Page 24 of Wild Child
“Why save the best stuff?” I say between mouthfuls. “If you want something, why wait?”
Quentin looks away and stomps off to check that the generator is cooling the fridges.
I notice him walking stiffly, and while he’ll never admit it, I’m pretty sure that night in the tub has messed his back up. Silly man.
I finish the donut and get to work setting out the tasting samples on the counter.
By the time the gates open at eleven, we’re ready to go.
The first hour goes smoothly. Quentin stays with me and we work well together, giving out samples and selling bottles of our award-winning beer to eager customers.
It’s a different vibe down here compared to North Carolina. The men wear hipster beards neatly trimmed unlike the wild men back on the mountain. Not that Quentin would ever grow a beard. The military influence is too strong in him.
A couple of times, I catch him watching me when I’m talking to male customers. He always seems closer, hanging over my shoulder whenever a young man talks too long with me, even though I’m only talking about the beer.
In the afternoon, Quentin heads off to his meetings and I manage the truck on my own. It’s fun. I enjoy talking with customers, and we’re selling well. I take a few big orders from local bars which we’ll ship out from the brewery.
The story behind the beer brings in the customers as much as the award label. That it’s brewed by veterans in a motorcycle club on the side of Wild Heart Mountain captures the imagination and makes people want to support us.
By the time the gates close at six and customers start drifting away, I’m exhausted. My body is weary from standing up all day, and I’m hungry.
We spend an hour cleaning up and restocking for tomorrow.
Today was busy but fun. Quentin’s meetings went well. He brokered a deal with one of the biggest distributors on the west coast. Our mountain beer is going to be sold from Seattle to San Diego.
Quentin’s humming, and it’s infectious. I hum along with him and only halfway into the song realize it’s one of his old man tunes. I guess his music isn’t that bad after all.
14
QUENTIN
Charlie yawns over her lasagna, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Sorry, what were you saying?”
Her eyeliner is smudged and there are dark circles under her eyes, but she smiles at me, her cheeks flushed from the success of the day.
We’re back in the inn’s dining room, too tired to try any other place for dinner.
Dina is singing again, and her tough-looking husband stands guard while the kids sit in the booth with Sharon and Vinny, their doting grandparents.
When I walked past for the restroom earlier, Dina was between songs, and I leaned over the piano to give her my compliments. Her husband strode over to us, glowering at me.
I backed off quickly. I guess the dude’s protective of his wife.
It’s the same feeling I had watching Charlie speak to male customers today. The rational part of me knows it’s her job to chat and be friendly, but the caveman in me wanted to drag her away and keep her hidden from sight.
She’s gotten under my skin, and the more time I spend with her the stronger the feeling grows.
Now I watch her over the dinner table, animated despite the tiredness in her eyes.
We’ve been talking easily. The conversation always flows easily with Charlie, despite our age difference. It’s like the fifteen years between us doesn’t register to her.
“You’re tired.”
She nods. “It was a long day.”
It’s only nine o’clock but it’s been a hard day, and we’ve got to do it all again tomorrow.
