Man, I’ve got it bad.
Chapter Thirty-One
Alec
I tuck into the take-out burger that Griffin fetched, feeling tired but satisfied with the day’s events. It’s been me, Griffin, Otto, and Lyle of Giltmaker basically locked in a room together to discuss our new business venture.
I’m putting up seventy-five grand in equity and five grand in cash. Lyle is putting in a matching amount of cash. Otto will kick in fifty, and Griffin twenty-five. Lyle and I will each own thirty-four percent of the company, with Otto at twenty-one percent and Griff at eleven.
It was a whole lot more complicated than that, because we also had to account for Lyle keeping his own trademarks and brand equity. These are words I didn’t understand before May schooled me over these past couple of weeks.
If this works, I’m seriously in debt to her. But I’ll be able to pay her for her trouble because I also stipulated that I wanted May to draw up all our corporate agreements and labor contracts.
“What do we talk about next?” Otto wants to know.
“Hiring an architect,” Lyle says. “Getting a builder. Selecting the product lineup. Finding a chef for the food menu.”
I wipe my mouth on a napkin. “Guys, there’s something I want you to taste. Hang on. Be right back.”
My truck is right outside, and the bottles I’ve kept in there have been naturally chilled by the winter weather. I even brought small glasses with me.
Back inside, I put the home brew on the table. “How about a little something I made?”
“Alec,” Otto says. Then he just shakes his head.
Faithless as always. But he doesn’t own fifty-one percent, so he can just put a cork in it.
“I’ll taste it,” Griff says. He already knows what’s coming. We discussed this ahead of time, because I need him on my side.
And, funny enough, he was willing to help.
I pour four servings of the beer and pass them out. Lyle tastes first, and I watch his face. His opinion is the one that really matters.
Why yes, I’m totally sweating right now. Pouring my home brew for Vermont’s most successful brewer is heady stuff.
“It’s…not bad,” he says thoughtfully. “It’s too light, though. As a product, I just don’t see a place for this yet. You should keep working on it.”
Otto winces.
“What if I told you it’s only two percent ABV?” That’s a low alcohol by volume. “And this beer, as you point out, isn’t a finished product. This is only step one. I brewed it with a special strain of yeast that produces low alcohol. My goal is to make NA beer, guys.”
“And why would you do that?” Griff asks. But the question is a softball for my benefit.
“This is why.” I get up and walk back over to the stack of charts that May and I put together. I flip the pages to a fresh graph that shows the growth of craft beer in America. It looks like a ski jump, reaching toward the sky. “Interest in quality beer has never been higher. You guys already know that. But…”
When I flip the page again, it’s a pie chart showing the market share of non-alcoholic beer producers. Almost the whole thing is shaded in two colors. “Unlike your craft-brew market, non-alcoholic beer is still dominated by a couple of giants. And they’re not very good beers. NA beer is a hugely untapped market. There isn’t a single one made in Vermont.”
“Holy. Shit.” Lyle is squinting at the chart. Even Otto looks impressed.
“Nobody is paying attention to these customers. But we can. I want to work on this, and I know it won’t happen fast,” I say. “We can start small—with one extra fermentation tank in the corner. And Griffin will help me figure out the best mechanism for extracting the alcohol to get below a half-percent ABV. He can put that chemistry degree to work.”
“Yeah, I like this project,” Griff says. “I like it a lot. Been a while since I did this kind of tinkering. It’ll be fun.”
“I’m interested,” Lyle says. “But will it be a Giltmaker brand product?”
“Maybe. Or maybe not,” I am careful to say. “It depends on whether we want to do the NA product as a joint venture. That would mean divvying up the rights and distribution. But I’m open to that. I want to get this product made more than I need to see my name on the label.”
And I can’t do it myself. NA beer needs more equipment than any other kind of beer. If Lyle doesn’t want to partner up, I’ll have to take the idea elsewhere.
