by Meg Muldoon
“You go through these stupid things because the love between you and Tobias deserves to be celebrated and recognized for how special it is,” I said, knowing that I sounded like a bad greeting card, but not caring. “And because the rest of us would be plain heartbroken if we didn’t get a chance to see you guys get hitched.”
She went back to rolling out the dough, looking as though she was thinking hard for a long moment.
“Okay,” she finally said. “I’ll buy in, Cin. Maybe you’re right.”
She smirked.
“And besides, maybe it’s my chance to finally get the dream wedding I’ve always wanted. Because my first wedding most certainly wasn’t a dream by anybody’s definition.”
“What happened at your first one?” I asked.
“Well, for starters, the guy I married turned out to be a real no-good jerk,” she said, draping one of the pie dough rounds over the edges of a tin pan. “Second, he arrived at the altar late and hungover after hitting the bars with his groomsmen too hard the night before. And lastly, we got married in this ugly little chapel in his hometown in Wisconsin on a humid, 102-degree day that ended with a thunderstorm. Everybody got drenched at our outdoor reception, and my mother caught pneumonia. It almost killed her.”
“Aw, geez,” I said, shaking my head. “That does sound terrible.”
“Looking back, the bad luck of it all was the fact that the thunderstorm didn’t turn into a tornado,” she continued. “If it had blown my ex-husband away, it would have saved me boatloads of trouble.”
Tiana glanced away for a long second, a sour expression spreading across her face. But after a while, it dissipated, and was replaced by something that looked like relief.
“It’s funny how life turns out, isn’t it Cin? Here I was, thinking I’d never get married again. And look who comes walking into my life. Tobias – the knight in shining armor that I’ve been waiting for my whole life. At 45, I’ve finally found my one true love.”
I felt my cheeks stretch as a bright smile flooded my face.
“Life is a funny and mysterious thing,” I said, thinking about the way Daniel came into my life in a similar fashion, at a time when I thought my broken heart would never heal again.
It seemed like sometimes, just when you thought nothing good was going to happen to you ever again, something amazing and wonderful suddenly—
“‘Scuse me… Cin?” Tobias said, popping his head into the back kitchen the way a prairie dog might pop out of his home in the earth.
It wasn’t lost on me that he’d said my name rather hesitantly and uncomfortably. As if something about the one-syllable word scared him.
Since they’d announced their wedding plans and asked me to be part of the ceremony, I had insisted that Tobias start calling me by my first name instead of his usual “Miss.” I could tell that it was uncomfortable for him to use my nickname, but the way I saw it, Tiana and Tobias had become family to me over the past few years. They were dependable, loyal, and more than that, they were some of the best people I’d ever met. And damn if I was going to let Tobias call me by something so formal after everything all of us had been through together.
“Yes, Tobias?” I said back.
“You’ve got a visitor up here. Says she wants to see you. I didn’t get a name, but she’s a pretty, skinny redhead with big doe eyes.”
I nodded, placing the description after a long moment. I dusted my hands off on my apron again, and came around the kitchen island.
“Of course, she’s nowhere near as pretty as my gal,” he said, looking over at Tiana and giving her a heartwarming smile.
“She better not be,” Tiana snapped back.
Both her fiancé and I chuckled.
“Thanks, Tobias,” I said. “I’ll be right there.”
He nodded, then shot one more loving look toward his intended before disappearing back out into the dining room.
Tiana let out a happy sigh.
“I know he doesn’t look it,” she mumbled with a smile. “But he’s got a whole suit of armor beneath those clothes. I swear, he’s an honest-to-God knight.”
I walked toward the front, stopping and squeezing Tiana’s shoulder on the way.
I was pleased as pie for the two of them.
Chapter 11
“So what’s your take on all this treasure business, Angie?” I asked, placing several plastic containers of fresh Mountain Cherry Pie into a paper bag. “Do you think you’re really going to find gold out there?”
Angie was dressed in her go-to outfit of a relaxed cargo shirt, shorts, and hiking boots – a look that would make most women appear frumpy and unappealing, but seemed at home on her. Angie was pretty, and didn’t need much in the way of flattering clothes to make people notice that.
When I asked about the treasure, she glanced around behind her and then turned back at me. She rolled her large, deep-set blue eyes dramatically.
“Between you and me, Cin? I think it’s all a lot of mumbo jumbo,” she said in a lowered voice, as if Wes was somewhere in the pie shop and she didn’t want him to hear. “I think that treasure’s long gone. If there was any at all to begin with, anyway. I mean, Christmas Flynn was a folk-hero. People told tall tales about him to give themselves some hope during The Depression. But that doesn’t mean that any of those tales were true.”
Her answer surprised me.
“But if you think it’s all a lot of mumbo jumbo, then how come you’re going on this trip?” I asked.
I placed the paper bag of pie on the counter and nudged it toward her.
She shrugged.
“Well, Wes doesn’t know that I think it’s all a lot of nonsense,” she said. “And I guess I’m just going along to make sure he actually makes it back home in time to start his new EMT job with the fire department here. I mean, he’s become so obsessed with all of this, I could easily see him just pulling a Rip Van Winkle and not coming out of those woods for twenty years.”
