Page 21 of The Player in New Zealand
I looked around at the rest of the group and they all shook their heads.
Tane frowned at them. “What? It’s still early.”
“Sorry, mate,” one of the guys said, “the missus wants me home early tonight.”
“I’ve got to pick my teenager up from his study group,” another said.
The last one stood up and clapped Tane on the back. “Don’t worry, you’ll have your fancy craft beer to keep you company, mate,” and the others snickered.
When I returned with Tane’s beer, the guys were gone and there was cash under their empty pint glasses.
For the next hour, Tane sat alone, nursing his beer.
I polished glasses and watched him out of the corner of my eye. He picked at the label while his eyes burned in a thousand-yard stare.
Decisively, he picked up the beer and took a swig, setting it back on the table with a soft clink, got up quietly, and, without fanfare, climbed the stairs to his apartment.
When I bused the table, the beer bottle was half full.
* * *
A weeklater I prepped the bar to open, setting out the menus and straightening the chairs. Light was streaming in from the big windows, the range out back a field of bright, vibrant green. I hummed along with the music playing overhead. I was in a good mood, having just been to the Te Papa Museum the day before. The museum was free and huge. I’d learned more about the history of New Zealand and the culture of the Maori people. I was beginning to feel less like I was escaping Boston and more like I was exploring New Zealand.
The door to Tane’s apartment opened and the man himself stepped out.
I stopped humming and gave him a brittle smile. I hadn’t seen him since that night I’d ripped into him. Come to think of it, it was kind of weird that Tane hadn’t been around.
“Claire,” he said, nodding at me. He wore a rugby jersey, bright red-and-blue-striped shorts, and black sneakers. “Is my sister around?”
“Out back.”
“’Kay.”
I kept my eyes down, wiping smudges from the glossy menus. After a moment, Tane stepped closer to the bar. I bit my lip, watching him scan the room and pick up a menu, as if he didn’t know what was on it.
Did he want me to make him a drink? It was ten a.m. I didn’t think I could really say no, but I also didn’twantto.
I stepped around to the back of the bar and cleared my throat. “Can I get you something?”
Tane tossed the menu onto the bar and it spun in place. “What do you know about nonalcoholic beer?”
I raised an eyebrow. Tane had taken me by surprise. “Not much, to be honest. But it depends on the beer, I guess. I’d imagine you can get O’Doul’s or whatnot from your supplier, but I bet there’re also some local small-batch breweries doing non-alcs.”
“Never heard of an O’Doul’s before,” Tane said.
We lapsed into silence and I kept my hands busy behind the bar, my mind spinning and a little flutter of hope in my chest.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
He didn’t give me time to ask questions, just strode out the door. I wondered if he was serious about nonalcoholic beers? Maybe I would do some research in my off time tomorrow and see what non-alcs were available in Wellington. Most bars I’d worked at in Boston had at least one on the menu.
Fifteen minutes into our operating hours, I had just one group out back that Nina was instructing when Tane walked back through the doors. He lifted up a bag that clinked when he set it on the bar top, smiling victoriously.
“What’s this?” I asked him.
“We’re doing a tasting” was his response.
SEVEN
