Page 10 of On Tap for the Bear
She's deflecting. I recognize it because I do the same thing.
"The ley lines help," I say before I can stop myself.
Her head snaps up. "The what?"
Shit. Humans aren't supposed to know about the ley lines. That's rule number one of living in Redwood Rise—keep the magic quiet, keep the humans oblivious, keep the secret that keeps everyone safe.
"Old brewer's superstition," I recover, grabbing a towel to wipe down the already-clean bar. "The earth's energy, mineral content in the water, that kind of thing. Some people call them ley lines. I just know that when certain conditions align, the beer turns out better."
She studies me for a long moment, and I have the uncomfortable feeling she sees right through the lie. But she just makes a note in her book and moves on to the next beer.
I start to walk away to check on other customers, help Beau in the kitchen, or anything that's not standing here watching this woman taste my beer like she's searching for answers. But I'm rooted in place, my bear refusing to let me move, to look away, to do anything but watch her.
She tries the IPA next. Her expression shifts—interested, appreciative, but not that same intensity. She takes another sip, considers it, makes a note. "Good hop balance," she murmurs, almost to herself. "Citrus notes without being too bitter."
The stout gets a more enthusiastic response. She goes back for a second sip immediately, her eyes closing briefly as she processes the flavors. "Chocolate," she says, opening her eyes. "And something else. Coffee?"
"Espresso beans in the secondary fermentation," I confirm, stupidly pleased that she picked up on it. "Local roaster supplies them."
She nods, makes more notes, then moves to the pale ale. This one she seems to find pleasant but unremarkable—she tastes it, nods politely, sets it down.
Then she circles back to the honey-lavender.
She picks it up like it's precious. Like it might disappear if she's not careful. Takes another sip, slower this time, more deliberate. I watch her throat work as she swallows, watch her eyes close again, watch that same relief wash over her features.
"This one," she says quietly, opening her eyes to look at me. "This one is different."
"Different how?" I don't know why I'm pushing, but I need to understand what's happening here, why this beer—why this woman—feels like the answer to a question I didn't know I was asking.
She looks down at the glass, and for a moment I think she's going to deflect again. Then she says, very quietly, "It tastes like hope."
The words hit me square in the chest. Before I can respond—before I can ask her what she means—she seems to realize what she's revealed. She straightens, pulls her notebook closer, becomes all business again.
"Can I ask you something?" She doesn't look up from her notebook. "How long have you been brewing?"
"Professionally? About twelve years. But I've been experimenting since I was sixteen and my dad let me try making beer in the cellar."
"And this one?" She taps the honey-lavender glass. "How long did it take to get it right?"
"Six weeks of failed batches. Couldn't get the balance right. Either too much honey and it was cloying, or too much lavender and it tasted like soap. This morning it finally came together."
"This morning." She says it like the timing means something. "That's... lucky."
"Or maybe the ley lines had a hand in it."
She looks up at that, her gaze sharp. "You keep mentioning them. These ley lines."
"Old family superstition," I say again, lighter this time. "My grandfather swore by them. Said brewing was as much about reading the earth as reading the recipe."
"And you believe that?"
I could deflect. Could laugh it off, change the subject, keep the secret that's not mine to tell.
Instead, I meet her eyes and say, "I believe there are things we don't fully understand. Things that work even when we can't explain why. Like how you knew this...” I gesture to the honey-lavender, "… was going to be special before you even tasted it."
Her hand tightens on the glass. "I didn't...”
"You picked it up first. Before any of the others. Like you were drawn to it."
