Beau swatted the air, although they both knew Buchanan Brewery needed a major overhaul. The equipment was outdated, and it had been at least three years since the brewmaster, Lurch, had come up with anything new. Five years since he’d come up with anything good. Still, Beau was nothing if not loyal, and Lurch had once helped him out of a lurch (hence the nickname). He refused to replace the man, even though they were both far past the normal age of retirement. With as much competition as there was—a new brewery popping up every few months like a mushroom—they couldn’t keep skating by forever.
“Don’t you worry about that,” Beau said. “I was considering some plans for the future, and I want to be sure you’re taken care of.”
“We’ve talked about this before. You’ve already given me everything I could possibly want. As far as I’m concerned, the only plan you should be making is when you’re getting a haircut, because you’re starting to channel a serious Einstein vibe.”
“Consider the source,” Beau had said with a smile. “Before long you’ll be able to pull that into a ponytail”—he winced—“and then one of those man buns.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll never let it go that far. Now, will you stop being morbid?”
“Only once I die,” Beau had said, picking up the beer again. He took a long sip, looking off into the distance, and then said, “I’m thinking of asking my granddaughter to visit. It’s time.”
Beau’s family had always fallen on the do-not-discuss list, or rather the do-not-discuss-unless-Beau-brings-it-up list. Not because he was the sort of man who kept secrets, or at least not until this whole will disaster, but because it had broken his heart. That was something River understood. He didn’t talk about his mother either.
So he’d just nodded.
Now, he wished he’d asked more questions. He wished a lot of things.
After a stop at his loft on North Lexington—the suit went into the back of his closet until someone else died or got married, and he checked on the fermentation of his new test batch—he walked to Buchanan Brewery, feeling a whole hell of a lot more like himself in jeans and T-shirt. The South Slope location, which had been kind of iffy fifteen years ago when they’d first moved to this spot, was now ideal. They had the street, just not the street appeal. There was a kind of hominess to the tasting room, though, like your grandparents’ somewhat mildewy basement. But maybe he just thought that because Beau had been the owner, and Aunt Dottie was the tasting room manager.
The place was packed tonight, with so many people standing he couldn’t edge his way to the bar. Annoying from a logistics perspective, but it made him proud of Beau. Everyone wanted to raise a glass to him. A few people waved at River and slapped him on the back, some of them mutual acquaintances with Beau, others locals who patronized Big Catch, and then he caught sight of Finn sitting at a small two-top, chatting with a couple of pretty tourists, a blonde with pigtails and a brunette drinking a hard lemonade. Leave it to Finn to wheedle his way into a seat—and female company.
“Over here, buddy!” Finn called. “Already got you a beer.”
He wrestled his way over to the table, nearly tripping over a Chihuahua in an emotional support vest—his friend Maisie was so hearing about that—before he finally grabbed the seat across from his buddy.
Although River had ditched his suit the first chance he got, Finn was still wearing his. Of course, Finn was the kind of guy who wore suits well, just like Junior from earlier, only not an asshole.
“I’ll call you later,” Finn said to the blonde with the pigtails, and the two women took off, Finn’s date looking over her shoulder.
“Let me guess,” River said, waiting for them to be out of hearing, “you told her you’re a big catch.”
“Ha. Ha,” Finn said. “Very funny. You’re lucky that, loss of Beau aside, I’m in a very good mood.” He slid a pint across the table to him. “Beau Brown. I thought it only appropriate.” He picked up his own drink, a pint of the same, and they clinked glasses.
“To Beau.”
River’s throat felt a little thick at that, but he took a swig. Beau had been eighty-seven, for God’s sake. They didn’t have much reason to complain, did they?
Somehow that didn’t matter like it should.
“Sorry, buddy,” Finn said, some of his good humor deflating. “He was one of a kind.”
River’s mind shot to the will reading again, to the spectacle of it. Part of him wanted to tell Finn, who would surely laugh at the Buchanans. Joking around was what he did best. But he didn’t want to talk about it yet, and in a weird way, he didn’t want to laugh about it either. Which was why he changed the subject instead. “So the meeting went well, I take it?”
Finn’s grin would have been answer enough. “Better than well.”
“What was it about, anyway? Wider product placement? I know you’ve been chasing that down lately.”
“No, man. It was a rep from Bev Corp.”
Bev Corp, as in the largest multinational beer company in the world.
Bev Corp, as in where creativity went to die.
“Why the hell did you meet with them?” he asked, already bristling.
“Now, River, I know how you and Dottie feel about big corporations and all that noise, but wait until you hear what they offered me. Us. They want you too. They’re going to give you a huge bonus once I sign.”
Once I sign. He’d already made the decision.
This meant Big Catch wasn’t theirs anymore, except the fact that Finn had made this decision without even talking to him first—hell, he’d accepted the meeting without telling him—meant it had never been his at all. This likely wasn’t the work of one meeting either. How long had Finn been talking to them?
All of the emotions River had been trying not to feel since Beau died seemed to pour into him at once, only he felt pissed off instead of sad.
“Was I the last one to know about this?” he asked, not caring that his voice had risen. Hadn’t Tom acted weird earlier? As if he knew something River didn’t?
“It’s not like that,” Finn said. “I wouldn’t agree to anything that wasn’t in your best interest too. You know me better than to think that. Come on, just hear me—”
River stood up then, pushing his chair back a little harder than he’d intended. The emotional support Chihuahua yelped and jumped into the arms of its owner—a huge tattooed man with a bald head.
“Hey, back off!” the man shouted. “You scared Princess Leia!”
“Dude,” he said, staring the guy down, “we all know that’s not an emotional support dog. The little vest isn’t fooling anyone.”
The guy took a step toward him, a threat that was somewhat undermined by the Chihuahua cuddled in his arms. She was wearing a pink tutu beneath the vest.
River burst out laughing at the absurdity of it, at the absurdity of life, which apparently offended the guy because he came barreling toward him. At first he thought the dude would try to punch him, which he’d maybe even welcome, but Princess Leia was still cradled in his arms. Instead, Baldy tried to kick him in the shins, and River jumped over his huge feet as if he were a girl playing double Dutch, which was when Finn intervened.