Page 21 of Golden Touch
She pulls down an unlabeled binder from the center shelf. “Here. This is the one you need.”
“How could you tell?”
“Because I work here.” She tosses me the book, while I try not to admire the creamy V of skin above the top button of her blouse. “It’s chaos, but familiar chaos.”
“Like it would kill my father to use a spreadsheet?”
She gives me a catlike smile. “It might, according to him.” With an elegant leap off the ladder, she plucks a sticky note off her desk and slaps it onto the binder I’m holding. “Although I already did the math. Your next malt order should probably look something like this.”
I squint at the note. The handwriting is so small and precise that I wonder if robots printed it. But the list contains varying quantities of three different hops, three different malts, and several canning products.
When I scrutinize my own inventory and mentally compare it to the one in the binder, I can already tell that my shopping list will look a lot like hers. Almost exactly. “Livia? Do you usually do the ordering?”
She shakes her head. “Never once.”
“Then how do you know what we need?”
A shrug. “I’m observant. But go ahead and do the math yourself, if you’d rather. Aren’t we leaving soon to see your dad?”
“Yeah.” I’m still staring at the sticky note. “You have a lot more of the Californian hops on here than the Idaho.”
“That’s because I’m inferring that you’ll need the Californian for Goldenpour. But only your father really knows.” She gives me a smug little smile. “Now go pull samples for the old man. Can’t wait to watch you try to convince him to give up the recipe.”
“All right, all right.” I stuff the sticky note in my pocket. “Let me get some jars out of the tasting room.”
“No sir.” She frowns at me. “They’ll clink together in my bag, and the nurses will escort us off the property.” She points at my father’s desk. “Use those plastic snack cups and label them with that Sharpie.”
I eye the containers. She has a point, except for one problem. “Dad can’t stand the scent of plastic in his nose while he tastes,” I say quietly. “Your idea is great, though.”
Livia’s shoulders sag. “Dude, don’t patronize me. I didn’t consider the plastic issue.” She lifts her chin and taps it slowly. “Fine. Clearly, we have to be a little more creative.”
Then she turns on her heel and heads for the door.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask as she passes me.
“You’ll see. I’ll be back in fifteen.”
CHAPTER 10
NASH
An hour later we’re striding side by side into the Serenity Hills Nursing Care Center. I’ve got a four-pack of organic kombucha in my hand. At least, it looks like kombucha.
Livia bought the stuff at the food coop, and then she and I poured three of them down the sink. After thoroughly washing the bottles, we refilled them with beer and used the brewery’s bottling equipment to put new caps on them.
The fourth bottle is still kombucha, just in case we’re stopped and frisked. That detail smacks of overkill to me, but Livia has big opinions about pretty much everything, and I’m just trying to roll with it.
“This place is pretty nice,” I point out as we cross the lobby. The atrium is sunny, and the front desk has been fashioned from upcycled barn wood. I see signs for a therapy pool, a yoga studio, and a meditation room. “I’ve stayed worse places.”
“You’d think it was a Siberian prison camp for how he talks about it,” she says quietly. “Your father does not practice gratitude.”
“No,” I agree. “He does not.”
Livia leads me down a bright hallway to room 109. She taps onthe door before pushing it open, and I try to make my face pleasant as I mentally brace for seeing my father.
“You’re late,” he says immediately, scowling at us from an easy chair. “I thought you said ten.”
“Is that the way you greet your family?” asks a sour-looking nurse who’s taking his pulse.
