by Joyce Tremel
Kristie was at her usual spot behind the counter. I made my way through the tables thinking how much easier it would be if Candy and Kristie would only combine their businesses. Jump, Jive & Java did have prepackaged items, but I’d have to be nuts to choose one of those over one of Candy’s creations. I waited in line while the customer in front of me paid for his coffee.
“Hey, Max,” Kristie said. “The usual?”
“I think I’ll live dangerously today and have some plain old coffee. With an extra shot. I could use the caffeine.”
She grinned. “Book club too much for you last night?”
I couldn’t very well tell her what I’d really been up to, especially since it had been her idea. “Not exactly. Just didn’t get a lot of sleep.”
“Ooh. Tell me it was because of that new chef of yours. Candy told me all about him.”
Surprise, surprise. “Nope.”
“Dang.” She passed my coffee across the counter. “Have you changed your mind yet about my plan?”
I told her the same thing I told Candy.
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re no fun?” Kristie said.
“All the time.”
Kristie picked up a rag and wiped an imaginary spot on the counter. “I saw you talking to Adam Greeley before.”
“Yeah. It was weird. He was in a bit of a hurry, but he said he had something he wanted to talk to me about. That maybe we could get together next week after the memorial service. I can’t imagine what it would be. It’s not like we have anything in common.”
“Maybe he has the hots for you.”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s old enough to be my father.”
“That doesn’t stop some people.”
“True. But even if he were younger, he’s not my type.”
“So, what is your type, Max?” Kristie wiggled her eyebrows. “Maybe your new chef?”
I felt my face turning red.
“Oh ho! I’m right!”
“No. Not exactly, anyway. Jake and I go way back. I had a teenage crush on him. That’s all.”
“Seems to me the crush is still on,” she said. “Especially since I hear you two have a date tonight.”
Candy. Again. Did everyone on Butler Street know about this now? The answer to my own question was most likely yes. I sighed. “It’s not a date.” I wondered how many times I was going to have to repeat that sentence.
“I want a full report on this non-date in the morning.” She gave me an evil grin as another customer came in. “Or maybe I should wait until the afternoon.” Her suggestive tone underscored the innuendo.
I couldn’t help laughing. “Keep dreaming,” I said.
It was the middle of the morning rush hour and traffic was heavy, which actually made it easier to cross. I didn’t have to dodge anyone trying to go fifty in a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone. Once inside the pub, I retrieved the bakery box from the bar and headed straight to my office to check on the kitten. When I reached it, the door was open several inches.
“Oh no,” I said aloud. I pushed it open the rest of the way and made a beeline for the kitten’s bed. It was empty. I put my coffee cup down and dropped the box on the desk and frantically searched every inch of the room with no luck.
Somehow the kitten had escaped.
CHAPTER NINE
“Kitty? Where are you, kitty?” Like she was going to answer me. She couldn’t have gotten far. Between her bum leg and the doors separating the restaurant area from the brewery and the kitchen, she had to be in the pub. But where? And how had she managed to open the door? I could have sworn I’d closed it tightly. I stood in the middle of the pub, turned in a circle, and eyed the areas under the tables. “Here, kitty. Come out, come out, wherever you are.” I checked behind the bar and in every nook and cranny I could think of. She was nowhere to be found. “Where are you?” I said aloud.
The door to the kitchen opened and Jake came into the room—with the kitten in his arms. Relief washed over me. That and the thought that he looked really cute holding a kitten.
“I found this cute little guy in your office,” he said.
“Girl.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a she. A girl.” I reached over and took the kitten from him.
Jake grinned sheepishly. “I really do know the difference. I just didn’t get that close of a look.” He moved next to me and scratched the kitten on the head.
His hand bumped mine, and it was suddenly very warm in the room. Oh boy. That wasn’t good. He was close enough that I could smell his soap again. Or maybe it was his shampoo. His hair was still damp and a stray lock hung over his forehead. It took everything in me not to reach up and brush it away. Definitely not good.
I backed away, saying to the kitten, “I was so worried about you. I thought you got lost.”
“Sorry about that,” Jake said. “I went looking for you and instead found this little guy—I mean girl. Friendly little thing. She came right over to me and started rubbing on my leg. I should have left her there, but . . .” He shrugged. “I guess I’m just an old softie. She looked so pitiful with her hurt leg, I picked her up and took her with me.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Where did she come from?” Jake asked.
I told him the story, leaving out the part about staking out my own pub. I also didn’t tell him how late it had been when I found her. It would lead to a lecture, and that was the last thing I wanted from Jake. And if he said anything to Mike, I’d get one from him, too. Then one from Mom. And probably Dad. “I need to take her to a vet today. And see if she has an owner. Someone could be looking for her.”
“Do you think she’s a stray?”
“I don’t know. I kind of hope she is. I’m not sure I could give her back if she belongs to someone. I might have to ask for visitation rights.”
“You two look like you belong together.” He smiled. “Makes me feel a little jealous.”
I stared at his back as he turned and headed to the kitchen, wondering which one of us he was jealous of. Surely not the cat.