“Fascinating,” Lyle says slowly. He picks up the glass I gave him and takes another sip. “Low alcohol yeast, huh?”
“There are lots of levers we can move to get it just right. Arrested fermentation. Reverse osmosis. There will be some trial and error.”
He sits back in his chair. “I’m interested, Alec. Maybe you just came up with the next big thing. I’m willing to give it a try. Ask your lawyer to put in an addendum for a shared product.”
“Will do,” I say cheerfully. I’m so excited I almost snap my fingers and shake my hips. But I think I’d better break in this crew slowly. They’re not ready for full-on Alec.
“Let’s talk about the renovation,” Otto says.
I take a seat at the table again, knowing I’ve earned it.
“What are we going to call this place?” Griff asks suddenly. “We need a name.”
“In my head I’ve been calling it the Tasting Room,” Lyle says. “But that’s a little dry.”
“And a little pretentious,” Otto says. At least I know now that he’s also free with his criticism of people who aren’t me. “Sounds like a winery.”
“What are some other words for bar?” Lyle asks. “Tavern. Pub…” He lapses into silence.
“Speakeasy,” Griffin and I say at the same time.
“Huh,” Lyle says. “That’s different.”
“It’s archaic,” Otto says. “But I kind of like it.”
“Speakeasy,” Lyle says slowly. “Like those secret bars during prohibition, right? They were breaking all the rules.”
“We’re breaking all the rules,” Griffin points out. “Small brewers have entirely remade the beer industry in the last ten years.”
“I like it, too,” I put in, just in case anyone cares what I think.
“Grandpa will be so excited if this name sticks,” Griffin says. He scribbles Speakeasy across the top of his notepad.
I feel giddy. Co-owning a project with other people isn’t something I thought I’d ever want to try. But it’s going to be fascinating.
And I can’t wait to tell May everything.
* * *
“Alec.” Otto stops me before I can walk through the muddy woods toward my building.
“Yeah?” I hope he’s not about to crap on this tired but happy buzz I have going.
“Good work in there.”
Holy fuck. An actual compliment from Otto. “Thanks.”
Behind him, Griff waves goodbye to me out his truck window before pulling out onto the road.
I lift a hand to return it. “Never thought I’d work with Griff Shipley.”
“Why not?” Otto asks. “You two are a lot alike. Young and bullheaded.”
This makes me laugh out loud. In the first place, I never thought I had a single thing in common with Griffin. “Thanks, I think. I just never thought I’d want to be in business with the family who fired my dad.”
Then again I never thought I’d fall in love with one of them, either.
“Fired?” Otto squints at me.
“Sure. From the dairy. Right before he lit out of here for good.”
Slowly, Otto shakes his head. “Maybe that’s what he told your mother. But that man quit the job when they didn’t raise his pay.”
“Come again?” I feel a prickling sensation on my skull. Did he just say what I think he said?
“The dairy was bigger back then. Your pop always wanted more than he was worth. And he asked for it just as milk prices dipped, which wasn’t very smart.”
“Oh.” Shit. �
��Why’d he quit, though?” It doesn’t make a lick of sense.
“Stubborn as always. That man was angry at the world for not handing him everything on a platter.”
A wave of shame rolls through me. And that makes no sense, either. His sins aren’t mine. “That’s not me,” I say carefully. “You always say I’m too much like him. But that’s not how I roll.”
Otto shrugs. “Not today. Good presentation.”
A bark of bitter laughter escapes me. Next time I want Otto to pass the salt at supper, I’m going to use a powerpoint to get the man’s attention. “Later, Otto. I gotta go prep the bar now.”
“Talk soon,” he says, turning away.
Fucking Otto. He’s not warm, but this time he actually came through for me. Goldenpour is back on tap at the Gin Mill. Otto helped me convince Lyle that I’d handled the Smitty situation. And he helped get me and Lyle to the negotiating table over Hamish’s property and our joint business venture.
