Page 14 of Golden Touch
“Yeah, okay,” he says thoughtfully. “I hear that. We’ll just pack them into a briefcase or something.”
“Leila says they’re strict,” I tell him. “She tried carrying a six-pack in, and they freaked right out.”
He smiles again, and honestly I’m unprepared. The smile takes his face from handsome to blinding. “I love my sister, but she has a good-girl complex. Something tells me you and I are better at espionage.”
I find myself smiling back at him, but I worry that his big, dark eyes see too much of me. How can he tell that I have a bad-girl streak that runs a mile wide?
Turning my back on him, I pick up my bag and prepare to begin my afternoon. “We’ll get those samples to your dad first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Sure.”
“I’m going to run to the hardware store and make you a copy of the front-door key. I need you to keep this place locked up at all times. And I mean that literally. I have a zero-tolerance policy for leaving the door open.”
“Yes, ma’am. That old button lock isn’t much of a barrier, though. A thief could open it with a dirty look.”
Like I don’t know that? “Lock it anyway.” And with that frosty statement, I take my leave.
CHAPTER 7
NASH
Interesting.
I watch Livia go, wondering what’s got her so scared. Orwhohas her so scared. Locking the doors is a good life skill, and so is calling the cops on an intruder.
But the woman is seriously skittish. There’s got to be more to the story than she’s let on. And if she thinks she’s hiding it, she’s wrong.
Something’s happened to her since that night at the bar. Something bad. And I mean to find out what.
But not right away, it seems. After lunch, I spend a lengthy afternoon in the brewhouse. That means introducing myself to the staff, and pitching in with the day’s brewing work. The best way to earn everyone’s trust is to strip down to my T-shirt and clean out the masher with the rest of them.
It’s sweaty work, but I don’t mind. Moving my body is good for the soul. And I know better than to jump in with a lot of opinions about the operation. These men are loyal to my father, and God only knows what that man says about me behind my back.
So I concentrate on enjoying the scent of yeast and barley in my nose, and the rhythmic pump of my muscles as I shovel another load of spent grain into a wheelbarrow.
As we work, I’m listening to Badger, the youngest brewer, tell a tale about last weekend. “So then she said, ‘Let’s go to my place,’” He pauses for dramatic effect. “And I think I’m getting lucky, right? But it turns out that when she said, ‘I’ll teach you how to play D&D,’ she meant right then and all night.”
The other guys guffaw, and I find myself chuckling.
The phone in my pocket vibrates with an incoming text. I break the rhythm of my work to see if there’s any news about my sister.
But nope. It’s another text from BrewCo. I’ve gotten a dozen of them so far today. I’m getting the sinking feeling that nobody at work knows what aleave of absenceactually means.
“Any word on Leila?” Badger asks.
“Nope.” I slip the phone in my pocket. “Want me to dump out the wheelbarrow?”
“Roger’s turn,” Badger says, his cheeks flushed from exertion. “I’ll get the hose, and we’ll mash in a new batch of Meadow Gold—the spring special.”
Roger takes the wheelbarrow away, and I take a moment to glance around the brewhouse. These guys are working hard enough, I guess, but half the brew tanks are empty. It wasn’t lost on me that Livia had been the only person in the building when I arrived this morning.
A well-run brew cycle starts early, and I suspect the guys have been slacking while my dad is away. So that’s something I’ll need to address.
It’s not the only thing I’m noticing about this place, either. All this manual labor is good for my soul, but it’s not very good for the bottom line. I can’t believe that Dad’s brewing process hasn’t been updated in thirty years. It boggles the mind. The mash is manually heated to the optimal temperature. Tanks are monitoredwith old-school thermometers. Spent grain is shoveled out of the masher by the brewers.
What a colossal waste of time. I’m surprised they’re not filling the hot liquor tank with an old-fashioned handpump and working by candlelight.
“Hey, Badger?” I casually inquire of the chatty brewer with the quick smile and sleepy eyes. He’s worked here for five years and seems to know more than anyone. “How come so many of the tanks are standing empty?”
