“It exploded?” I ask, frozen in place, a wombat pancake in one hand.
“Yes!” he says, sounding exasperated.
“They’re not supposed to explode—”
“No shit.”
Rusty walks over, takes her plate from me, and starts eating quietly at the table. She can definitely tell something’s wrong.
“It’s a whole batch, Daniel, we already had the orders in for the kegs and now we’re gonna have to delay those, not to mention that every goddamn thing in this place is sticky right now plus the floor is still covered in beer,” he says.
Fuck. Fuck. The double IPA is one of our biggest sellers and missing a batch of it hurts.
Not to mention that I have no idea what else went wrong when it exploded. Was it infected with bad yeast? Is everything in the brewery infected? Is it all just waiting to explode because someone didn’t sanitize the equipment properly?
Fuck.
“I’ll be down,” I tell him, and hang up before he can start ranting in my ear again, because when Seth gets worked up, he can really get worked up.
“What happened?” Rusty asks, still chewing, and I sigh.
We were going to go to the park, take a short hike, maybe follow it up with a swim. Definitely ice cream downtown, just the two of us, since lately I’ve felt like I haven’t spent enough one-on-one time with my kid.
“There’s a problem at the brewery, I’ve gotta go in,” I say. “Do you mind eating the rest of that in the car?”Chapter Thirty-ThreeCharlie“I need a huge favor,” he says. It sounds like he’s in the car, on speakerphone, his voice slightly distant.
“Bigger than faking an engagement?” I ask, instinctually glancing down at my finger, even though the ring’s not there right now. It’s in the NO BUTTS ABOUT IT mug on my dresser, because I’m afraid that if I sleep in it, I’ll break it.
“Well, smaller than that,” he says. “Are you busy today? Can you take Rusty? Something exploded at the brewery and I’ve got to go make sure we can still sell beer to people next month.”
I’m still leaning against my kitchen counter, drinking my second cup of coffee, but the word exploded sure wakes me up.
“What exploded?” I ask, alarmed.
“Beer,” he says. “I don’t know what happened yet, Seth called in high dudgeon and said that there was something wrong with the release valve, but I’m worried that it’s infected…”
He goes on about the problem, clearly stressed. I’d been planning on using today to finish up the antique table so it’s ready to go back to the mansion next week, then maybe hit up a few junk shops along the rural roads and see if they had anything worth fixing up and selling.
Sounds like my plans have changed. I’ll have to finish the table tomorrow, hopefully.
“Yeah, no problem,” I say. “Want me to come pick her up?”
“Meet me at the brewery,” he says.It’s obvious that something’s wrong the second I open the side door, since there’s a big SORRY, CLOSED TODAY sign across the front: it smells like beer.
I mean, it always smells like beer — it’s a brewery — but this is a warm, wet, punch-you-in-the-face beer smell. I think I can taste it in my mouth.
Also, the floor is sticky. There are still a few puddles here and there, and as I look for Daniel, there are several people diligently mopping.
The beer smell doesn’t fade like smells usually do. When I find Daniel a few minutes later, it’s as beer-y as ever, and he’s standing in front of one of the giant metal tanks, surrounded by puddles, talking to one of his workers and gesturing madly.
“Hold on,” he tells the guy when I come up, walks up to me.
“Thanks,” he says, tugging one hand through his hair. It’s obvious that he’s been doing that nonstop today, because it’s completely insane, sticking up in every direction like it’s trying to escape his head.
“The tank in the corner exploded,” he says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “I still don’t know whether something got into the beer and made it produce way too much carbon dioxide, or whether someone fucked up the gas release valve, or whether the tank lid itself is just defective, and Seth is pissed as hell about the whole thing—"
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, reaching up and combing my fingers through his hair, trying to get it to lay flat. I’m medium successful. “Stay as long as you need, I’ve got Rusty. If you’re here late, I’ll put her to bed.”
Daniel shakes his head, his hand in his hair again, messing it right back up.
“I’ll come back and do bedtime,” he says.
“I don’t mind,” I say, trying to keep it light. “I’m pretty sure I can get it right.”
His face is tight, his eyes serious. Someone behind him shouts his name, and he holds up one finger, the gesture quick, jerky, stressed.