I’ll take what I could get from him, and I’ll stop feeling angry about the rest of it.
Meanwhile, I have a business to run and a pretty girl to see.
* * *
“Then I showed them the pie chart,” I say, smiling down at May. I’ve trapped her on my sofa underneath my body. She doesn’t seem to mind, though. “That was page seventeen of my presentation, by the way. One more page than the presentation Giltmaker gave Otto.”
“You overachiever.” She grins up at me.
“It’s going to be great. I also made them agree that you’d be our company lawyer. I put legal fees in the budget, of course.”
“You know I’ll give you a good rate.”
“Sure, but I just really want to work with you. I trust you to look after my best interests.”
Her face softens. “I trust you, too. Took me way too long to say that.”
“Maybe.” I give her a quick kiss. “Better late than never, though.”
“Lark took me to see an apartment yesterday,” she says, reaching up to run a hand through my hair.
“Yeah? Where?”
“Norwich. A friend of hers from Dartmouth owns it.”
“Hmm. Norwich,” I say, trying to summon up some enthusiasm for this idea. “That’s, like, forty-five minutes from here.”
“I’m not going to take it,” she says. “I don’t need that commute. And Norwich is pricy because it’s close to the college. But it was good to look around and think about the future. I’m glad she kick-started me.”
“Me too,” I say slowly. “Although…”
“Although…what?”
“I hope you know that I’d be happy if you moved in here.”
She blinks. “Just…like that?”
“Just like that,” I agree. “I know it’s fast. But I don’t want you to sign a year lease somewhere without even knowing that it’s an option. I’m not going to push you on it, but it would make me really happy.”
“Hmm…” She drags a fingertip down my nose. I’m glad she can easily do that now, and that she didn’t need surgery on her hand after all. “I told you once that I have a roommate kink. So the idea isn’t unappealing.”
I laugh.
“But we’re back to our bad joke again. Did you hear the one about the alcoholic who considered living over a bar?”
“Nah,” I say. “The girl lived over Benito. It’s Benito who lives over the bar.” I laugh, but she doesn’t. “Swear to god I’ll move out of this place if that’s what it takes. This doesn’t need to be decided today. I won’t rush you. But I also won’t let the location of my apartment get in the way of us.”
“It won’t,” she says softly. “I don’t really think the bar downstairs is a consideration. I was just kidding about that. You do, however, have a cat who behaves like Satan.”
“Not for long.”
May looks startled. “What are you doing to Bukowski?”
“Nothing bad. I’ve been doing some reading. Even though Satan and I are getting along better now, he’s used to going outside. And I live on the third floor, right?”
“That would make anyone cranky, yeah.”
“So yesterday I presented this theory to my sister in the coffee shop. I asked her to take him, but she turned me down because Dave is allergic to cats.” I roll my eyes. “That fucking guy. First he gets my sister pregnant, and now this.”
May giggles.
“But Kieran was working. He overheard me and said he wouldn’t mind taking Bukowski. That house he rents from Zara has a cat door.”
“Yay, Kieran!”
“Exactly. Now when I get up in the middle of the night, my ankles won’t fear attack.”
“But Kieran’s will.”
We both laugh like crazy people.
“It’s late. We should go to bed,” I say eventually. And by go to bed I mean strip each other naked.
“No way!” May yelps. “I have to start drafting legal documents giving you ongoing rights to the intellectual property in the non-alcoholic beer business, even if it says Giltmaker on the label.”
“Unngh,” I grunt. “Say that again. I love it when you talk legal to me.”
“Trademark protection,” she whispers.
“Oh, baby.”
“Ongoing royalties.”
“I’ll show you some ongoing royalties.” I thrust my hips and she laughs.
Then I kiss her, and there’s no laughing for a nice long while.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Alec
It’s March, and the snow is melting fast. The nights are still freezing but the days are warm.
In other words, it’s “mud season,” which is much like the awkward teenage phase of the Vermont year. The dirt roads are rutted from meltwaters, and the ski resorts are down to limited open runs.
