Pint of No Return

by L. M. Fortin

  “A chain of organic breweries nationwide?” she asked as if mulling the idea over.

  “Maybe internationally,” he said with a smile. “I have many ideas about how to lessen our carbon footprint and sort of return beer brewing to its roots. The premium showcase will give me a small bit of marketing leverage with my unique organic beer.”

  She looked around at the gleaming factory. “It looks very modern as opposed to some other breweries.”

  “I didn’t say we had to go back to milling the grain at a water wheel,” he said, somewhat sharply. “Using modern technology, we can make beer even more sustainable than it was in those traditional older times. However, you aren’t here to have me pontificate on the origins and the future of beer. Can I take you on a tour and show you the operations?”

  Callie nodded. “Lead the way.” Callie thought she could happily listen to him pontificate on any number of things. He grew more emphatic as he had been speaking about his ideas for the brewery and the passion in his eyes made him even more attractive than he had been previously, if that was even possible, she thought.

  Like a small child taking a friend out to play, he grabbed her hand. She felt her face redden at his touch, but didn’t take her hand back. “Let’s go start at the beginning,” he said.

  They walked through a door, inside of the glass that was fronting the large silver tanks. “We like to be completely open about our process,” said Chris. “The beer we make is one hundred percent organic and our motto is ‘Beer in the Buff.’ We like to think our transparency in the brewing process lives up to that motto.”

  Callie’s mind refused to shy away from imagining Chris’s body in the buff and she was glad he was walking in front of her as her face reddened. They walked between the tall tanks, past a row of shorter tanks to the back of the warehouse.

  “Let me know if any of this is too much information,” said Chris. “I’ve been told I have a tendency to overestimate my listener’s patience.”

  Callie grinned. “I’m a total novice and need some lessons in beer brewing. I will be an information sponge.”

  He gave her a wicked grin. “Let’s see what I can teach you.” Chris took her through the grain room where the basic ingredients of wheat, malt, barley and hops came in and were toasted, milled or otherwise processed into the forms that could be added to the beer with the flavor profiles that Chris imagined. Callie didn’t see many of the same bags she had seen at Magic Waters, as Sylvan Ales used all organic materials, and the whole room was more organized. All the shelves were labeled and there was less dust than in her own living room. She couldn’t imagine Hops being allowed to rub against the green burlap bags of hops they had in here.

  Chris momentarily stopped the flow of information as they walked from the grain room to a large open space where the mash tanks sat. He put his hand on her waist to steer her to the correct side of the room. “Have you always been intuitive about the way the flavors mix together?” she asked, feeling his breath on the back of her neck.

  “Yes and no. I think I’ve always had a good nose for scent and when I first went to college I thought I would go into the wine industry. But so much of wine depends on the grapes and the aging or the weather. Many a great wine is a lucky combination of random factors. Beer is easier to control. I can put in certain ingredients and be fairly sure of the flavors that will come out of it. I ended up majoring in agribusiness with a minor in horticulture.”

  Callie’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She looked at it and said, “It’s Walt. Would you mind if I took this?”

  He nodded OK and Callie answered. “Walt? It’s Callie.”

  Chris wandered over to one of the tanks and began adjusting a gauge.

  “Callie, I have some bad news,” Walt said, his voice sounding hoarse. “Floyd Fillmer passed away early this morning.”

  “What? How? I mean, he had the flu,” Callie exclaimed. Her tone of voice caused Chris to look up suddenly and walk back towards her.

  “They said it was organ failure, but they don’t know the cause yet,” Walt said. “They’re going to do an autopsy.”

  “Walt, that’s terrible. I don’t know what to say,” said Callie. “I’m at Sylvan Ales with Chris Ashton right now. Do you want me to come over?”

  “No, there’s nothing you can do here,” he said. Callie could hear someone in the background crying.

  “We’re touring the event space tomorrow, still, right? Or would you like to postpone that?” asked Callie. They were scheduled to do a walk through with the Bru-topia organizing committee at the Johnson Pavilion.

