Paradise Hops

by Crowe, Liz

  “Lori!” Her name, shortened as he never used it, burst from his lips startling her. But she relaxed against him. The baby calmed and she was grateful for the break to her internal organs. “My love,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Yes.” She let him cradle her to his chest. “I am.” And she felt utterly at peace. He stirred, then got up, leaving her freezing cold. He drew the quilt over her, kissed her shoulder. “Can’t we rest some more?”

  He laughed, and headed into the bathroom. Frau Hessler burst in with hot water for his bath. Lori rolled onto her other side, refused to be embarrassed by the obvious sex that had just occurred in here and watched her fill the tub for Garrett. Her husband. Father of…. Her heart nearly stopped. “Garrett.” Her voice sounded thin to her own ears. He turned, his eyes full of concern.

  “Lorelei, you are all right? The child?” He put a hand to the hard mound of her stomach. She stared at him.

  “Where did you, I mean, that,” She pushed him away, pointed to the vine creeping over his shoulder. Her brain started to clang with panic. Her throat closed up. She clawed at it unable to breathe. The baby did a slow, sickening roll. Garrett frowned at her.

  “This? Don’t you remember my love? We were in Istanbul on our honeymoon and you said I should do it there. They have amazingly talented artists and are known to be skilled and sanitary with their body art. You wanted it. You drew it out on a piece of paper.” He sat next to her, turned her chin to face him. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

  “Oh Christ. Garrett.” She sucked in a breath, and let the tears flow. The tattoo she’d drawn out was an exact replica of the one on Eli’s body. Eli. Her mind reached out, tried to grasp him. Couldn’t. His hard angry face stayed just out of reach. She heard him though.

  “Go. Leave.” His last harsh words embedded in her psyche.

  She gasped and grabbed her stomach as a gush of fluid escaped between her legs. She looked down and saw vines creep across the floor, headed straight for her, for her baby. For Garrett’s Baby. “Garrett!” She cried out, clutching at his sleeve. But he was no longer there. No one was there. She was alone. Completely alone.

  Her eyelids fluttered open. But they were heavy, like dead weights. It actually hurt to try so she gave up and let them close. A strange sound forced her back to consciousness. A smell—coppery, dangerous, evil—pierced her nose, made her gag and sit up. Music, piano music, oozed around her. A man sat next to her. She gasped and shifted away, afraid.

  Until she realized who it was. “Garrett,” she whispered, reaching out to touch him. She tried to open her eyes wider. Made herself sit up straighter. He didn’t move, and she still couldn’t see his face. She needed that, more than anything. Thank goodness he was here. If only she could see him.

  “Garrett, I missed you. I hurt myself. But I’m pregnant. I’m going to have your baby.” He held up a hand. Made as if to press it to her lips. She grabbed it, frightened by the whole scene. She smelled leather, starchy cotton, a ghost of malt, and a hint of that horrible metallic stench. She sneezed, which made her head pound.

  “I love you.” She gulped. If he wouldn’t touch her or let her touch him then she’d at least say what she needed to say. She put a hand over her flat stomach. Some memory, or dream or something like it, accosted her. Remembered pain that sliced like a dull knife through her lower body. “Garrett. Please, talk to me.” She slid down, overcome with weariness, stress and guilt. He stood without a word. She felt his palm against her cheek. “I don’t know what to do. Please, don’t go.” She slumped back and let the room dim. The soft whisper of a kiss, lips she recognized immediately as Garrett’s brushed her skin. He was gone and she slept.

  Chapter Eight

  “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why Mr. Hunter, Mr. Brockton, and I think moving towards a more lager-centric menu is best, and also why we need that new influx of money. Lagering is more expensive at all stages, but in the end it will make Brockton truly stand out from the craft beer crowd.” Eli frowned and put his hand over his pocket. The damn phone had been blowing up for the last twenty minutes. Wouldn’t be Hunter. The guy knew he had to do this damn tour. Besides he should be on an airplane by now.

