Page 6 of Any Luck at All

As voices rose on the other side of the room, River nodded to the guy next to him, whose name he still didn’t know. “Good luck, man. You’re going to need it.”

For a second, he wondered if maybe he’d pissed the guy off, but then a corner of his mouth lifted up.

“Thanks, I guess.”

River got up and slapped Tom on the back. “Ready?”

They walked away, River closing the door behind them, but as they left the room, he felt compelled to look back. He met Georgie’s eyes again, drawn to her despite himself, but she looked away as if embarrassed. He couldn’t blame her for that. He had a feeling everyone in that room would be talking about this will reading for years to come.

Once they left the office and stepped onto North Market Street, River turned to Tom. “If they sell to one of the big companies, let me know, man. I can put in a word for you with Finn. No one wants to work for the corporate overlords.”

Tom gave him a weird look. Had he overstepped? They’d always gotten along well, so the possibility hadn’t occurred to him.

Before he could ask, Tom shook his head. “I’ll see how it plays out. I guess we know why Beau never talked about his family much. I feel like we just walked out of a reality TV show.”

River went home to change out of the suit, something he was grateful he had time for before he met up with Finn. Finn had gone to the funeral too, but he’d ducked out afterward, saying something about a business meeting. Although they’d worked together for five years, River was happy to leave that kind of stuff to him. The business angle wasn’t something that spoke to him; brewing was what he loved. There was a certain kind of magic to brewing beer—you never knew exactly how it was going to turn out. Small differences could end up being big in the end. A little more of this, a little less of that, and suddenly you had a new flavor, the kind that kept people coming back.

River didn’t have any official training—he’d never taken any classes—but he’d started when he was a teenager, schooled by Beau, who maybe should have known better. And Finn had taken a chance on him after they met at a local beer festival. Together they’d made Big Catch Brewing the go-to craft brewery in Asheville. And that was something to be proud of.

About a month ago, Beau had invited River over for a drink. They’d sat on the back porch with a couple of brews—some of Big Catch’s stuff River had brought over—and shot the shit. It wasn’t so unusual for Beau to ask him over, even if Aunt Dottie wasn’t around, but something about Beau’s energy had seemed off—and wouldn’t his aunt have had a field day if he’d told her that—so it hadn’t surprised him when the tone turned serious.

Beau had set his beer down and turned to look River in the eye. “Son,” he said, “you’re happy, aren’t you? Working with Finn? I didn’t know what to think of a man named after a fish appendage, but he seems like a good enough sort of fellow.”

A little uneasy about where the conversation was going, River had nonetheless fallen into the joke. “Sure, once I got used to the smell.”

But Beau’s expression had stayed serious, and so he’d responded in kind.

“Yeah, Beau, I’m happy there. Who would have thought I’d have all of this after…well, you know.” He tapped the bottle in his hand. It was their Lake Trout Lager. Given their respective names, River and Finn, they’d gone in hard with the whole fishing theme—a joke that probably seemed funnier after a couple of drinks.

“Good, good,” Beau had said distractedly.

River sat up straighter. “Are you having trouble with the brewery?”

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 pullthatinto 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.

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