her. I bent down to pick up the brochures. My heart pounded in my chest. Who was she, and why did she keep running off?
I pinched my forearm, just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.
The pinch sent a small wave of pain up my arm and left a red mark on my skin.
Okay, so you’re not dreaming, Sloan.
That left two alternatives. I was either having some kind of a nervous breakdown, or the woman was real. Assuming the latter was true, and I hoped it was, why the strange behavior? Ducking into alleyways, acting like she was being chased, and running away. It didn’t make sense.
I inhaled deeply, trying to steady my breathing, and continued on, checking the narrow alleyways between the shops and ducking into the bakery, a high-end shoe shop, and the butcher shop. She had vanished again. Once I rounded the corner and turned onto Front Street, I knew I had lost her. I found myself in the middle of the action. There were thousands of people packed onto the sidewalks and in Front Street Park, listening to the upbeat sounds of the German brass band and dancing on the street. Flags waved, the crowd clapped along to the rhythmic beat of the shiny tubas, and the smells of grilled onions and corn on the cob filled the air.
I kept my eyes open for any sight of the skittish woman as I squeezed through the crowds to the Nitro booth. It was easy to spot with our distinct hop-green logo in the shape of an atom. Casey and Jack had done a great job on setup. Our Nitro banner hung from a ten-foot table. Four kegs were hidden beneath the table with taps extending up to the top. There were stacks of the Sip and Stroll maps, along with our stamp—a hop wreath—and a matching green ink pad. They had also set out plenty of our coasters and menus for guests to take with them.
Our booth was located next to the park near my favorite bookshop, Das Buch. The bookstore was on the first floor with huge light-filled windows. Das Buch hosted author signings and events, and often partnered with us to provide beer samples. On quiet weekends, I would spend an entire Sunday afternoon perusing the store for new reads. Since Leavenworth was a tourist Mecca, the store stocked vacation reads—rom-coms, mysteries, popular fiction, along with an extensive collection of Pacific Northwest authors, literary fiction, and poetry.
Ten vendor tents for the festival had been set up on the cobblestone square near Das Buch. Our fellow merchants for the Sip and Stroll included a winery, an organic cider company from Spokane, a cheesemonger, a soap maker, and a variety of brat and pretzel vendors from Leavenworth. The energy was palpable as artisans set up displays of blueberry, lemon, and thyme goat cheese and crystal bottles of pear cider.
Participants would wander throughout the village to find each of the ten tents with reusable tasting glasses. Our role was simply to fill their glasses with our spring line of beer and stamp their passports. It should be easy enough.
“Nice work, guys,” I said to the twins, adding the extra passports I’d brought with me to the pile. “It looks great.”
“We’ve already had people asking for samples,” Casey replied. He was taller than Jack by a half inch. “We told them to come back at five.”
The brass band stopped marching in front of the gazebo. The sound of the horns echoed through the streets as tourists clapped and danced along.
“That’s right,” I confirmed. “Since there isn’t a ton of space, we figure we can take shifts. Two people at a time. Garrett and I can take the first shift to work out any kinks. Why don’t you come back around six forty-five? Go enjoy yourselves and get some dinner.”
“Cool, thanks.” Jack shot me a grin. “I told Kat I would help her take photos for social media.”
This was our first time doing an off-site tasting with a keg setup. We’d done a few house parties and small weddings with growlers, but with thousands of visitors in town for the weekend, we were definitely going to go through a few kegs, even just giving small tasting samples. Garrett and I had agreed it was worth the effort, not only to help get the word out about Nitro, but because we’d had time in the slower winter months to brew enough to manage the pub and an event like this. It should be a good test for the future. As of yet, Nitro hadn’t had a presence at Oktoberfest or the holiday markets because of volume. We’d opened our doors last fall right before Oktoberfest. If the Sip and Stroll was a success, it could provide a roadmap for how we might be able to scale up our brewing efforts for the busy fall and holiday season.
Garrett showed up a few minutes later with a Nitro hoodie tied around his waist. “Did I miss anything? Has there been an April sighting?”
“No.” I glanced around us. “Although I’d stay on your toes.”
He chuckled and stretched a leg over a stack of supplies in the back of the booth. “We’ll sling drinks from both sides, yeah? You take two taps, and I’ll take the other two?”
“Yep. I told Jack and Casey to come back a little before seven. That way we can see how this goes. I have no sense of what sort of line and crowd we’re going to get.”