  The group palmed their samples and shuffled out, taking their sweet fucking time, but Eli kept smiling, chatting, bantering, doing enough schmoozing to last him a bloody lifetime. Finally when the last suit had been booted up to the front office, he stood and took a breath. His phone screen held one number and name. Anderson. Why in the hell had she called him ten times? He looked up then, and saw her. Tears ran down her face, her hands clutched each other as she made her way towards him.

  What fresh hell was this? Eli swallowed hard. “What is it Mrs. Anderson? Did Lori… I mean, is she still okay?” The woman blubbered and flung herself at him, sobbing so loud the entire brewery stopped and stared at them. “Stop! Calm yourself, woman.” He peeled her back, his heart pounding so hard his chest ached. Please, let Lori be all right.

  She kept sniveling. “Spit it out.” He said, gripping her arms. At that moment Ron Brockton ran down between the fermenters, skidding to a stop in front of them. His face was wild with agony. “Christ, somebody tell me what is going on.” Eli demanded.

  Mrs. Anderson gulped. “G-G-Garrett. He’s….”

  “I know, I know he’s on his way to Germany. What about Lori.” Ron pulled up a ratty chair, and shoved his long-time company employee down in it keeping a hand on her shaking shoulder.

  Eli held his breath when the older man looked up at him and spoke. “No Eli. It’s Garrett. There’s been an accident. He rolled his car. He….” Eli turned and walked away, held up a hand to make the man stop speaking. He refused to listen to any more of this fucked up craziness. “He’s dead. Killed instantly. We have to go….”

  “No.” Eli shouted into the lines of stainless steel. “No.” He whispered. He slumped against the nearest tall container, unwilling to open his eyes and face any of this. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor.

  “We have to go, son.” Ron put a hand on his shoulder. “Lori needs us now. After we,” he gulped, ” identify Hunter’s….”

  Eli’s brain snapped to and went into overdrive. Anything but face the very real emotions rolling through him. He leapt to his feet. “Fine. Let’s go. Do you have his sisters’ numbers Mrs. A? They have to be told, and I want to do it. Not some random cop.” She nodded and made her sniffling way back to the office.

  Action. Moving forward. It was all he knew and all that kept him from collapsing to the floor in a heap. He grabbed his keys, barked a few orders to his second, then finally met Lori’s father’s eyes. “Get us a flight. I’ll meet you at the airport. I’ll handle the, ah, thing with Garrett.” He stalked out, shoved his helmet on and roared out into traffic, barely hearing the honks of angry drivers. By the time he got home, the horror of positive identification over, his face felt stiff. But the air had dried his tears, cleared his head but his chest ached with stress. He had to handle this, but it wasn’t in him. He was not a fixer.

  “God damn it, shitting ass fuck!” He threw a tennis ball at the television. It bounced away harmlessly. The dog ran to him, shoved a nose in his crotch, making worried noises. Eli sat, let more tears flow, rubbed his dog’s ears and wished he had his friend back.

  Lori’s eyes flickered open. She heard familiar voices.

  “If you can’t tell me something then find somebody who fucking well can!”

  “Now, now, son, let’s not anger the doctors. They’re the only ones who….”

  “Excuse me Mr. Brockton, but I am sick and tired of all this bullshit — ‘we don’t know when she’ll wake up’ excuses. These are god damned first world doctors. Somebody needs to give us an answer.”

  “Hey.” Lori’s voice croaked, her throat felt like ten miles of desert. “Can I get some water?”

  The two men turned, gaping at her. Then Eli was there, holding her close, muttering in German into her hair. Her father sat on h
er other side, his blue eyes shining with unshed tears. “I feel like someone dropped a house on me. Please? Water?”

  “Of course,” her father went to the hallway then returned with a huge white Styrofoam cup and a straw. She sucked it down so fast she got an instant headache but kept drinking, the glorious life-giving fluid filling her mouth, her muscles and tissues. A tear leaked from one eye. Eli took the cup from her.

  “Slow down. There’s more where that came from.” She leaned back on her pillows and looked around. Eli and her father exchanged a look she caught immediately. She had to put a hand over her mouth to keep from gagging as the dream memory of the smell—coppery, slippery, scary blood—filled her senses. Then she knew.