The one thing we’ve got going for us is that it’s also sugaring time. As I look out the window of the Shipley farmhouse, I see Griffin outside checking his taps. Tomorrow he’ll pour the sap into big vats over an outdoor fire and boil it down.
Good quality maple syrup fetches upwards of forty dollars a gallon. But the Shipleys won’t sell theirs off. They’ll pour it on those fabulous waffles that Ruth cooks.
“Okay, I think this bag is the last of it,” May says.
I turn my attention back to her and to the giant duffel bag on her bed. “Shall we do a room-by-room check? Got the toiletries?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Don’t forget your…” I step closer to her. “Vibrator,” I whisper in her ear. “Might need to play with that later.”
May turns her chin and kisses my neck. “You are a really smart man, you know that?”
I laugh, because May is the only one who says that. But she’s the only one who matters. And I have to love her up a little so she’ll know I appreciate it.
“Mmm,” she says as I kiss first one corner of her mouth and then the other. “I love you,” she whispers. And that does it. I have to go straight in and kiss her properly.
As my mouth closes over hers, May’s arms wrap around my body, and I quickly reciprocate. And now we’re making out like teenagers in her childhood bedroom.
“Enough of that,” a voice in the doorway says. It’s Dylan. “Dinner is on the table, no thanks to you two.”
“Listen,” May says, stepping back. “You don’t have to share a bathroom with me anymore. Be happy.”
“Yeah,” Dylan agrees. “And I can go drinking at the Gin Mill or Speakeasy and then sleep it off on your sofa.”
“No problem, man,” I agree. “Just as soon as you turn twenty-one. I’m not going to violate my liquor license for your amusement.”
“This from a man who used to throw ragers in the woods.” May’s little brother beckons to us. “Come on, Mom gets cranky when nobody shows up for dinner.”
I shoulder May’s giant duffel bag and carry it out of the room after Dylan. “I hear you. But you too will one day become old and tragically responsible.”
Downstairs, I drop t
he bag in the TV room next to May’s boxes of books and follow her toward the dining table. I’m a regular feature at Thursday Dinner lately. My sister and my niece greet me when I walk in the room.
“Awek!” Nicole says as I take a seat beside May. She can almost make the “L” sound now. Almost.
“Hi, sugarplum.” At least Nicole still calls my brother “Bimbo.” I hope she never stops. Someone else in our family has to be a bimbo now, because it’s not going to be me anymore.
After dinner, May and I are moving her into my apartment for good. May actually found a one-bedroom place near Colebury that she liked, but after a little soul-searching she decided she didn’t want to sign a lease. “It’s for a whole year,” she said. “And I’d rather spend that year with you.”
Of course I’m a fan of this development. I’ve been working a lot of nights lately, and this will make it much easier to spend time with her.
Audrey waddles into the room with a big platter of roasted salmon. The sight of it makes my stomach rumble. “The vegetables are carrots with Korean spices, along with pea tendrils, asparagus, and radishes with mushrooms under a truffle vinaigrette.”
“I’m dead!” Grandpa Shipley cries. “Is this the menu in heaven?”
I’m nearest to the door so I jump up and take the platter from her. The poor woman’s belly looks like she swallowed a giant watermelon.
Ruth and Dylan follow her with more food heaped onto platters.
“Audrey, you cooked?” May squeaks. “Jeez. Isn’t your due date literally tomorrow?”
“I just had the urge,” Audrey says. “Can’t just sit around and wait for this baby anymore.”
“Maybe it’s nesting behavior,” May says. “Supposedly that’s a thing—when you’re in the early stages of labor you have the urge to cook and clean.”
Audrey rubs her belly in that way that pregnant women do. “I don’t feel great, honestly, but it doesn’t feel like contractions. It just feels like back pain.”
“Interesting,” Ruth says under her breath as Griffin jogs into the room.
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