  “Yes, we will still do that and we can talk about the impact of this then,” he said, “when it’s had more time to sink in. I can’t imagine canceling the brew fest. Floyd would want us to hold it.”

  Callie hung up.

  “That was obviously bad news,” said Chris, touching her arm in concern.

  “Yes. How well do you know Floyd Fillmer?”

  “I’m good friends with Ethan. Also, Floyd and I were on the board for the small brewer’s guild together last year and of course, see each other at all sorts of functions in town,” he said. “He’s a brewing legend.”

  “He’s dead,” she said baldly. “He died this morning.”

  His eyes went wide. “You said something about the flu?”

  She said, “I was over touring Magic Waters on Tuesday. He seemed a little out of it, but said he’d had a bad bout of the flu and was just getting over it. He collapsed a couple of minutes later and got taken to the hospital.” She shook her head. “I assumed it was dehydration or that he had been back at work too soon after being ill. We were just trying his premium showcase beer when he collapsed.”

  Chris tensed a little. “Did he say anything about the premium showcase?” He hesitated a second. “Did you taste the beer?”

  “I’m sure Ethan’s not worried about his brewery’s unique beer right now, but I’m not going to give anything away,” she said, surprised he would be thinking of the competition at this moment. “He might still want to present it, now that his father can’t. But no, we were just making a toast, so I never got to take a drink. Floyd said no one else knew what he was brewing.”

  Chris smiled wanly. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  Callie knew Walt was right, and there was nothing she could do, so she and Chris continued her brewery education, although more soberly than before.

  He was a good teacher, but she was continually conscious of how close he stood. When discussing the fermentation tanks, they climbed one ladder and he somehow managed to position himself almost directly behind her, his full body touching hers as he pointed out various features of the tank over her shoulder as they looked in.

  It was strangely intimate, especially when she thought of Scott. It didn’t feel quite right to Callie to be so attracted to someone she had just met. Of course, she had known Scott for a while and maybe she really didn’t know much about him after all, did she?

  The tour ended more than an hour later in the tasting area. Callie looked back through the warehouse with new eyes. “That was a great tour. I definitely didn’t learn this much at the other breweries. I don’t think they were being secretive, but I think they were somewhat proprietary about their processes.”

  Chris nodded. “I don’t think I’m giving away any corporate secrets with a tour like this. It’s not like you’re standing and watching exactly how much of each ingredient I add, so the most important part of the process, I keep to myself. Now we get to reap the fruits of our labors. How would you like to try my premium showcase beer?” He asked.

  “What makes yours unique?” asked Callie.

  “Let’s see if you can taste what it is. If I’m such a good instructor, you should be able to tell what at least part of the beer is made from,” he said pulling out two glasses. He opened a cooler behind the counter and from a small pony keg poured a dark brown brew.

  He gave a glass to Callie. She held it up to the li
ght and said, “Well, it doesn’t seem to be something like a kolsch or a wheat beer – this one seems to have a darker undertone, so I’m guessing it’s got a different malt or is something like a stout.”

  He said, “That was the easy part. Keep going.”

  Conscious of his gaze on her, she smelled the beer and was surprised by an aroma that was both floral and spicy. “Ok, I’m definitely going to discount stout and say the primary flavoring agent is some sort of malt.”

  He nodded and she took a drink. The caramel sweetness of the malt was paired with what Callie thought was a sort of rose flavor. Following that was a spicy sweet undertone she couldn’t quite identify. The beer wasn’t strongly carbonated and Callie didn’t think it would taste good unless served icy cold. “I’m thinking this is a rose, maybe from rosehips? And the spice seems to be almost like cinnamon, but that’s not it.”

  “Good girl,” he said smiling at her as she flushed red. “This is my Rosehip Granola Ale and I think you’ll agree it’s very unique. The granola I used in this batch is spiked with cardamom.”