  “Where is Garrett?” She whispered. “I need Garrett. Why isn’t he here? He was just here. I saw him.” Her voice rose as the men stared at her. No one spoke. “Where the hell is he? I need him.” She heard screaming, realized it was her as nurses rushed in with needles in their hands. “No, keep the fuck away from me. I’m pregnant. I can’t have any of that shit in my veins.” She pointed at Eli. “You. Tell me where he is. I need to tell him, about the baby—about our baby. Oh, my God.” She shook her head, whipping her hair back and forth as he came closer, silent as the grave.

  He sat, took both her hands and pressed them to his lips. “He’s dead Lori. I’m so sorry.” His blue eyes glinted. Panic clamped down on her brain shutting out everything but the bright light of visceral anger.

  “You’re lying.” First a whisper, then a throat shattering scream. “You are lying to me!” Her father tried to touch her. “No! Get out! Go away! Where is he? Why are you even here?” She glared at the tall, blonde man, registered his bloodshot eyes. He ran a hand over his jaw. “Why?” She burst into tears and fell back. “Garrett,” She whispered, trying to capture him. To see his face but nothing came except a nurse with a needle, bringing her blessed, completely dreamless sleep.

  Part III

  “Hell is yourself and the only redemption is when a person puts himself aside to feel deeply for another person.”

  ~ Tennessee Williams

  Chapter One

  Eli stomped his feet, tried to restore feeling in his legs as the dog pranced around, jumping and panting like an idiot on Lori’s front porch. He pressed the doorbell again. “I know you’re in there Lori,” he called through the window, shading his eyes against the glare from the early February snowfall. Nothing but silence greeted him. Hopster whined, pressed his nose to the crack between the door and the exterior wall. Eli patted him distractedly.

  “God damn it,” he muttered, walking around the side of the small bungalow. The last four months had been a blur of agony that he buried in work. After they’d brought Lori back from Germany he’d expected her to show up at the brewery at some point. Construction had begun on their massive expansion. The board had unanimously approved the money the day after Garrett’s death, and the project was well underway, utterly screwing up Eli’s world in the process.

  The entire brewery floor was in chaos as they had to move all the storage tanks out of the existing cooler to make room for destruction of walls. Every single day he wished for nothing more than to see Garrett’s calm face, hear his oh-so-even-keeled voice bestowing method to the madness. He missed his friend. He found himself drinking way more than usual, waking on his couch at times, dry-mouthed and head-achy from too much beer.

  As it was, Lori’s father had stepped back into a daily management role, and Eli had to suffer pressure from the sales force with no smiling, be-suited buffer. Plus, the scowling general contractor kept insisting that he, Eli, be responsive to his team’s need for more space for their tools and shit in his brewery space. Fucking insufferable is what it was. He needed someone who could help him sort it out. He needed Garrett. But Garrett was dead. So he had counted on Lori to help, had hoped the focus on the brewery could help ease her grief somewhat.

  She had closed in on herself in way that alarmed everyone. Even her best friend for many years had been summoned from the west coast to help, but no one could seem to pull her out of her funk. After ten days of talking to her through closed doors, and the occasional, brief face to face encounter, the woman—Kristy something Eli barely recalled—had given Ron a hug, smiled at Eli and caught a plane back to her family in California. “I don’t know guys. I gotta get back to my kids. I’ll keep trying to call her. But this thing…well, I’ll be back in May for sure.”

  Eli peeked into her back window. The kitchen looked like a tornado had swept through it. Dishes, empty pizza boxes, food, lay strewn around. He watched Hopster traverse the small yard, stop, smell something and take a casual dump. Eli banged hard on the back door. “Open the fucking door, Lori, or I’m calling the cops. I am not kidding.” He squinted and strained his ears, would swear he heard footsteps. Finally he took a seat on the top step, willing to wait it out, wondering if anyone had a spare key to the place. Hoping she had not done something really stupid.

  He put his chin in his hand and watched the oblivious dog trundle around the yard, chasing phantom smells. Ron Brockton had come into the brewery a couple of days ago, his face haggard from stress, long hours and worry about his only child. “Can you help me son?” He’d leaned against one of the giant sixty barrel fermenters. Eli had ignored him as long as you could ignore the man who signed your paychecks.

