Page 73 of Bountiful
“Great idea,” Griff said, slamming the tailgate of his truck back into place. “I’m ready to stick on a few labels. Let’s do this.” He came up the porch steps and thrust a hand out to Dave, the gesture as friendly as if he were brandishing a knife. “I’m Griffin Shipley. Nice tomeetyou.”
Dave shook his hand, looking amused. “Sure. Irememberyou.”
“Fromwhere?”
“The Mountain Goat.” Dave’s smilewidened.
But Griff’s frown only deepened. He hadn’t been expecting that. And he didn’t seem to like itatall.
Awesome. Nothing better on a summer Sunday than watching your two ex-lovers stare each other down. And for what? I’d always assumed that men would save their macho bullshit forwomen they were actuallyinterestedin.
“Guys,” I said. “Who wants a glass of perry? I was just going to pour Dave his firsttaste.”
“He’s a perry virgin?” Griff yelped, and even Audrey rolledhereyes.
“Sit,” I ordered. I slapped the folder of labels against Griff’s chest. “Make yourselfuseful.”
Five minutes later,four so-called grownups were seated on the porch, sipping glasses of Uncle Otto’sperry.
“The taste is amazing,” Dave said. “It really reminds me of applecider.”
Griffin made an exaggerated choking sound. “It doesnottaste like apples.Jesus. Perry has a much lighter mouthfeel and the color is completelydifferent.”
Dave blinked. “Right. How could I have been soblind?”
Audrey smirked, and Griffscowled.
Poor Dave. The truth was that pear cider tasted shockingly like its apple cousin, having much of the same tang. But a snob like Griffin could go on until a week from Tuesday about subtle differences in tannins andacidity.
Audrey met my gaze. She was obviously restraining agiggle.
“Pears have distinct tannins and a higher sugar content than apples,” Griff went on. “The fermentation process happens at a completelydifferentrate.”
“Okay. Just going out on a limb here,” Dave said drily. “But are you involved in cider-making?”
I couldn’t hold in my laughter anymore, and Audreyjoinedme.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” Griffgrumbled.
ChapterTwenty-Two
Dave
Sippingperry with the bearded farmer, I helped Zara and Audrey stick labels on a couple hundred miniature winebottles.
“What’s in here, anyway?” I asked, smoothing down another label. The label read only “Audrey,” with last year’svintage.
“The best hard cider Griff ever made,” Zara said. “It won a big award. The Stanley Cup of cidertastings.”
I knocked my knee into hers. “Look at you, with the hockeyterminology.”
“You run a bar, you learn a few things. Business was always crap during thefinals.”
“Ah.” I conjured up an image of The Mountain Goat in my mind, which wasn’t hard, because I loved the place. “There was no television in your bar. It’s like the last bar on earth withoutaTV.”
“I know. I liked it that way. I don’t want to live in a world where everyone is pasted to ascreen.”
“I hear you.” I stuck on another label. “But I have to run, now. Literally. I have to get a workout in to pay for that big piece of lasagnaIate.”
