Page 9 of Just My Luck

ABEL

“This batch is absolute shit.”My brewer went by the name Meatball despite the fact that he was thin as a rail. He stood about five foot four with dark hair and a thick black mustache. Maybe the nickname was because he looked vaguely Italian? You never knew with this town, and I was still trying to figure that one out.

Tuesday mornings were quiet. The brewery didn’t open until the afternoon, which meant I could spend my time working on recipes, checking batch fermentation, or equipment sanitation without interruption. I enjoyed the solitude and quiet hum of the machines. Meatball was the only person I had to interact with, and that suited me just fine.

In the brewhouse, brew kettles and large fermenting tanks took up much of the area, but I’d tucked a small desk into the space. It allowed me to work alongside the batches in peace. Above the desk I’d even installed a shelf, and on it were jars of ingredients I was tinkering with—lavender, candied orange, new varieties of hops.

I swiveled in my chair to face him. Meatball was direct and never looked at me the way the rest of Outtatowner seemed to. It was the main reason I’d pushed to hire him to be my assistantbrewer despite his lack of experience. He was a hard worker, and that meant more to me than his lack of skills. Skills you could learn.

When I didn’t respond, but only glanced his way, he continued, “It’s close, but there are notes of...” He rolled his tongue, smacking it against the roof of his mouth to taste the sample. “Licorice, maybe? Something bitter and off-putting.”

My eyes narrowed, and I gestured for him to come closer. “Let me see.”

Meatball used a sanitized pipette to get a fresh sample and deposited it into a tasting glass. He passed the glass to me. I held it up to the light, examining the color and meniscus as it clung to the sides of the glass. I sniffed and it held notes of berry and a hint of herbs. I placed the sample to my lips and took a small taste.

Jesus, fuck.

My face pinched and I set the glass down.

“I don’t think it’ll get better with conditioning.” Meatball frowned, crossing his arms.

I shook my head. “No, you’re right. It’s off. Scrap it.”

His eyebrows lifted. “The whole batch?”

I turned back to my desk. “You said it yourself—it’s shit. Scrap it.”

Meatball nodded and worked to clean the area before taking steps to dump all ten gallons of the test batch down the drain. “You got it, boss.”

I flinched at his words as Sloane’s throaty voice hammered into my memory. She may not realize it, but she got under my skin anytime she called me boss. It sounded different coming from her. The word rolled around in my head and clung to my ribs.

Distracting myself from a particularly irritating brunette, I pulled a three-ring binder off the shelf and flipped to the recipepage for that specific batch of beer. Something was off, and it was my job as the brewmaster to figure it out. Any number of things could alter a brew, from oxidation to contamination to something as simple as an odd combination of flavors. My gut told me the combination of blueberry and basil would be a hit around here, given everyone’s obsession with blueberries in this region.

I couldn’t blame them. Because of the acidic soil and coastal climate, there was nowhere else in the country where you could get berries as delicious.

Unfortunately, the best blueberries in the state were from Sullivan Farms, but my father’s hard-on for hating the Sullivans meant sourcing from them was out of the question. Dad nearly had a coronary when I’d suggested reaching out to Duke Sullivan, owner of Sullivan Farms, for a collaboration. He’d thrown a tantrum and insisted that we source the berries from any number of other farmers in the area. What he hadn’t anticipated was the farmers’ loyalty to the Sullivans. As a result, our only option was to obtain berries from outside of Michigan—frozen ones at that.

They were absolute trash.

He may pride himself on being a skilled businessman, but Dad didn’t know beer. Only the best ingredients would translate into the best-tasting beer, and that meant berries from Sullivan Farms.

I slashed a thick black line in permanent marker across the berries listed on the recipe and above it wrote “Sullivan berries.” I’d swallow my pride for the benefit of the beer and would see about getting some from Duke for a new batch.

What my father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt a damn thing.

“Hey,” I called out to Meatball. “We’re going to try this recipe again, but I’ll need a few days to get some ingredient variants.”

He nodded and continued cleaning the equipment. Another fantastic quality was he kept his mouth shut. I eyed my assistant.

He’s getting a raise.

I went back to my work, hunching over the recipe and mentally calculating again to adjust for fresh versus frozen berries. My gut had rarely been wrong about a recipe—I didn’t want to give up on this one so quickly.

With the next step of conditioning the new beer grinding to a halt, I found myself with a free afternoon. It was a rarity, and I hated not having something to do. Tucking a small notepad into my pocket, I sneaked out of the brewery, avoiding the front bar altogether. People had already begun filtering in, spending afternoons here grabbing a post-work beer or pre-beach snack. I didn’t have the energy for their sidelong, wary glances.

Instead, I set off on foot, walking down the beach toward Main Street, notepad in hand. In it, I often noted smells or tastes that seemed interesting or appealed to me in some way. It didn’t matter how obscure or seemingly random they appeared; everything went into the notebook.

Corn dog (fried corn). Misty air. Beach grass. Coconut oil.

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