  She took another sip, enjoying the fullness with the low carbonation. “Where do you get the granola spices? They can’t all be local.”

  He sighed. “No, they are pretty exotic, but I do purchase the granola itself from a producer here in Skinner. They buy whole spices and oats and create their own mixtures. The granola ingredients are still all organic.” He sounded a bit irritated. “I suppose it’s so rare that I use something out of the local area that would be the first thing you notice.”

  She was immediately contrite. “Chris, I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m a patterns person and I notice anomalies.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’m a perfectionist person and I hate to be caught being imperfect.” The smile he gave her caused a warm shock to zing down to her toes and back up to her head.

  “I may have cheated a little on guessing your beer,” she said. “I was at Alterspice the other day and saw your order for rose hips.”

  His eyebrows rose at that. “It’s impressive all the same if you remembered parts of the order and were able to tie it together with the flavor of the beer.” He paused for a second. “Are you busy on Sunday?”

  “Not that I know of. What do you have in mind?”

  “I’m going hiking on Sunday morning. Nothing too far, just up the road to a trail near Salt Creek Falls. Want to come with me?”

  “I’d love to. I haven’t been outside of Skinner much lately, so that sounds great.”

  Callie gave him her mom’s address so he could pick her up. He walked her out to her car. Leaning over, he gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I look forward to Sunday,” he said and walked back to the warehouse.

  Callie got in the car, feeling a warm burning sensation where his lips had landed on her skin.

  Chapter Nine

  Callie woke on Saturday morning to hear the sound of rain pattering on the roof and a scratching at the door. Groaning, she pulled herself out of bed and went to the door. A damp Hops bounded in and butted his wet head against her leg.

  “All right, all right, I’m getting dressed,” she muttered. Hops sat on the entranceway rug to wait for her. She’d had a somewhat sleepless night. Her mind had been full of dreams where she saw Floyd Fillmer drowning in a vat of beer and she was rushing towards him, trying to save him, but was being held back. Those holding her alternated evenly between Scott McMillan and Chris Ashton. Every time she would fall back asleep one of them would invade her thoughts.

  Brushing away the night’s anxieties, she pulled on her boots and work jeans. This morning she added a sturdy North Face raincoat to the outfit and trudged off towards the barn.

  How did one tell a dog that his owner was dead? She had called and left a message with Ethan Fillmer that she would take care of Hops for as long as needed. He hadn’t called back, so she assumed she’d just keep Hops until he called. The dog didn’t seem to miss his old life. He had fit into the farm as if he’d always been a part of it. Callie was glad to have the company of the dog as she did her work.

  She fed the chickens, milked the goats, and was glad to see her mom hadn’t added any additional chores to the blackboard that were out in the garden proper. Coral liked to let the rain do its work alone and start breaking up any plants left from the summer’s plantings to compost.

  Callie didn’t want to wear her muddy boots into the kitchen, so she left the milk outside the back door and went to the cottage to change shoes and put on dry jeans. When she went inside, Grandma Minnie was reading the newspaper. Noah wasn’t present, as he didn’t work on Saturdays or Sundays, so it was just Callie and Grandma Minnie. “They already have an obituary on Floyd Fillmer,” she said.

  “He was in the hospital for a couple of days,” said Callie. “They must have known early on he wasn’t going to make it.”

  Callie moved to the coffee maker she had unpacked from her New York boxes that was now in constant use. She was trying not to unpack too much, but it would be a waste to buy a new coffee maker when she had a perfectly good, and expensive, one in her belongings. She would just take it with her when she left, and they’d have to find some other way to give Noah his coffee.

  Taking some scrambled eggs from the pan on the stove, she grabbed a slice of bread and the tub of goat cheese. Breakfast was definitely her favorite meal here.

  “Are you done with this section?” asked Callie.

  “Sure. Obits are on page four,” said Grandma Minnie handing it to her across the table, knowing Callie wouldn’t be able to keep herself from reading about Floyd Fillmer.

