Page 108 of The Frozen River

We shrug out of hats and coats. Stomp the snow off our feet. It’s midafternoon and the sun is shining, but it’s dim inside the tavern, and it takes a moment for our eyes to adjust.

“Are you drinking or visiting this afternoon?” I ask.

“Drinking. I’m not much in the way of company these days.”

“Oh I doubt that. Let me buy you a pint. Consider it a consolation prize for having to ride that old plug out there.”

James laughs, and Moses is there, ready to take our orders, by the time we’ve found our seats. Then he’s off to get our ale and cider, cheerful and efficient as always while we settle in.

“I am sorry that you had to sell your horse,” I tell James.

He frowns. “I knew better than to go to Joseph North for a loan.”

“Then why did you?”

“I ain’t proud of it. But it happened before that business with Mistress Foster. I would have never—”

Moses is back and he plunks two mugs onto the table. They’re both overfilled, and foam dribbles over the rim as the rich, amber liquid spills onto the table. James drinks his down to a manageable level as he waits for Moses to wander off again.

“Point is North had the cash and the willingness to invest. Went on and on about how we need a distillery in the Hook. And the terms seemed good. I had no trouble making the payments until the river froze.”

Most families make their own home brew, and while the quality of the beer varies, it isn’t an arduous task. Same for cider. The barrels used to ferment them are often harder to come by than the ingredients. But liquor is another story. All the rum, gin, and whiskey consumed in the Hook is shipped in from elsewhere. James is smart to recognize that need and try to meet it. Even I can’t fault him for taking the financial risk. After all, last summer North was just another businessman willing to invest in local commerce.

“You didn’t have anything saved to cover the loan during the winter months?”

“Not enough to pay it in full. Which is what North demanded, even though that’s not what he really wanted.”

“What do you mean?”

“He gave me two options when I went to him and said my December payment would be short. Said I could pay the entire loan, plus interest, in full, right then, or sign over a portion of the distillery to him.”

“But you’ve only just started construction.”

He scowls into his ale. “North said it was his way of ‘investing’ in the business. But what he really wanted was thirty percent off the top.” James can tell by my expression that I am outraged on his behalf. “I refused, of course. Ended up in the jail yard and had to sell my Pacer to get out from under his thumb.”

“Thirty percent is outrageous.”

“That’s North. Don’t you see what he’s doing?”

I shake my head.

“He wants to own the entire town.”

BALLARD’S MILL SUNDAY, MARCH 7

“Well done!” I say.

Sarah White beams at me across the table. Between us is the New England Primer and three sheets of loose paper, along with my quill and ink.

Sarah’s letters are clear and straight—not at all like a child’s—and they only slant downward slightly as they go across the page. She has successfully written her name, along with those of her parents and her daughter. Sarah has taken great care with this last, C. H. A. R. L. O. T. T. E. spelled out in capital letters. She is proud of the name, and the child.

“I can tell you’ve been practicing.”

This is our second lesson. The first having commenced last month when I extended my offer and left the primer in her possession. I am hoping to draw this one out long enough that she will stay and join us for lunch.

“Every night,” Sarah tells me. “It’s not as hard as I thought it would be. Not once I memorized the sounds. And the pictures help.” Her face fills with color, and I think she is embarrassed. “I know that’s silly.”

I set my palm over the back of Sarah’s hand. “Not at all. That’s what the pictures are for.”