Page 6 of Heart of Gold

There’s a knock at the brewery’s front door and we all look.

“Don’t they see the sign on the door?” I ask, shrugging one shoulder. Jackson kisses Shiloh on the head and walks to answer it.

Shiloh beelines for my mother and daughter. As a group, they walk to the bathroom. I bet Olive wants company. Or an escort.

“What’s going on?” I call to Jackson.

As I get closer to the door and my brother, my throat tightens. In the entrance stands a man, blond, broad shoulders, wearing a crisp gingham shirt and pants. The way he holds his hands in front is familiar, and my eyelashes flutter.

Olive’s cheeks. Her mannerisms. All on this man I haven’t seen in ten years.

He notices me, and our eyes lock. I feel woozy.

He breaks into a huge grin. “Hey Martini. It’s been a long time.”

Max

Earlier that Day

“How was the party?” my mom asks over my car’s speaker as I drive.

“It was great. A truly wonderful send-off.”

“Moving to Paris. Wow. That’s so great.”

“Yeah, no time like the present. They want to do it before they have kids.”

“I’m so glad you stayed friends with Henry. He’s been such a good friend to you.”

“It was a really nice visit,” I say, feeling the most relaxed I’ve felt in a long time.

Henry and I visited our favorite haunts with his wife, Raegan—we got cheap burritos in Mission and walked around the city, talking about old times. They both love San Francisco, but Raegan always wanted to live in Paris; she is fluent in French and had studied abroad there.

Never did I think Henry would move across the world, but Raegan talked him into it.

After the party, Raegan went to bed, and Henry and I walked to the bar in his neighborhood.

“We might eventually settle down where Raegan’s from, Goldheart,” he mentioned casually.

“Goldheart?” I asked. That’s a town I’ve tried not to think about for years.

“You know it? Have you been there?” Henry asked.

“Once.”

“Her sister is pregnant. Married into a well-known family there. They’ll keep me flush in beer.” He holds up his pint glass, frosty with condensation. I must’ve looked confused, because he said, “They own a brewery. Woody Finch. Really good beer.”

I freeze and choke on my sip. “Finch?”

“Yeah, that’s the family’s name. Finch.”

All the moisture evaporates from my mouth. “Is there an Emily in that family, by chance?”

“Yes, do you know her?”

“Kind of,” I said. I changed the subject to anything else, but that night, I couldn’t sleep. Emily. Goldheart. Two things I’ve tried to forget, but have always failed at. After breakfast, I climbed in my car, frozen in my seat.

“Are you driving home right now?” my mother asks.

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