I chuckled.
“Yeah, I think Daniel’s catching that particular treasure bug, too,” I said. “You ought to see his nightstand. It’s stacked with books about Christmas Flynn and those bank robberies.”
Angie clicked her tongue and shook her head.
“Well for that, I am truly sorry, Cin,” she said. “Because if Daniel’s anything like Wes, then this is only the beginning. Before you know it, Christmas Flynn’s going to be the other woman in your relationship.”
I cracked a smile.
“Well, maybe that won’t happen if you guys find that treasure this week.”
“Fat chance,” she said. “But if we do by some miracle, then I’ll cut you in on some of the booty for any trouble my husband might have caused you and Daniel with his incessant ramblings.”
“Deal.”
She smiled. Then dug through her pocket, pulling out some bills. She pushed them across the counter toward me, but I held up my hands.
“Nope,” I said. “Your money’s no good here, Angie.”
She tilted her head, looking at me for a long second.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
I nodded.
She reached across the counter, pocketing the bills.
“Well, I guess that’s one good thing about going along with this silly trip,” she said, grabbing the bag of pie slices. “Gives me an excuse to eat your delicious pie out there in the woods.”
“You guys have a great time this week,” I said. “Enjoy that fresh mountain air.”
“Yeah, I’ll try to,” she said. “But I told Wes that next trip, I’m doing all the planning. And I tell you – it’s going to involve warm water, sunscreen, and lounge chairs. And my only rule is that Wes is forbidden to say the name “Christmas Flynn” the entire trip.”
I let out a laugh.
She pulled her shades down.
“See ya next week, Cin.”
“Enjoy, Angie,” I said.
I watched as she wound her way through the crowded dining
room and out the front door, disappearing down the street, clutching the bag firmly in her hands.
I made a mental note to invite Angie to coffee when she got back from her trip.
We hadn’t had much time this summer to get to know each other, and I had a feeling that we would hit it off nearly as well as Daniel and Wes had.
Chapter 12
“And what do you think makes Geronimo Brewing Co. stand out from all the other new breweries cropping up in the Pacific Northwest these days?” I said in a low, strong, and confident voice.
Warren straightened his back and paused deliberately before answering, staring past my shoulder with a stoic and thoughtful expression.
“Well, Mr. Abernathy. I believe it comes down to quality. Quality, respect for our customers, and most of all, a relentless, gritty, no-quarter kind of attitude when it comes to what we do.”
“Gritty?” I asked in my regular voice.
“You think I’m laying it on too thick?” Warren asked, returning to his usual voice, too.
I shrugged.
“I don’t know. It’s just that when I hear the word ‘gritty’ in relation to beer, I think of dirty pint glasses.”
Warren nodded, making a note on the legal pad sitting on the bar in front of him.
“Good point, Cinny,” he said. “What about the word blue-collar instead?”
“Perfect,” I said. “People love hearing that word in relation to craft beer. And in your case, it really is the truth.”
I watched as Warren used the tip of the pencil he was holding to erase a line on the notepad.
I took the opportunity that the break in our mock interview provided to take a sip of the Oregon Oktoberfest brew that Aileen and Warren had kegged this weekend. The pint of beer was delicious – smooth, spicy, and with just the right kick. I was smitten with it. The way I was smitten with nearly every beer that my grandfather and his wife made.
Since it was the afternoon, the Geronimo Brewing Co. pub was quiet and dark, making it the perfect time to help Warren rehearse for his big interview coming up. Though his interview with premier beer journalist Samuel Abernathy wasn’t until next month, the old man had been preparing for it like it was an Oscars Lifetime Achievement acceptance speech.
“Okay, okay,” Warren said, resuming that stoic look of his. “Ask me that question again.”
I glanced down at the notepad in front of me, repeating the question about what separated Geronimo Brewing Co. from other breweries in the area.
“Well, Mr. Abernathy. That question’s easy. What differentiates us from the competition is the quality of our product, and the relentless, blue-collar, no-quarter kind of attitude we have when it comes to what we do”
“Nicely done, Grandpa,” I said. “Sounds like the kind of brewery I’d want to visit.”
He grinned brightly.
“You sure it doesn’t sound too arrogant? I mean, I know I ain’t exactly the most humble person. But I’d hate to let Mr. Abernathy think I’m full of myself.”
“You sound just right,” I said. “Not arrogant. But proud of the brewery, like anybody would be if they owned this place. And more than that, everything you said just now was 100 percent true.”
“You really believe that, Cinny?” he asked, raising his bushy white eyebrows. “You’re not just blowing smoke?”
“Of course I do,” I said. “And I think you sound fantastic, old man. You’ve got a real knack for this sort of thing.”
He waved a hand, shooing that last comment away like it was a fly buzzing around the pub.
“Now that was definite smoke you just blew,” he said. “I might believe you on the first compliment. But saying I have a knack for answering questions? You’re just trying to get on my good side, Cinny. No doubt for some mischievous, sinister reason of your own.”
I chuckled, taking another sip of beer. It was definitely long before 5 o’clock, but when Warren poured me a fresh pint when I arrived, I’d found it hard to say no to.
