“Relax. I told her I’d let you know she called. She’s been fighting a bad case of bronchitis, which has hurt her business. She’s stressed because she lost a few clients, and the divorce will be final any day.”
Delaney’s excitement fizzled in the face of all Avery’s troubles. “Are they really giving up?”
“David is. And one person can’t make a marriage work alone.” The sparkle that always lived in Phoebe’s eyes dulled. “I think he just went through too much on his tours overseas, you know? I think he still cares about Avery, but he just doesn’t know how to relate to her. They were kids when they married, and really grew up apart—him in a war zone, her fending for herself with no family, no friends, no husband. And, honestly, no real skills to live out there alone.”
God, that hurt to hear. Delaney might be only two years older than Avery, but when their mother disappeared, she’d taken over that role for her sisters the best she could. And with it came the burden of guilt. A burden she’d only discovered in hindsight. And one that felt especially heavy when she’d realized too late that when she’d left town after Ian’s death, she’d followed directly in their mother’s footsteps. Something she didn’t ever expect either of her sisters to forgive or forget. But it was a rift she hoped they could mend over time.
“But her business, you told me she was getting pretty busy. That all the markets and delis where she lives carried her muffins and cookies.”
Phoebe lifted one shoulder. “She’s a little like you, only gives me half the real information. To be honest, I don’t know exactly how well her business is doing, but I can tell you I send her five hundred dollars every month, and she never sends it back.”
Delaney exhaled heavily. “And Chloe?”
“I have no idea where that girl is. Last time I talked to her, she was waiting tables outside Corpus Christi. That was about a year and a half ago.”
Delaney had never been close with Chloe. Avery and Chloe had always been closer. “What’s Avery going to do now?”
“I don’t know for sure. Why don’t you ask her when you call her back?” Phoebe smiled and rubbed her hands together as she sat for
ward. “Now, I’m dying to hear the grand plan you’ve dreamed up for the bar, because I know you have one.”
Ethan leaned into Steve French’s drafting table in his office at his Santa Rosa architecture firm, forty minutes south of Wildwood, looking down at the plans for Ethan’s lifelong dream and Pops’s only retirement—Wildcard Brews pub and brewery.
And for the first time since he and Pops had hashed out this idea, Ethan’s gut knotted with mixed emotions over the plan. While Steve talked about the changes he’d made in the design, Ethan was counting down the hours until that damn bar wasn’t standing between him and Delaney anymore.
Yeah? Then what are you gonna do, smart guy?
The nagging little voice in Ethan’s head piped up, and he crossed his arms and rested his forehead against the fingers of one hand, trying like hell to look as if he were paying attention when his mind was a mess.
What was he going to do?
“By making your malt room just three feet smaller”—Steve moved his hand to point out that section of the floor plan, and Ethan forced his mind to the present—“I was able to increase your cold storage on the west side. Then I nudged your reverse osmosis this way, tucked your chemical containment in here, and that made room for one more fermenter in your pilot brew house, leaving all this space for expansion.”
That was pretty damned brilliant. Almost as brilliant as Delaney’s offhand suggestion for Ethan to move his keg washer and chemical containment at the warehouse. It had been saving him twice as much time as she’d estimated.
And now he had an almost uncontrollable urge to show these plans to Delaney to get her opinion, her ideas, her suggestions on how they could be better. Watching his dream come to life on paper was thrillingly surreal, and Ethan couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be able to share that dream with someone he . . . someone he what? Liked? Lusted? Was that even a term?
“Anything rattling around up there?” Pops asked, prodding Ethan out of his uncomfortable thoughts with the harsh tone his grandfather had adopted as of late.
Ethan cut a look at Pops and found that same pain-etched aggravation he’d been seeing more and more over the last several months. Then he smiled at Steve. “I love the changes.”
The architect nodded in acknowledgment, then glanced at Pops. “You haven’t said what you think, Harlan.”
“They look real good. Real good.” His watery blue eyes lifted to Steve, then slid to Ethan. “Look even better in brick and mortar, if they ever get that far. If we’re done here, I gotta get back to the farm. Hops don’t grow themselves.”
“You two should be about ready to break ground.” Steve straightened all the pages, lined them up, and rolled them into a tube. “Are you excited?”
A grunt rolled from Pops, and Ethan’s stress ratcheted up to an almost unbearable level.
Steve lifted a brow at Ethan. “What am I missing?”
“There’s a slight possibility we’ll run into a problem getting the liquor license.”
Although, somehow, that wasn’t bothering Ethan as much as the status of his relationship with Delaney, which was asinine. Their relationship was great sex. Period. She’d made that plenty clear.
At least with words. And, yeah, actions, too, judging by the way she avoided him like a rampant outbreak of herpes.
But Ethan still felt a discord between her words and her emotions, or her desires, or . . . something. Something was telling him there was more between them, that she felt it, that she wanted it. Yet . . .