"You're very good at this," I say.
She looks at me and frowns. More to herself than to me. "I used to be better."
The tasting room goes quiet.
"Better at what," I say. Leaving the door open.
"Cooking." Like the word costs her something. "I was a sous chef. Vancouver. I… burned out."
She says it with the practiced plainness of someone who has found the shortest version of a long story. The longer version is in the pause beforeburned out, in the stillness of her hands on the table.
I let it sit. Outside, through the tasting room window, I can see Bev at the far end of the pub, not looking at us but very aware of us, because Bev notices everything and tells me roughly forty percent of it.
"And now you're in my brewery?"
"A friend said the culinary menu was interesting." A guarded almost-smile. "She was right. More than I expected."
"High praise."
"Qualified high praise." She picks up the glass, tips it slightly. "I've been traveling since I left. Taking notes. Decidedlynot cooking." She sets it down. "I was planning to leave by the end of the week."
"I have a harvest festival entry in two weeks," I say. "A beer I've been building toward all autumn. I need a food pairing that makes the case for it." I look at her. "I want you to design it."
"I told you I'm not cooking."
"Not working in a kitchen. I heard you." I lean on the table. "This isn't a kitchen. It's a tasting room. I need your palate and your vocabulary. My kitchen executes." I wait. "Come taste the festival beer. That's all."
She looks at me for a long moment. Trying to find the catch. There isn't one — or there is one, which is that I'm not entirely neutral on the question of whether she stays in Silver Ridge, and I'm aware of that, but it doesn't make the offer dishonest. It just makes it two things at once.
"When can I taste it?" she asks.
"Thursday."
She nods. Picks up her jacket. Goes.
I watch her cross the parking lot through the tasting room window. She walks like someone who spent years in places where you couldn't afford to move wrong. Every step placed. Economical. I watch until her car turns back toward the main road.
Bev appears in the doorway. She has her end-of-shift apron balled up in one hand, which means she's been here since ten this morning and is heading home to the house she shares with her sister on the east side of town, and she will be back at seven tomorrow because she always is.
"New friend?" she asks.
"Possibly."
"She's good." Bev sets the apron on the bar and starts straightening the glasses I didn't actually leave crooked. "Also carrying something. You can see it in how she holds herself when she thinks nobody's watching."
"I know."
"Are you going to ask about it?"
"When she's ready." I tip the saison glass. "Or when she decides I'm worth telling."
three
Sage
Somehow,twoweekshavegone by and I'm still in Silver Ridge.
I'm in the tasting room every afternoon with a lineup of small glasses and a notebook I've mostly filled.
