Page 58 of On Tap for the Bear
"Finishing it." She takes the coffee gratefully. "The Henderson sisters are delivering samples this afternoon for me to taste. I want the article done before they get here so I can focus on the tasting notes."
Small Batchlaunched two months ago, and it's already making waves. Quinn's first feature—an in-depth look at the Bear Claw and the craft brewing scene in Redwood Rise—wentviral. Suddenly everyone wants to know about the tiny coastal town where the food tastes different, where small producers are doing something special.
She's been careful not to reveal too much about the ley lines, but she doesn't need to. Her writing captures the essence of what makes this place magical without spelling it out. Readers feel it in her descriptions, taste it through her words.
"You need anything else?" I ask.
She looks up at me with that smile that still makes my heart skip. "Just you. But I'll take that later."
I head back to the bar, watching her work. She's completely in her element—interviewing locals who stop by, tasting samples they bring, typing furiously when inspiration hits. Her palate is fully restored now. She can taste everything, not just ley-touched food. But the connection to the magic is still there—she can sense when ingredients are grown on ley line land, can taste the difference between something made here versus anywhere else in the world.
It makes her reviews devastating and her praise invaluable.
The mail carrier stops by mid-afternoon, dropping off a stack of letters. I sort through them—bills, vendor invoices, a postcard from Beau and Anabeth who are up the coast for a few days. And one addressed to Quinn, from a San Francisco return address I recognize.
Epicurean Monthly.
I walk it over to her table. "This came for you."
She glances at the envelope and her expression shutters. "Thanks."
I expect her to open it, but she just sets it aside and keeps working. An hour later, when the afternoon lull hits, she finally picks it up. From behind the bar, I watch her as she reads it. Her face remains completely neutral.
Then she stands, walks to the fireplace at the far end of the tavern, and tosses the letter in.
The paper curls and blackens, the words turning to ash.
Quinn walks back to her table, sits down, and keeps typing.
I wait until I've finished with a customer, then head over. "Want to talk about it?"
"Vanessa's award got revoked. Anonymous tip revealed the plagiarism." She doesn't look up from her screen. "Mark Ford got fired. They're cleaning house, want me to know my name's been cleared. Offering an apology and compensation."
"And?"
Now she looks at me. "And I burned it. I don't need their apology or their money, Eli. I'm building something better here. Something that's actually mine."
Pride swells in my chest. Three months ago, she would have clung to that letter like a lifeline—proof that she'd been right, validation from the people who hurt her. Now she burns it without a second thought.
"You're amazing," I tell her.
"I know." She grins. "Now go pull me a tasting flight. I need to compare your IPA to the Henderson sisters' when they get here."
"Bossy."
"You love it."
I do. More than I can put into words.
Friday night and the tavern is packed.
Quinn's behind the bar with me, pulling pints and laughing with customers like she's been doing this her whole life. She hasn't—she's still learning, still occasionally mixing up which tap is which. But she's confident now in a way she wasn't when she first arrived.
She belongs here. Everyone can see it.
"Two pale ales and a stout," she calls, already reaching for the glasses.
I grab the IPA a tourist just ordered and slide it across the bar. "Eight-fifty."