* * *
There was a veterinarian located several blocks north of the brew house. I called and explained the situation and made an appointment for early that afternoon. In the meantime, while the kitten napped again, I decided to start another batch of beer, which meant I had to face the mash tun. I’d put it off long enough.
I thought about brewing a dunkel, a dark lager, but decided on an India Pale Ale instead. IPAs weren’t my favorite. The abundant hops gave them a bitter taste, which I didn’t especially care for, but if I wanted to sell my product, I needed to brew what customers wanted. The fact that an ale took only a couple of weeks to ferment, as opposed to eight or more for a dunkel, helped sway me, too. Besides, I had several barrels of dunkel already.
In the storage area, I stacked a few bags of barley malt on a dolly, wheeled them into the brewing area, and lugged the fifty-five-pound bags one by one up the steel stairs to the platform by the mash tun. I repeated the process until I had what I needed, and by the time I finished, I was sweating. Whoever said beer makes you gain weight had obviously never worked in a brewery.
I checked the clock and did a quick calculation in my head. The grain needed an hour in the mash tun, then time for sparging, and about ninety minutes to boil. While it was boiling, I’d take the kitten to the vet, then come back and finish the process by getting the wort to the fermentation tank. If Kurt had been here, he would have been able to do the last part if I wasn’t back in time.
Kurt.
A lump formed in my throat as I gazed down into the tun. I wasn’t ready for this. But I had to be. I had a business to get off the ground, and Kurt would have been the first one to tell me to suck it up and get back to work. I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and did just that.
* * *
&n
bsp; The kitten made a noise that sounded like “murp” as I carried her into the veterinarian’s office. I checked in with the receptionist, who made a big fuss over the kitten. When she asked me her name, I didn’t quite know what to say. “She doesn’t have one” didn’t seem right, so I settled for “I haven’t decided yet,” which was partly true. I would have to pick one if she didn’t belong to anyone and I ended up keeping her, but I was afraid it would make it harder to part with her if I gave her a name. So I waited.
We’d only been seated a few minutes when the door opened and we were called to go in. Or rather “Kitten O’Hara” was called. I guess I was just along for the ride. And to pay the bill, which I hoped wouldn’t be astronomical. The vet tech weighed the kitten and got us settled in an exam room, then left. Less than a minute passed before the door opened again.
“Hi, I’m Doctor Perry.” The doc was about my age. He was average height—not tall and not short. He had a nice smile.
“Max,” I said, reaching out my hand for him to shake.
“And who’s your little friend?” He gently took the kitten from my arms and placed her on the exam table. She purred as the doc gave her a one-finger neck rub.
I explained how I’d found her the previous night and that I wasn’t sure if she was a stray or if she belonged to someone, but I thought her leg needed some attention. He examined her while I talked, and when he got to her leg, she whimpered.
“Hmm,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
He reached over and pressed a button on the wall. “I’d like to x-ray that leg. If it’s all right with you, that is.”
Ka-ching. “Of course.” What else could I say?
After the x-ray had been taken and developed, Doctor Perry put it up on the light box. “Look right here,” he said, pointing at the film. “You can see her leg is fractured in two places.”
“Oh, the poor thing! I had no idea it was that bad. She didn’t even complain all that much. She just didn’t use that leg. Shouldn’t a fracture hurt more than that?”
“Cats are very stoic creatures. They don’t show pain like we mere mortals do.” He gave me a patient smile. “You told me she was most likely a stray.”
I nodded.
“I tend to agree with that. She hasn’t been microchipped, which most people do nowadays. Although, since she’s so young, it’s possible that her human family—if she has one—just hasn’t gotten around to it yet. My question is: What are your intentions? Do you mean to keep the kitten if no one claims her?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I want to keep her.”
We discussed treatment, which involved a cast for a couple of weeks and then a soft splint until the leg was completely healed. The office manager came in with a consent form and a paper detailing the costs, which almost gave me a heart attack. I signed both papers. Thank goodness they had a payment plan. I didn’t think a broken leg of my own would cost as much. I sincerely hoped that, if it turned out she did have a family, they would reimburse me.
Doctor Perry planned to sedate her to set the bone and put the cast on. He also wanted to give her some intravenous antibiotics in case an infection had started in her leg, so she’d be staying overnight. He promised to call and keep me posted on her progress. There were tears in my eyes as I patted her on the head and said good-bye. How in the world had I gotten so attached so quickly?
“Murp.” The kitten batted my hand with her head.
I scratched the area above her nose. “You behave yourself, Hops.”
Doctor Perry smiled. “Hops? I guess you decided on a name after all.”
I guessed I had.
* * *
Jake came into the brewery as I was about to add the finishing hops to the IPA. “Hey,” he said. “I thought I heard you come in. How’s the kitten? Where is she, by the way? I didn’t see her in your office.”
I filled him in on the visit with Doctor Perry. “I’ll be able to pick her up tomorrow,” I finished.
Jake pointed to the tank. “What are you brewing?”