Garrett reviewed a set of safety protocols. “We have to check wristbands. One sample per stamp, and then the rest is boilerplate, stuff we already know and have drilled into our staff. Don’t serve anyone who is intoxicated. No minors. The usual.”
The brass band finished their set. They exited the gazebo stage and were replaced by none other than April Ablin. Her outfit wasn’t much better than the one she’d given to Kat. Her carrot orange hair was tied in braids and twisted into a headband of yellow, pink, and white flowers. Her pink dress and yellow apron hit midthigh, with a revealing neckline and tightly cinched bodice. She had a goat on a leash standing next to her with a similar crown of flowers tied around its collar.
“Welcome, welcome, everyone, to our Maifest Frühjahrswiesn!”
I wasn’t sure what she was trying to say, but whatever word she was shooting for sounded ridiculous in her fake German accent.
“If this is your first time in our little Bavaria, you are going to be in for a treat! Next up, our very own Alpenfolk will serenade you with traditional folk songs. Be sure to get your passports and wristbands for the Sip and Stroll. The first section of our vendors is right here.” She pointed in our direction. “Vendors are spread out over the entire village and in the Festhalle, so be sure to wander and stop in our authentic Bavarian shops.”
I had to credit April with her enthusiasm. She and I might have drastically different styles, but I couldn’t fault her for her relentless promotion of our town.
As soon as her welcome speech was finished, lines began to form at our tent. Garrett and I filled taster glass after taster glass. It was rewarding to see people savor our brews and to answer their questions about what they were tasting. Craft beer is meant to be sipped slowly. We spend weeks meticulously documenting and tweaking each stage of the brewing process. There’s nothing worse than having a customer down a pint without taking the time to allow a beer to sit on their palate and bring out each nuanced flavor that we had intentionally crafted.
Shortly before my shift was over, Otto and Ursula wandered over to our booth. Ursula was walking without a cane for the first time in months, but I noticed that she still had a slight limp and that Otto kept a firm grasp on her forearm.
“Sloan, Garrett, Nitro has been ze talk of ze village tonight,” Otto said with a wide grin. He wore a pair of black and red lederhosen, a white shirt, and suspenders. Ursula’s black-and-red-checkered dress matched his outfit. I knew that their attire hadn’t been mass produced and made from cheap cotton. These were the traditional clothes of their motherland sewn by Ursula. She was an expert seamstress. When Alex was young, I used to drop off bags of the clothes that he would quickly outgrow for her to let the seams out. Needlecraft was a hobby for her. Birthdays, Christmas, any holiday worth celebrating meant that Ursula would use her magical fingers to piece together a quilt, tablecloth, or delicately knitted shawl. I treasured every gift she had made for me.
Garrett poured them tastes of our Lemon Kiss. “Greetings, Krauses, I’m excited for you to try our new spring beer.”
Otto studied the beer, holding it up to the light to inspect the color and clarity before taking a drink. It was a gorgeous pale yellow, the color of daffodils, with impeccable clarity. “Zis is very nice. I don’t zink I recognize ze hops.”
I exchanged a knowing look with Garrett. When it came to craft beer, no one knew more than Otto Krause. One of the things I appreciated most about my father-in-law (or whatever he would become to me once my divorce was final) was his generosity. He took it upon himself to share his wealth of beer knowledge with anyone who needed it. When Garrett had opened Nitro, Otto and Ursula were the first people to offer their support. At least once a week Otto stopped by Nitro to tinker in the brewery with Garrett. His years of experience building a brewing empire were invaluable. Otto also had a unique gift—he had a pristine palate. His taste buds could pick up every ingredient used in a beer. To watch him taste a beer was like watching Picasso put a brush to canvas.
When Mac and I had first gotten together, Otto had done the same thing with me. He had taken me under his wing, which drove Mac crazy. Otto claimed that I had “the nose,” as he called it. I wasn’t so sure. Not that I wasn’t confident in my ability to brew and catch the nuance of flavors in a pint, but Otto was in a class of his own. He wasn’t one for showmanship (that was Mac’s domain). However, many years ago, shortly after Alex was born, an influential group of craft beer writers from the best magazines in the industry had been in town. Mac convinced Otto to showcase his incredible skill set for the journalists. He lined up a dozen tasting glasses with a variety of beer styles. Not just Der Keller beers, but beers produced throughout the region and even a German import tossed in. I had watched in awe, while bouncing baby Alex in my arms, as Mac blindfolded his father and Otto proceeded to correctly identify each beer set in front of him. He picked out the hops, grain style, yeast strands, and nearly every extra ingredient used to brew the sample beers—from crushed boysenberries to coffee. It was a sight to behold. That spontaneous blind tasting helped propel Der Keller onto the national stage. For months afterward, not a week went by when Otto’s face didn’t appear on the cover of a glossy magazine or newspaper.
