Pops held up a Ziploc and his expression transitioned from pain-etched to mischievous. “This here’s no wild card. This here’s magic.”
“Magic, huh?”
Ethan tapped the dome light on, reached for the bag, and held it under the light. The hops were bright moss green, fresh and plump and perfect. But then, all the hops his grandfather grew were perfect. They oughta be. He’d been farming them for decades.
“Which hybrid is this?” Ethan broke the seal and took a deep drag of the scent. Some men were excited by fishing or cars or weapons. For Ethan and Harlan, great hops made their hearts beat faster. And this blend had a rich, spicy scent, heavy on the wood and funk. “Holy shit, that’s amazing.”
“No, that’s magic.”
Ethan pulled one cone from the bag and rolled it between his fingers. The woodsy scent grew stronger, and the funky smell, one that marked this baby as something really unique, filled the cab. He breathed it in like a drug, then lifted the crumbled cone to his lips and tasted. The bitter tang hit first but mellowed quickly, leaving a floral aftertaste, and a hint of . . .
Ethan smacked his lips. “Is that mint?”
Pops chuckled in affirmation and crossed his arms on the window ledge, leaning into the cab. And for a moment, his grandfather looked ten years younger—closer to his midsixties than his midseventies.
Ethan knew that was what living out your passion and having someone to share that passion with could do for a man. It was one of the major factors that drove them both.
“It’s as mild as Willamette, but with more flavor and better scent. And it’s versatile.” Pops pointed to the bag, his muddy eyes brightening with excitement. “I bet you that’s going to be our signature hops for at least some of our Wildcard brews.”
Ethan had tried every one of his grandfather’s crazy cultivations over the years, many successfully. Harlan had done well for himself creating and selling unique hops varieties—even introduced three of the main types sold commercially. And he’d been trying to get Ethan to take over the business for decades.
But Ethan was no farmer. He’d learned that during the four long summers he’d worked the farm with his grandfather during high school. Pops’s passion may lay in creating and cultivating new hops, but Ethan’s lay in creating and cultivating new beers. As business partners, they were a perfect match.
Ethan just hoped there would be a business to partner in.
“The architect is going to have plans for us to look at in another week,” he said.
Pops nodded. “Amanda was asking for you down at the market today. She sure is a sweet thing. Why haven’t you asked her out?”
Ethan had to fight not to roll his eyes. “Amanda’s not my type, Pops.”
“Sweet? Pretty? Comes from a good family? What’s not to like?”
“That whole picket-fence look in her eyes, that’s what. My family ties are screwed up enough as it is. I don’t need to add any more knots to a fraying rope. Besides, do you want me at the warehouse brewing or out messing around with some chick?”
“I want you to learn to balance your life the way you balance your beer. Go talk to Amanda and stock up Caleb while you’re at the store. He’s completely out.”
“I’m out, too. Won’t have another batch ready for at least a week.”
His grandfather’s mouth pressed into an irritated frown. “You still runnin’ down your daddy’s every narcissistic whim?” He didn’t wait for an answer to the rhetorical question. “You’d better get your priorities straightened out right quick. You’ve got your own life to live, which, outside regular work hours, should be spent at the kettle or with a pretty lady, not working yourself ragged for Jack.”
Ethan hung his wrist over the steering wheel, searching Harlan’s face for insight into his crabbier-than-usual mood. “Weren’t you supposed to get your cortisone shot today?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re always crabbier when your leg’s hurting.”
“I got the d
amn shot. And I just told you why I’m crabby. Ain’t you listenin’, boy? My business partner just told me he ran out of supply because he’s wasting his time fulfilling hollow obligations for a selfish prick. When I’ve got all my liquid funds tied up in a proposed venture, yeah, that makes me crabby.”
Guilt pinched Ethan’s gut. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll focus.”
“You’re plenty focused, Ethan.” Harlan’s voice had lost its angry edge. “But you’re just one person, and there are only so many hours in one day. Until you can quit this damn job, you’ve gotta guard every moment of your spare time like gold at a mining camp. And Jack is that guy who will loot you while you sleep.”
Ethan didn’t like having to admit that about his own father, but he nodded. Not only was it true, but Pops wasn’t unearthing the half of it. “I hear you.”
Harlan harrumphed and turned toward the farmhouse with Homie on his heels, then paused to face Ethan. “And while you’re cookin’ tonight, check on your neighbor. There was talk at the market of movement ’round the Hart property today. That is one big fly we don’t need in our soup.”