I told him it was an IPA and explained what I was doing. “These are the finishing hops. They’re what give the taste that lingers after you drink the beer.”
“I didn’t realize there were different kinds of hops.”
“More than you can imagine.”
“Looks like I have a lot to learn,” he said. “What’s next with this batch?”
“I have to separate the wort—the liquid—from the solids, then drain it. It goes to the fermentation tank, where it’s cooled, and then I test the specific gravity . . .”
“That sounds suspiciously like chemistry.”
I grinned. “That’s exactly what it is.”
“I guess I never thought much about it. Why do you need to know the specific gravity?”
“I actually measure it twice,” I explained. “The first time is to get a base reading. That’s called the original gravity. I do it again at the end of fermentation, and that reading helps determine what the alcohol content is.”
“Interesting. Then what?” he asked.
“The yeast is added and we wait for it to ferment.” I could have gotten into more of the chemistry of how sugar is converted to ethyl alcohol, but I didn’t want to overwhelm him, so I kept it simple. “The type of beer determines what temperature we keep the fermentation tank and how long to leave it in there. This beer is a pale ale, so it’ll ferment for about two weeks.” I showed him the temperature gauge on the tank. “I’ll keep the temp at about sixty-eight degrees.” I pointed to the other tank, where the hefeweizen was fermenting. “That one’s also at sixty-eight.”
“What about a lager?” Jake asked.
“Forty-eight degrees for six weeks.”
“Stout?”
I gave him a look. “What is this? A test?”
He laughed. “I’m only making sure you know your stuff.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Seriously, I’d like to know more. I don’t have the background you do, but I’d like to learn brewing anyway.”
A man after my own heart. I’d almost said it aloud. I felt my cheeks reddening, so I turned away and checked the pressure gauge on the fermentation tank. “That would be a big help.”
I talked through the next steps in the process as I did them. He asked good, intelligent questions, and before I knew it we were done. Except for one thing.
“So, what’s next, boss lady?”
I grinned and pointed to the hose. “Cleanup.”
* * *
I called it quits for the day around four. Doctor Perry had called at three to let me know Hops was doing fine and I could pick her up at ten the next morning. Jake had already left and was picking me up at six-thirty for dinner. That gave me plenty of time to shower and change. I had no idea where we were going—only that I should dress casual, which was how I usually dressed anyway, so it wouldn’t be a problem.
The closer it got to six-thirty, the more nervous I became. I tried to tell myself I was being ridiculous. This wasn’t a date. Like I’d told Candy, we were merely two friends and coworkers going out to eat. It was no different than the other night when I’d first run into Jake. I kept repeating this to myself. By the time I’d tried on and discarded my third outfit, I gave up.
I plopped down on my bed in my underwear, clothes strewn around me. This was crazy. What in the world was I doing? So what if I had a crush on Jake? I had always had one. The fact that I was older now didn’t matter. I could like him all I wanted. I could imagine . . . well, anything I wanted. I could even write Mrs. Jake Lambert on notebook paper like I had when I was fourteen if I wanted. Just because it wasn’t mutual didn’t mean I couldn’t feel this way. Jake didn’t have to know. The thought was rather liberating. I smiled to myself as I tugged on the charcoal gray chinos and the raspberry cotton sweater set that ha
d been my first choice. I finished getting ready as my doorbell rang.
* * *
I was glad I’d worn the chinos instead of jeans. The place Jake had chosen was casual but definitely upscale casual. The restaurant was named Chrome, and it was located in the Strip District in downtown Pittsburgh. The Strip, as we natives called it, stretched for almost twenty blocks. It was easy to reach from Lawrenceville, as the same streets ran through both. Originally, this section of the city was home to factories and the Fort Pitt Foundry, which made cannons for the Civil War. Because of its location next to the Allegheny River and the railroads, it soon became the hub of commerce with numerous wholesalers and produce yards. It was still a vibrant shopping area full of stores that sold ethnic food, meats, cheeses, fresh fish, and produce. There were street vendors selling just about anything you could think of, from Steeler jerseys to jewelry to incense. It was also the home of Primanti Bros. restaurant, famous for serving French fries and coleslaw on the sandwich.
Chrome was nothing like Primanti’s however. It was sleek and modern, and kind of industrial-looking. The space now occupied by Chrome had been a rowdy nightclub that was shuttered after numerous bar fights, including an incident where three people were stabbed. The final straw was a shooting that resulted in a fatality. The place had been up for sale the following week. The lack of bar fights was one of many reasons I preferred a brewpub over a bar or nightclub. Very few brewpub customers were there to get drunk. They came to enjoy the craft beer and get a tasty bite to eat. Once in a while someone had one too many, but it was rare. And I’d make sure the staff knew how to handle them.
Jake had made reservations, and the hostess seated us in a booth halfway between the entrance and the kitchen in the back. I automatically picked up the drink list and checked to see what beers they had. I was disappointed they were all brand-name domestics. Not a craft beer to be found. Not that I would have been able to order one. I barely had time to read the list when a waiter brought over a bottle of champagne.
I looked at Jake