Garrett’s response brought me back to the present moment. “Yeah, those are a brand-new strand out of the Yakima Valley: Lemondrop. What do you think?”
“Very nice, ja.” Otto let his eyelids fall heavy as he stuffed his nose into the tasting glass and inhaled the scent. “Ja. I love ziz. It is very subtle, but ze lemon and citrus come through so nicely. Ursula, do you agree?”
Ursula handed me her empty glass. “I liked it so much it is gone. I was going to ask for another taste.”
I smiled and poured her a second sample. “Do you want to try anything else while you’re at it?” I asked Otto. “We have our Pucker Up, of course, and a hibiscus rose, and a honey amber.”
He finished his taste. “I zink I would like more of ze Lemon Kiss, too.”
Hans came up behind them. “I thought I might find you two here.” He bent down to kiss Ursula on the cheek. Hans was the tallest in the Krause family, with sandy hair and muscular forearms from time spent lifting heavy wood in his workshop. Tonight he was dressed in a pair of jeans and a thin Der Keller pullover. His tool belt was absent from his waist.
“How are things at Der Keller?” Garrett asked, glancing up Front Street, which was a sea of people.
“Busy.” Hans took a glass from Garrett, then he turned to me. “I just checked in. Alex is doing well. Mac put him on bussing duty. He’s not going to need to do any soccer training this weekend because his legs are going to be sore from running between tables inside and outside.”
It was a relief to know that Hans, Otto, and Ursula were keeping an eye on Alex.
“This is a punch of citrus, whoa,” Hans noted as he took a sip of his beer.
“Is that a good thing or bad thing?” Garrett braced himself for Hans’s response.
“It’s awesome.” Hans gave him a thumbs-up. “Are you guys here for the rest of the evening, or do you want to grab a bite?”
As if we had scripted it, Jack and Casey showed up to take over.
“I guess that answers your question,” I said, making room for Casey.
Jack wore one of our intentionally faded hop-green Nitro hats. He looked around. “Is Kat working the booth with us, too? I couldn’t find her to help with pictures. It’s like a frat party mosh pit out there.”
“No, but she’s around, so I’m sure she’ll stop by,” I replied, coming around to the
front of the booth.
“Cool.” He didn’t say more, but I noticed Casey nudged him in the ribs.
“We are due to dance at ze Festhalle soon,” Ursula said. “You should get some food and join us.”
“Deal.” Garrett gave Jack and Casey a quick reminder of how to swap out the keg if necessary and made sure they had both of our cell numbers. “Let’s do it.”
The three of us weaved between the vendor tents. Suddenly I was famished. Everything smelled fantastic.
“Sloan, what are you in the mood for?” Hans asked, pausing when he noticed me practically drooling over plates of pork schnitzel.
“Would it be wrong to say that I want to stop at each booth?”
Hans laughed. “Not by me. What do you say, Garrett? Should we grab a smorgasbord and meet at the Festhalle?”
“You two focus on food,” Garrett suggested. “I’ll go snag us a table and beer.”
“How could I forget about beer?” I said to Hans.
He wrapped his arm around my shoulder as we crossed the street to wait in a line for giant pretzels served with beer cheese sauce and spicy mustard. “That’s a mystery to me, sis. You must be distracted.”
I knew he was kidding, but his words still gave me pause. “Yeah.” I forced a laugh.
“So, how are you liking the new digs? Is it great to roll out of bed and walk to the pub?” Hans asked.
“You have no idea. It’s a dream. I can’t believe we didn’t do it years ago. It’s so great to be in the village. I’ve been getting up and taking early morning walks and runs through Blackbird Island. Then I stop for a coffee and pastry. It’s pretty much perfection.”
“Glad to hear it. Alex told me he’s loving it, too.”
“He did?” That news perked me up. When I had made the decision to move out of our family farmhouse, I had been worried about Alex. The property had been his childhood home. It was hard enough that Mac and I were separated, and I hated the idea of forcing him to move, but the minute I laid eyes on the cottage, I knew I needed a change. Living out of town made it too easy for me to disappear and disconnect. I’d done that for my entire life. Mac’s boisterous personality allowed me to take a backseat, a role I’d become intimately acquainted with in my years in foster care. I was ready to stretch. It was time to push out of my comfort zone and build new relationships.
The Cure For What Ales You Page 3