  “I’ll try,” he’d grunted, distracted by yet another crisis on the floor, yet more bullshit between his brewing staff and the construction crew that he had to cope with for another six or seven months. His chest tightened. The newly empty space Garrett had briefly occupied as a friend hurt like a toothache. Making Lori confront the new reality of her life held zero appeal. “No promises.” The older man had put a hand on his arm, forcing him to turn and face him.

  “I don’t need promises, Eli. I need Lori, and I think you are the only one who can get her back for me now.”

  He’d shut his eyes against the onrushing emotion, the visions of her smiling face, then the abject agony he’d seen in that hospital in Munich. The funeral had been, in a word, horrific. Eli shuddered, remembering his own reluctance to attend, to face family that he’d only heard about. He’d found a coat and tie and mostly unwrinkled dress shirt, pulled them on and shown up at the brief ceremony in a nearby chapel.

  Garrett’s sisters had arranged it all after having his body cremated. The service was followed by a reception at the Brockton Pub. What a cluster fuck. He put a hand over his eyes, willing the memories to fade, but like most bad ones, they wouldn’t.

  Images shot across his brain. One of Garrett’s nieces crying and telling her mother that Uncle Garrett should come out of the little box now that the game was over and it wasn’t funny anymore, of her father having to take her away from the group. The sounds of her heart wrenching sobs as she came to terms with the non-game nature of the proceedings still echoed through his psyche. Lori had dragged in looking like a refugee, gaunt with deep purple rings under both eyes, holding her elbows and staring across the room at Garrett’s cadre of women. Three sisters, four nieces and a small, China-doll like woman who showed up late, dressed head to toe in black with giant sunglasses covering her face had stood in a tight circle. Eli had noted their quick looks across the room to Lori who stood, alone, tears streaming down her face.

  He’d let his protection mechanism kick in then, put an arm around Lori’s quivering body, tried to provide support, had whispered nonsense, comfort words in German. She’d flinched and moved away from him, staring at him as if he’d asked her to go down on him in front of the crowd. He’d stepped away.

  Lori’s friend Kristy had been there that day, had shoved him back towards her. “Don’t let her push you away. She needs you.”

  After the brief ceremony, where a couple of Garrett’s old friends from school had spoken, he stuck by Lori’s side, determined to help her through this even if she thought she didn’t need him. The petite, shockingly beautiful woman he’d noted earli
er made her way over to them. He’d gotten Lori a cup of coffee, but her hands shook so badly he’d taken it from her and found her a seat. The entire staff of Brockton Brewing had turned out and was more or less gathered around her. The woman had strode up, taken off her sunglasses revealing bloodshot dark brown eyes. She’d ignored him, knelt in front of Lori’s chair.

  “You’re Lori, right?” The strong southern lilt to her voice made Eli tense. He’d heard the ex-wife story and figured Lori knew it, as well. She’d barely nodded. The small woman had gripped her hands. Eli had stepped closer as if he could somehow shield Lori from what came next. “He loved you.” The woman stared into Lori’s eyes.

  “Y-y-yes.” Lori had stammered. Eli had put a hand on her shoulder, glared at the model-perfect ex-Mrs. Hunter. She continued ignoring him.

  To his surprise, the woman had leaned in and pressed a kiss to Lori’s pale cheek. “I should have never let him go, but I’m glad he found you. He deserved happiness.” Lori had stood and stumbled out then. And had not returned. But everyone had let it go, as if it were to be expected. The sisters had turned out to be pretty cool, and the ex had chatted with him a bit. She left after about an hour, put a hand on his arm as she headed for the door.

  “Take care, Eli.” She’d given him a social hug. “Take care of her. She’ll need you.” She’d glided out, leaving a breath of expensive perfume and sorrow trailing behind her.

  Eli gulped back anger. Damn it he had to get up every day and work. Lori needed to get a fucking grip. It was the only way to get on with it, to move forward. What were the options? He stood, yanked open the storm door, and bashed in the small glass partition over the door knob, using his gloves as defense against injury. The noise of breaking glass was loud and definitive. He reached in and flipped open the deadbolt, whistled for the dog, and went inside.