Page 51 of Brewbies
Almost as much as the land it lived on.
“My grandpa’s ashes were scattered there.” Christ, was there some sort of truth serum in her perfume?
A speculative sound melted from her throat as she turned away and drifted back toward the tree, the little heels of her slippers wobbling on the uneven ground.
Drawn by the train of her kimono, or maybe by the fireflies in the tall grass, or the whispering stream, Ethan followed as if in a daze. A gentle mist kicked up from the ocean, turning the atmosphere dreamy and ethereal.
Darby bypassed the wide swing to splay her palm on the tree. Against the leviathan with long, gnarled branches thick enough to support Ethan’s two-hundred-plus pounds, her pale hand was a wisp of nothing. It glowed against the rough bark as if transferring messages through the ancient veins.
For a breathless moment, Ethan felt like the interloper.
A car passed on the other edge of the grove over by where her camper was visible from the road. During the day, the swing could be seen when coming from the direction of Seattle, but at night it remained in the shadows, as the roads never directed headlights this way regardless of what direction it turned. Once the late-night traveler had passed, only moonlight illuminated them both.
When she glanced over her shoulder, Darby’s face was distressingly cherubic as she studied him. “Why did he pickthistree? Most people don’t want to be buried this close to an interstate highway.”
That was easy. “It was my Grandma Tove’s favorite,” he answered. “She used to call it Yggdrasil.”
“The tree of life,” she murmured. “I can see why. It looks old enough. Sacred enough.”
He nodded, reaching out to place his large hand opposite hers, feeling the scrape of the ancient bark against his calluses.
“I like the name Tove,” she told the tree.
“She was Scandinavian. Died when I was maybe six.”
“I’m so sorry. What happened?”
Because she sounded like she meant it, he answered. “Lymphoma. Took her so young.”
Darby snatched her hand away as if the tree had bit her.
When Ethan would have asked her about it, she dropped it to her side and turned to him with a sultry look. Approaching, she spread her arms to catch both ropes and tested their strength. “Come sit,” she invited him. “I’ll push you.”
Ethan’s brows slammed together. “Uh. I’m good.”
“Oh, come on.” Her smile gleamed a bit too brightly, and her voice was a smidge too effusive. “Don’t go dishonoring your Townsend grandparents. They’d love to see your tight ass in this swing again.”
“Gross,” he harrumphed as he went to her, turned himself efficiently on his heel, and plopped down on the shellacked seat. “I’d appreciate your not mentioning my sainted grandparents and my butt in the same sentence.”
“Noted.” She used his word against him, but waited until he gripped both ropes before nudging his shoulders with her palms.
Not surprisingly, the swing didn’t get too far, but that didn’t seem to bother her—she just tried again, this time leaning her body in closer.
“Tell me about your grandpa. Was he also a Big Man About Town?”
“Actually, not really.” Ethan didn’t know if it was the night, the beer (probably not; he’d only had one), or the proximity to the tree that had him floating in his own nostalgia. But here in the presence of the woman he didn’t trust himself around, he felt safer than he had in years. “Grandpa was…himself. A good man. A pilot in Vietnam. A loving and devoted husband and father…”
“But?” she prodded when he’d allowed his thoughts to drift for too long.
There wasn’t a but. Not in the way she meant. “Looking back now, I realize…he never gave two ripe shits about being a Townsend. He was a simple guy. Not great with paperwork or money. Liked to work with his hands, instead. He listened to good music. He spoke too quietly and laughed too loud. Loved fishing and camping.”
The swinging had picked up a tiny bit of speed—meaning his boots had begun to drag in the moss a couple of inches.
“I remember one of the last times we hiked through here, he took me to where Raven Creek springs from the ground. Water’s pristine enough to drink.” He should know. He’d had it tested back when he was talking to architects about building a spring-fed brewery or distillery.
Just like Tove’s father, Leif, had owned in Norway and passed down to his gigantic ginger sons.
In the north pasture, he’d wanted to plant his own hops. In the east he’d had plans for an orchard in which he could grow cider apples and fruits for infusions. Raven Creek Brewery. It would have been something he could pass on to his own kids. A legacy they could work with their own hands. They’d make something, contribute rather than rest on the laurels of the Townsend name.