“Okay, back to the questions…,” I said, lowering my voice again. “Warren. You’re in your mid-80s. How does a man at that ripe age keep up with young brewers in the field?”
“Hey,” he said in his regular voice, obviously offended.
“What?” I said. “You know he’s going to ask that question.”
“I don’t have a quarrel with the question itself,” he said. “But did you have to add ripe to the front of age? I mean, Holy Rudolph, Cin. I’m not a piece of fruit left to rot out in the sun.”
I grinned.
“My apologies, Warren,” I said, going back to my deep voice. “What I meant to say was how do you keep up at your wise old age?”
“Because age isn’t a number,” Warren retorted. “It’s a state of mind. In my mind I’m not yet 24 years old. Which makes me a lot younger than most of those young whipper snappers in the field.”
My lips curled up into a smile.
“You are a natural, old man.”
He scratched his chin and grinned, unable to hide his happiness.
“Well, I’ve always had charm,” he said. “I guess that helps in interviews.”
He let out a short sigh.
“But I’m tired of this,” he said. “I’ve been going through these questions until I’m blue in the face. What do you say we spend the last few minutes of your break just enjoying the afternoon?”
I shrugged, pushing away the notes with questions on them.
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
“So your car’s back up and running okay?” he asked, going around to the other side of the bar and pouring himself a pint of his own.
“Yeah,” I said. “The mechanic’s bill wasn’t pretty. But I guess it could have been worse.”
“I remember that happened to me up at the pass once back in the 60s,” he said. “Back then, of course, there wasn’t any way to call for help from the road. No cell phones. But then again, folks were friendlier and more trusting back then, too. The first car that came down the highway stopped and gave me a ride into town. Back in those days, there was no way that a fellow motorist wouldn’t stop for a person in need. And I can tell you that there’s no way a lady would be ignored for nearly an hour the way you said you were.”
I half-rolled my eyes at Warren’s “back in my day” speech. But I couldn’t deny that he was right. The world had most certainly changed since he was young.
“Well, somebody did eventually stop and help,” I said. “A very nice man. Which reminds me, I was going to ask if you’ve ever seen this guy in town before.”
I was beginning to sound like a needy broken record, and I knew it. But I continued on anyway, giving Warren the same description I’d given Kara earlier of the mysterious Good Samaritan with the scar and the limp.
I knew that finding the mystery man might be a long shot. But after doing some thinking about it, I realized that I couldn’t just let it go. Even if I didn’t find him, at least it would ease my conscience some to know that I’d done everything I could to thank him.
Warren rubbed his chin for a long moment, the wheels of his mind obviously turning. No doubt going through every year of his 80-plus ones living in Christmas River and all the folks he’d known in that time.
Then he shrugged.
“I know a few guys who might be him,” he said. “You might want to start with Rattlesnake Henry out by Tumalo Lake. He matches that description, save for the scar. But he’s got a limp on account of an old war injury. Could be the man you’re looking for.”
I pulled Warren’s legal pad and pencil toward me, writing the name down on the lower right side of a fresh page and ripping off the piece.
“He’s called Rattlesnake?” I said, stuffing it in my jean pocket.
Warren nodded.
“Teachers gave him that name back in grade school. You see back then, he was a biter.”
I made a grossed-out face, and Warren snickered some.
“I don’t think he’s continued tha
t practice, though it’s been a while since I’ve seen the old dog. Might be that he’s returned to his chomping ways.”
Warren grinned as my expression fell a little bit more.
“Aw, I’m only pulling your leg. Rattlesnake’s harmless. He used to work at the mill with me back in the day. You know, he used to play Old St. Nick at the annual Christmas in July Parade and Play a while back? But he got all into yoga and peace and Buddhism, and stopped celebrating Christmas. You’ll know his house by the Tibetan Prayer Flags he keeps up.”
I supposed that might have been something the man who’d helped me up at the pass could have been interested in. What he’d said about the wind and the trees and the voices he heard in the woods did have a peaceful, poetic quality to it.
“Well, I’ll go pay Rattlesnake a visit this week,” I said. “Thanks, old man.”
“No problem, Cinny Bee,” he said. “You know I’m a walking encyclopedia of this town. But my knowledge only goes insofar as those folks who want to be known. A few folks just don’t want anything to do with socializing and make it a point to avoid people. If you strike out with Rattlesnake, it could be that the man you’re looking for might be one of those off-grid types. And in my opinion, it’s best to leave those types alone.”
I nodded.
“Well, thanks all the same,” I said.
I took a gulp of the beer, which was quickly vanishing from the pint glass.
“So what are you planning to do when you do find this guy?” Warren asked.
“I don’t know exactly,” I said. “Bring him a pie, probably, as a thank you. I wanted to give him one up at the pass, but he left so quickly.”
“You think maybe he left so quickly because he didn’t want any sort of thank you?”
“Yeah, I thought of that,” I said. “But it’s the right thing to do, you know? I really owe him one. And I won’t rest easy until I find him.”
Warren smiled slightly, as if he’d just thought of a joke.