Page 42 of Fighting for You
“Oh shit,” I say. “I just have something I want to ask you—talk to you about. It’s not a big deal.” I’m making it sound like a big fucking deal.
“Right. Well, if you’re not quitting, does it have anything to do with Margot?”
How the fuck?
I’m fairly certain my face does a thing the moment he says Margot’s name, giving me away. I push past it though, ignoring the knot forming in my stomach at the possibility I’m being too obvious. “After the tastings, Ripley.”
I head out into the restaurant side of RED, beelining my way to the back patio for a smoke.
This patio has always been one of my favorite spots here. It overlooks Indigo Lake, but even inside, you get a view. The whole backside of the restaurant has floor to ceiling windows, so even if you’re not lucky enough to get outdoor seating, you still get a killer atmospheric vibe from it.
I spend the next half hour out here chain smoking and hiding from Ripley so he doesn’t corner and pester the shit out of me for information. Asking for his advice before the tasting will only throw me off my game.
The RED tasting room is filled with people, some on the stools around the bar, others looking at the bottles we have for sale. We had a sold out afternoon with three of these back to back; we’re on our final one of the day now. Some of the customers we’ve seen today are regulars, and a couple are from out of town. We don’t typically get many tourists in the winter months, but Ripley and Thea are putting us on the map, and it’s happening more often.
“What do you think, Rip? Should we share the recipe secret? They seem trustworthy.” The regulars know the skit, but they’re all champs about it and let us get through it without interruption. Honestly, our whole spiel is corny as fuck, but people still laugh and have a great time.
“Nah, you know I like to keep it close to the chest,” he scoffs, being overdramatic like usual.
I roll my eyes back at him. “And they call you the ‘fun’ one.”
“Hey!” he says defensively as he throws a towel at me. “I’m the most fun, and you know it!” He looks to the crowd around us. “Right, guys? I’m fun?”
They all chuckle, some pick up their glasses to avoid the awkwardness. A man at the end of the bar yells, “You’d be more fun if you told us!” He’s not someone I recognize, so he must be from out of town. They all laugh at Ripley’s pouting face.
Like fuck would we ever tell anyone the secret recipe. It would only fast track us back to being nobodies in this small town. Even hints would be too much of a risk.
In the last few weeks, since we were closed, Ripley has opened a new barrel. It’s a new recipe he’s had aging for years now with a caramel and chocolate undertone. This crowd doesn’t know it yet, but they’re about to get a taste of it.
The last two tastings raved about it. As usual, I watched Ripley preen from the attention and compliments. Not going to lie, it made me wonder if the guy has a praise kink. Which immediately made me wonder what kind of kinks Margot may have. Which then led to me excusing myself to walk off the half-chub before the next tasting started.
Once the group has calmed down from the laughter, Ripley reaches down to pull the decanter from below the bar. “Well, since I’m no fun, I guess no one wants to try our new batch, huh?” They all perk up, rumbling about how they were wrong,and theydefinitelywant to try it. Ripley replies with a mumbled, “Uh huh,” before uncorking the bottle.
“He thrives off of praise, y’all. If you compliment him, he tends to be a more generous pour.” Ripley snickers at me. “Don’t even pretend like it’s not true.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Anyway, this is one I’ve been working on for the last few years. It’s got a nice caramel-butterscotch finish with a chocolate undertone. It’s not as good as RED, but I think it has some potential.”
He’s already pouring the samples into the patrons’ glasses, watching them intently as they swirl the bourbon and smell the aroma. I swear to God, the moment he hears someone make an “ooo” noise, his chest puffs up with pride. The sight makes me chuckle under my breath. I’ve seen it all day, and it never gets old.
Not surprisingly, they all love it. The chatter and compliments start pouring in, and I laugh from the corner as I start cleaning the used glasses. From behind me, I can hear Ripley giving refills. I peek over my shoulder to confirm then shout, “I told y’all compliments are his weakness.”
Ripley answers some questions about the new batch, like when will it be available for purchase, when will we carry it in the restaurant, is it limited or a permanent release, all questions we haven’t even decided on yet from what I’ve been told. Then he asks the crowd if they have any other questions before they pack up and leave.
An older lady, an out-of-towner, asks, “Where did the name Ripple Effect come from?”
I jump in before Ripley can answer because it’s one of my favorite questions. “Partially from this guy right here,” I say as I grab his shoulders from behind. “And partially from the vision he and Thea had for this place.” I move closer to the bar to recount the story of Ripple Effect Distillery and Restaurant. “Thelocals know this, but most from out of town don’t. This place used to be a hole-in-the-wall diner. We had the checkered floors and everything. It was called Indigo Hill Diner and owned by my late parents.”
I let that sink in for a moment before continuing. I may have had a complicated relationship with them, but speaking about them is still difficult. The lady’s face drops as she realizes what I said. “Then Thea, an angel of a woman, came back into our lives and revitalized the place. She proposed we give it one last hurrah and turn it into something bigger. By some miracle, my parents listened. Then Ripley came back into town itching to break into the distillery business. The two of them were masterminds. They brought the plans to my parents, who loved their ideas, and somehow convinced the bank to give us a shot.
“When it came time to name it, Ripley said, ‘What about Ripple Effect?’ We all laughed thinking he just wanted to name it after himself. But he got real serious—he never does that, by the way.” I look over to Ripley who shrugs. “He said, ‘A ripple effect means change, and that’s what this is. A change for us all. Thea came back causing a ripple effect for all of us, so it feels right.’” I keep my gaze locked on his as I recount this part of the story. It was so insightful for someone who communicates primarily through sarcasm.
“That’s beautiful,” the lady who posed the question responds. The rest of the group mumbles the same, all raising a glass to Ripley and Ripple Effect as a whole.
The second the tasting is over and I’ve locked up after the last customer, Ripley turns to me. “Talk.” His eyebrows are raised like he’s been counting down the minutes to get to this conversation.
I shake my head, barely holding in a laugh at how excited he seems. “I’m not so sure I want to anymore,” I tease.
“Oh, fuck off. What’s up?”
