EIGHT
CALDER
I work at my dad’s old desk, sifting through the chaos on the outdated laptop. I groan when the fan starts to whir like a jet ready for liftoff. I can’t get the Wi-Fi to work, but I find three hard drives and two USB ports in a desk drawer.
The damn thing starts to lag worse than before, and I take a few minutes to respond to the emails piling into my inbox. I’ve been gone for a day, and news is getting around. I told my assistants to inform clients I’m on bereavement leave to prevent any panic over my sudden disappearance. I don’t like sharing personal information, but it’s the price I pay for hardly taking a day off otherwise.
After I advise against a long-time client putting his fourth wife on all his investments when they’ve only been married for two months, I turn my attention to the laptop. Finally, the drive I wanted has opened. Risking my work computer, I transfer several files over. There are random spreadsheets with numbers that seem to refer to years, and scans of old ledgers from before the brewery grew too big to hand-jam everything. I find inventory sheets, order forms, recipe cards, and receipts. So many damn receipts.
Some files won’t open. I stare at the password protected ones. Why the need for that level of protection when everything is open? I’ll search for the codes later, in the password book, and any I can’t access I’ll turn over to Bowen.
Finally, I’m ready to dig into the accounting software.
Is there any way to bring it into the twenty-first century? Soon?
I spend the next hour on the phone, trying to determine if I can transfer the desktop version of the bookkeeping software to an online format. Once I have a plan for that, I table the task for another day. It’s getting late.
I’ve been working for hours, and the solitude was bliss. Now it’s not. I impatiently tap my fingers on the desk and tune out the whirring of the fan. If it weren’t for that, the quiet might have burrowed under my skin and festered. Meredith hasn’t ventured upstairs at all. I can hear her talking to Molly downstairs. When a third voice is added, I hover by the doorway. Bea is here.
Pacing for several minutes, I wait until Bea has had time to settle in her office. Then I go in search of her.
As I take the stairs down, my gaze is drawn to Meredith. She’s standing on a metal stool over the opening of a mash tank, using a pressure washer to give it a hot rinse. Her face is lined with determination, but a few extra strands of hair have slipped out of her braid since this morning. Does she work this hard all the time, or is she putting on a show for me? Meredith doesn’t strike me as the performative type, and I hate that I can’t place all the blame on her.
Molly’s leaning over the bar, thumbing through her phone. She doesn’t even notice me.
Is there legitimately an entire afternoon of stocking to do?
I walk down the hallway, passing the bathrooms with nonfunctional barn doors framing the actual doors, and find Bea in the small storage room, sitting at a short desk, with a much newer laptop in front of her.
I lean against the doorframe. “You need an office with a window.”
She snaps her head up, slides her kitten-framed glasses down her nose to hang on a chain around her neck, and grins. “I heard trouble was back in town.” She stands and opens her arms.
I go right to her. She envelops me in a hug so full of cloying perfume I won’t be able to smell anything else for a week.
“My brothers aren’t home yet,” I say as she pulls away to hold me at arm’s length and examine me. “So I’m not sure what trouble you’re talking about.”
She clicks her tongue and lets me go, waving me to the folding chair across from her desk. I sit down, feeling as if I’ve taken a preschooler’s chair.
“You know exactly what I mean,” she says as she takes a seat. She thumps the lid of her laptop closed and gives me a knowing look. “The ladies at bingo are all aflutter about the separate funerals.”
My happiness at seeing her dims. “It’s for the best.”
“For you boys.”
“Yes,” I admit.
“That’s what matters.” When she notices my surprise, she shrugs and pushes her glasses to the top of her head, nestling them in her gray curls. “I know I’m supposed to say ‘that poor girl,’ right? And I understand. Meredith is one of my favorite people, but I also have three other favorites, and I haven’t seen them in a long time because of what Ram did.”
A knot inside me loosens. I didn’t expect to come home and find people understanding.
“He couldn’t forgive us for a long time.”
“Pssh. He knew he had nothing to forgive. He ran you off thinking you all would come slinking back. What he didn’t realize is that each of you are as stubborn and bullheaded as him, but with the business savvy of Jules.”
“I didn’t think we’d make it for a while. I knew where every homeless shelter was.”
“But you made that money,” she says proudly. “Did you help Bowen with that fancy computer company of his?”
