Claudia thought that was the dumbest reason she had ever heard for blocking someone’s permits to expand their parking lot, and she was about to say so, but Betty got there first.
“Waitaminute. You’re that Nathan Rodgers? The reclusive boy wonder founder of Fog Heart Brewing Company?”
Nathan turned red, then faded to pink. “I really hated that magazine article. He was just mad I wouldn’t be in their “eligible bachelors of beer” calendar. And the whole part about me sending back three shipments of hops for not being perfect was completely not true. There was only one, and it had weevils.”
This was all very interesting, but Claudia thought there were some important points being ignored here.
“So you were mad at my business because you made too much money? And I’m supposed to feel sorry for you because of that?”
“No! I mean, yeah, but no. I’ve just been sort of in my own head for a while, and I wasn’t dealing with it well. But when I saw what was happening the other night, with the guy and the gun and everything, it kind of snapped me out of it.”
“About that. Not that I’m not grateful, but how did you know he had the gun on me in the first place? It’s not that close to your house, and the fog was coming in.” Claudia thought she knew, but she wanted to get it on the record. (From the looks Betty was giving her, she clearly didn’t approve of taking this approach with Sonoma County’s Boy Genius of Brewing, but that was her problem.)
Nathan at least had the decency to look uncomfortable.
“The thing is, I sometimes get kind of single-minded about stuff. And I couldn’t always see what was going on down in the marketplace, so a couple weeks ago I ordered a telescope, and it just came. And when you guys came out with him pointing a gun at you, I figured that had to be bad news.”
That was undeniably true, but Claudia wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. “You were watching through a telescope to find something to be mad at me about?”
“Well, when you put it that way—Look, I was trying to save you.”
“That doesn’t make it any less creepy.”
“Creepy or not, it’s better than you being killed by that man,” Betty interrupted, trying to calm the waters. “I think we can all agree on that.”
“Okay, sure,” Claudia said in what was possibly history’s most grudging acceptance of someone trying to save your life. “But it’s not like it was necessary. I had a plan.”
That was too much for Nathan. “Your plan was geese!”
“Well yours was a BB gun!”
Neither of them had a further argument, so they reached a standoff, silently glaring at each other across Claudia’s tiny living room. Once again it was up to Betty to play peacemaker, and this time she went with the direct approach.
“The important thing is that no one else died, and now that all this is settled, maybe we can finally have some peace around here.” She looked from Claudia to Nathan and back again until she felt like she had achieved sufficient agreement. “Good. Now, Nathan, there are some blackberries growing next to your deck that look ripe, so why don’t we all go and pick some and I’ll make a cobbler.”
Betty headed for the door and Claudia got up to find her shoes and a long-sleeved sweatshirt to protect her arms against the thorns, but Nathan just looked confused.
“Wait, what? Just like that, we’re going to go pick my blackberries, because she says so?”
“Yep,” said Claudia. “It’s really good cobbler.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book could never have come into existence without the help of many people, who are to be praised or blamed as one sees fit. Personally, I’d like to thank them.
First, my husband Cameron, for supporting and believing in me, and serving as my expert reader for all matters computer-related, and my parents, for a lifetime of support and encouragement.
My agent, Abby Saul, who has been my guide and advocate through the ups and downs and sidewayses of publishing, and is always ready with an encouraging word and an on-point GIF.
My editor, Dan Meyer, and everyone at Seventh Street Books and Start SF, for all their work to take this collection of words and turn it into a real, live book.
The members of my writing group: Madeline Butler, Karen Catalona, Sharon Johnson, Kirsten Saxton, Karen Murphy and Cornelia Read, who read this book and all the others, and whose comments made them better.
All my family and friends for their encouragement, sympathy, and support.
And finally, everyone on the Alameda/Oakland to South San Francisco ferry, for putting up with a definitely-not-a-morning person trying to write a book on her commute.
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