  Although Callie knew Floyd had been around Skinner for all of his life, she hadn’t realized he had left town and lived elsewhere for several years during the time his father was running the brewery. She had assumed he had always worked there with his dad. Instead, Floyd had done what many young men in the valley had done and for a time worked at a lumber mill. Apparently he hadn’t found that satisfying and in the early ‘60’s had joined the army. Callie noted he had managed to avoid being stationed in Vietnam, and so had avoided the worst parts of the military of that era. Instead, he had spent two years in South Korea as a cook’s assistant.

  Callie made the connection instantly. It had been percolating in the back of her mind as she had subconsciously kept wondering why Walt and Yuki Eckman were so distraught over Floyd’s death. Callie remembered thinking that Floyd looked familiar. It wasn’t just because he looked like Ethan. She now realized that was because there was a resemblance between Floyd and Yuki as well. Was she his daughter? Her age was about right. There was no doubt in Callie’s mind they were related in some way.

  So, by the way Yuki had reacted, she was well aware of her relationship to Floyd, whatever it was. Callie wondered if Floyd had known about it. It wasn’t as if she had spent time talking to him about Walt and Yuki, but certainly if he knew she was his daughter he would have said something? Especially as Yuki was one of the main organizers of Bru-topia.

  Keeping these thoughts in mind, Callie said goodbye to Grandma Minnie and went off to the cottage to get ready for the day. Callie was hosting the main Bru-topia organizing group at the Johnson Pavilion. Callie showered and debated her wardrobe. Her navy blue Brooks Brothers suit would have been her choice in New York. It always radiated a nice sense of confidence. In Skinner, it would make her look like an overdressed control freak. Callie grabbed a J. Crew soft charcoal wool pencil skirt and white blouse. Over the blouse she wore a tailored darker gray cardigan and a skinny black belt. She topped it off with a scarf, gray tights and a shoe with a moderate heel and felt both comfortable and confident. Hopefully she also looked competent, but not overdressed. She looked at herself in the mirror and wondered if she should join a gym. She had been hoping her time in Coral’s garden would be an adequate substitute for her NYC routine of going to the gym three times a week. Maybe she’d give it another month or two before making that call.

  In New York, for
mality in dressing was a given. She couldn’t believe how challenging it was negotiating what to wear in an informal environment. Maybe the key was that in the informal environment, everyone agreed not to care what others were wearing. She was pretty sure she’d never get to that state of dressing.

  The location of the events center was about all it had going for it. Johnson Pavilion had great parking and was accessible by bus as it was not far from the center of downtown. As Callie stood outside of the round building though, she marveled, as she always did, at the visions architects must have had in the late ‘60’s when many of Skinner’s finest structures were built.

  She wasn’t sure of the goal of the design of the pavilion. It was a large round building decorated on the outside with alternating dark brown two-by-fours and a conical shake roof. It looked almost like a hut built for camouflage somewhere deep in the Willamette National Forest. The conical roof didn’t quite rise to a point, but was gathered around a central circular opening, almost like a wooden version of a teepee.

  She was a few minutes early, but the events center facility manager, Jackson Garner, was already waiting outside the door.

  “Thanks for meeting us here, Mr. Garner,” said Callie reaching out to shake his hand. “I’m Callie Stone. I don’t think we met when I came by in October.” Callie had taken a short tour of the facility, but as it was filled with another event she didn’t get the opportunity to meet the staff. She had seen enough to know it would work for Bru-topia. Now, she finally would have her chance to see all the details.

  “If you call me Jackie, I’ll call you Callie,” he said, a faint Southern accent tingeing his words.

  “Jackie it is,” she said. He was dressed in black khaki work pants and a pale tan collared shirt with a name badge, obviously the uniform of a county employee. He wore several rings of keys, along with a various assortment of tools, and made a sort of jingle as he walked.