Page 22 of Wassailing We Will Go
Anytime, he says, and he opens the door to get out. Good night, Kate, he says with a smile and then closes the door to walk up the steps to the Hallmark house.
For my whole drive home, my stomach is in a knot. I should be pleased with myself: I made a responsible decision to separate work and life and do what’s best for the cidery. And, honestly, probably what’s best for me, given that Harrison could decide to bounce on December 26th and never return, for all I know. I made the responsible, safe choice.
But it was also safe to work sixty hours a week for a job I didn’t even really like when I lived in the city, and it was safe to stay in a relationship for several years with a guy I had long grown apart from. In theory, I blew up my old life because I couldn’t see the cidery being run by a stranger, and I wanted to have ownership over a place where I grew up, a place I really loved. But I also think I was a little bit sick of being so damned safe all these past years. Now I wonder if I haven’t just made the same mistake I made all those years. Harrison made his interest in me very clear, which is just as baffling as it is problematic.
I’m not being self-deprecating here. I like to think I know my worth. Lots of other people have asked me out; that in and of itself isn’t, like, a shocking development or anything. I’m a great potential girlfriend, as long as the theoretical partner in question is someone who doesn’t mind my long work hours, likes obese cats, and is cool with the fact that I mostly survive on croissants and coffee. It just surprises me that Harrison could see me that way. When I picture his cool bartender ex, it’s someone as free-spirited and life-loving as he is, with cool tattoos and maybe a dog with three legs that she rescued from certain death from a shelter. Someone with a matching desire to travel around the world and charm everyone they meet as they go—in other words, something I am very much not. By the time I get home and feed my long-suffering, starving cat, I have almost convinced myself that I made the right call. Almost.
CHAPTER TEN
IN THEORY, THIS WEEKEND IS the last weekend before the three Wassail weekends and their full tour buses, but the crowds have already picked up. Apparently, tourists are feeling festive again, and our restaurant, tasting bar, and shop are all at a comfortable, if not bustling, capacity. Both Friday and Saturday are good days across the board, and by Sunday afternoon, everything on-site is still running smoothly.
As promised, the Harrison flirtation has been kept to a minimum, and instead of being happy with his newfound commitment to a HR-complaint-free workplace, I find myself missing his little quips. In any case, Charlie keeps him busy both in the fermentation room and behind the tasting bar, and I don’t run into him often.
Sunday has so far been a little quieter than I would ideally like, but there are guests mingling all around the cidery, and at this point, I’ll take that as a win. After doing the rounds with the different departments, I take the time to go to the office to catch up on emails and fire off some invoices to our off-site accountant. A little preview into the glamorous life of the hospitality business owner. Still, if I finish all this today and there are no further fires, I might be able to actually take my alleged days off, off. Maybe even keep my laptop shut for a whole forty-eight hours. I mean, I would still check my phone constantly, but still. Progress.
I get locked into the task list and am shaken out of the flow by the arrival of Daniel and Charlie, with Daniel helping Charlie wheel his knee scooter into the small room. They pause and look at me.
Why do you guys look like that? I say as soon as I see their faces. Daniel is wincing, and Charlie has his hat in his hands, like someone died.
Look like what, exactly? asks Daniel.
I don’t know. Nervous, I guess? What happened?
Better get it out quick, sighs Charlie. I’m sorry, Kate.
Daniel hands me his phone, and I look through the social media post that apparently has everyone ready for a funeral.
Ah.
bitter&sweet’s Rose Blush cider has been named County cider of the year by TheCiderSweetheart, which, for a kind of silly handle, is an influencer with quite a lot of pull in our industry.
Which one of ours did she try—she came back in June, right? I ask.
Charlie nods. She tried all of them, but our new one for this year was the wild blueberry, and I guess it didn’t cut it. First time in what, eight years we didn’t get it for this region? Northern Spy Cider Co. way over on the west side got it a while back, but we’ve been on a pretty good run until now.
It’s not your fault, Charlie. We have more competition this year. It was bound to happen. Maybe it’s just from the accident, or maybe I just haven’t been paying attention lately, but as I look at Charlie, he seems a lot more worn out than I’ve seen him in a long time.
Hey, I say and put a hand on his shoulder. You’re the best. We all know it, okay? One random lady’s opinion doesn’t change that.
All the same, I think I’m going to go home and rest for the afternoon, he says. The lad said he’d take care of everything today.
Of course. Give Gwen my best. Charlie rolls back out to wait for his wife to come get him, but Daniel lingers behind.
Alright, that was very nice, but what’s your real opinion? he says, leaning against his desk.
I put my face down onto my keyboard and groan loudly.
That everything about this sucks? I offer, not caring as the fffgggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhs continues typing across my screen. I sit back up. But it’s not like anyone did anything wrong. The wild blueberry is a great cider. I haven’t tried the rose blush whatever, but I guess it’s just better. What can we do?
I’ve tried it, admits Daniel. I look over at him. I went to one of their parties once, sue me, he says. And…it was good. Really good. Sorry. Nothing would please me more than to tell you that all their ciders smell like cat pee, but the truth is that whatsherface over there actually knows what she’s doing.
Well, we know that—
BRINGALINGALINGALING—I jump back as a five-alarm siren wails out throughout the office from the god-awful rotary phone.
Good God, I almost had a heart attack. Answer it! yells Daniel over the dying sounds of our forty-year-old phone.
I. Am. Trying! I say as I scramble past him to grab the receiver.
