Page 23 of Golden Touch
“Of course.” Avoiding off-flavors is, like, day one of brewing school.
“I guess things aren’t a total train wreck, then.” He hands the bottle back to me. “Let’s have another one.”
He tastes the other two beers and doesn’t find much to bitch about. So that’s something.
I pull out my clipboard. “Now we’ve got to discuss Goldenpour. Look at this—there’s nothing left to ship. Even serving it in the tasting room is going to tap us out after a few more weeks. Did you know that?”
My father’s face falls. “I’m the only one who brews Goldenpour.”
“Heard that this morning,” I tell him. “So if you ever get run over by a bus—”Or die from an untreated heart condition.“—the beer dies with you? Is that the plan?”
He gives his head a stubborn shake. “My lawyer has a copy of the recipe. Sealed. Your mother inherits if I croak.”
I blink. “Okay. Well. You’ve thought this through some, yeah? But I still don’t get it. What do you think is going to happen to the brewery if nobody can mash in the beer before you’re out of here?”
He looks down at his hands, and I’m startled by how old they look. “Your sister didn’t want to learn to brew, and I thought they’d parole me by now. The infection is all cleared up.”
“That’s not how antibiotics work,” Livia mutters. “Nobody listens when I talk.”
“Okay, okay,” my father says. “How about this? I’ll call you upand tell you the grain bill. You can mash it in. Then I’ll call Badger and give him the hops formula. Bob can monitor the fermentation…”
“Yeah, okay,” I say, following along. “I think I understand. If it’s a team effort, no single person knows the whole recipe.”
My father snaps his fingers. “Exactly.”
“Right.” I rise from the windowsill where I’d perched myself. “Then good luck with the rest of your life. I’m out.”
“What?” His eyes practically bug out. “Why?”
“Because that’sidiotic,” I snarl. “Either you trust me, or you don’t. End of.”
His face reddens with anger. “This isnotabout trust.”
“Christ.” My laughter is bitter. “How can you say that with a straight face?”
“Boys,” Livia warns. “Take it down a notch.”
But my father doesn’t know how. “Now listen, son. You’re employed by one of the biggest breweries in the world,” he sputters. “Big companies exist to use people up and spit ’em out. Hell, the terms of your employment probably require you to share any and all pertinent knowledge?—”
“Bullshit!”I holler. “Everyone at BrewCo knows who I am, and whoyouare. And I haveneverbeen asked about your product. Not once.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but I’m not done. “I’m thirty-four years old, but you’ve always treated me like a child. We could have discussed this like adults. You could have said, ‘Nash, I’m in a bind. Let’s talk about a thorny question of intellectual property.’ But you didn’t do that. You just treated me like a hostile witness. And the worst part is that you don’t even realize how fucked up that is.”
Having said my piece, I leave the room.
CHAPTER 11
LIVIA
Lyle doesn’t say anything until the door clicks shut on his son. And then he lets fly a string of curses. “That boy just storms out! He never listens!”
“Who could?” I shout back. “You straight up told him you don’t trust him with the family recipe. What kind of loving message doesthatsend?” I grab the three beer bottles we opened and carry them over to the sink, where I pour them out and rinse them.
Lyle just stews in his chair, hamstrung by the IV tube, resentment rising off him like mist.
I count to one hundred in my head.
If a job interviewer asked me to describe my greatest skill, I’d tell him that I’m a kickass bookkeeper. The best of the best. And that’s the truth.
