After a while, he realized where he was headed: Beau’s house. It felt right, so he kept walking, and when he got to the Victorian in Montford, he let himself in using the key hidden in the hanging planter Aunt Dottie had made for Beau last Christmas.
The house still smelled like Beau. Like Old Spice and hops and a hint of vanilla. Maybe it was because he spent all day thinking about things like flavor profiles, but he always took note of a person’s scent. It saddened him to think it would fade away. Probably the Buchanans would want to sell, and they’d get a realtor to show it to people—someone who’d use that fake cookie scent to lure people in.
“Shit,” he said out loud. He really didn’t like the thought of this place going to strangers. Although the Buchanans were strangers too. Part of him wanted to hate them—they’d ignored Beau, hadn’t they?—but he knew how complicated relationships could be, and from what little he knew, the neglect had gone both ways. He hoped for Beau’s sake they’d give it a chance. The house. The brewery.
I want to be sure you’re taken care of, Beau had said to him.
Part of him couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if Finn had made his decision a month ago. Would Beau have entrusted his legacy to him?
A stab of envy and grief made him feel even worse. Beau and Aunt Dottie really had given him far more than he’d ever deserved. It was only right that Beau’s real family should get his inheritance. But damn, he could have done great things with that place. He could have turned it around without tossing out all the things that made it special.
He’d offered to help often enough, but Beau had been stubborn in his own way. He’d always refused.
Beau’s cat Jezebel, fondly known as the Creature of Evil by her former owner, wound her way around his legs and back, and he stooped to pet her. She tipped back her head, closing her pale green eyes in pleasure—and then promptly hissed and bit his hand. Any affection was on her terms, and those terms changed at a moment’s notice. Strangely, it had made Beau more fond of the cat. Aunt Dottie had been stopping in to feed her since Beau had died, although she insisted no one should remove Jezebel from the house. Jezebel was tied to the place, she insisted, as if the cat were some sort of wayward spirit. Which might not be too far off. The one time Beau had attempted to board Jezebel at a pet spa, she’d scratched three attendants and a fourth man had quit.
If the Buchanans had inherited everything in the house, did that mean Jezebel was theirs too? He had to smile at the thought of that Victoria woman attempting to pet the cat. No, she’d never make nice with an animal. She looked like the type who’d adopt a French bulldog after seeing one on some cutesy TV show, only to bring it to the shelter the next day after realizing she’d have to wipe its butt after it pooped—a little known fact all those IG posts neglected to mention with all their cute photos. He had Maisie to thank for keeping him up to speed on strange pet trivia.
He let himself down into the unfinished basement, shutting the door behind him because the smell of hops made Jezebel as crazy as if she were rolling around in a field of catnip. A few glass carboys were still down here, fermenting from when River, Beau, and Finn had agreed to a competition to determine who could make the best beer incorporating three discordant ingredients. Aunt Dottie was the one who’d chosen them: cinnamon, jalapeño, and watermelon. He wasn’t overly excited to try that one.
He headed to the back of the basement, to the fridge where Beau had stored beer—a variety of local stuff plus some bottled home brews—and grabbed something at random, cracking it open with the bottle opener magnet.
Lifting it up, he said, “I miss you, Beau. Things already suck without you.”
He took a sip of the beer—an amber—and remembered the watch. Maybe he should take it while he was here so he wouldn’t have to bother the Buchanans.
He started back up the stairs, beer in hand, and was on the third stair from the bottom when he heard the front door creak open. Aunt Dottie. It had to be.
What was he going to tell her about his confrontation with Finn?
The truth. She knew how he felt about Bev Corp, and he had no doubt she’d agree with him. Even if it meant he was back to square one.
He opened the door at the top of the stairs, and a hunk of crystal flew at his head.
Everything happened at once after that. In dodging the crystal and trying not to fall down the stairs, he dropped the beer, which exploded into glass shards and liquid foam, and Jezebel, who’d been perched in her armchair—literally hers, since no one else was allowed to sit there—shrieked as if she’d been scalded with hot water. She leapt into the air, back arched, and Georgie Buchanan, the person who’d thrown the crystal, screamed and jumped backward.
Aunt Dottie was nowhere to be seen.
Jezebel made another leap for Georgie, and when Georgie jumped back again, the cat yowled and scampered away, leaping onto the cabinets in the open kitchen to watch them warily from the wide opening.
“Dottie gave me the key,” Georgie said in a burst, holding up her hands as if she were the one trespassing. “I’m so sorry. I…I thought you might be a thief or a vagrant. The crystal was the only hard thing I had in my purse. Your aunt gave it to me.”
For some reason, that struck him as funny—not the part about the crystal, although really, was Dottie buying them in bulk?—but the word “vagrant.” It was the kind of word someone from a big city might use for a homeless person. In a way he kind of was a vagrant, or rather he’d been one as a teenager.
“I…I didn’t know Beau had a cat,” she continued. “I never saw it when I visited him here at the house.”
“Well, you can see why he didn’t brag about her,” he said, sweeping some of the broken glass aside with his shoe. He stepped out of the doorway and shut the door behind him. “She’s an unholy terror. Half the people in the neighborhood are terrified of her. The other half should be.”
“I really am sorry. Your aunt gave me the key. I wasn’t planning on coming tonight, but…”
She was flustered, and he felt bad for making her uncomfortable, even though he kind of liked seeing her like this—some of her hair had fallen out of that bun, a couple of wavy pieces, and her cheeks were pink.
“Hey,” he said, “it’s okay. It’s your house, after all. I shouldn’t be here. I just…”
Just what? Part of him wanted to unburden himself, but surely she was dealing with enough drama of her own. He didn’t need to add his personal issues to the pile.
“You came for the watch?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, happy to latch on to the easy excuse.
Her eyes shot down to the puddle of beer and broken glass on the floor before rising back to meet his gaze.
He laughed, unable to stop himself. As Aunt Dottie would say: no grass grew under her feet. “Well, okay, and I figured maybe I’d have a beer while I was here. For the watch. I guess I kind of needed a drink after today.”
Georgie heaved a long sigh that made him wonder what, exactly, had happened at the rest of the will reading. Would she tell him if he asked? He found he wanted to know, and not just because he was concerned about the future of Buchanan Brewery. He wanted to get to know Georgie. Find out if he’d see in her what Beau had seen.