Anything for You (Blue Heron #5)(96)
Six hundred grand.
It seemed like so much money. But with it, he could get started right away. And the brewery wasn’t just a whimsical idea. He’d been working on it for fifteen months.
Jess had run through the presentation again last night. She was damn good at her job, that was for sure. She’d had a dozen booklets made online, bound and everything, the kind of thing he would never have thought to do. The covers said O’Rourke’s Brewing: Investment Opportunity & Business Plan, with a close-up shot of a Pilsner, a Stout and an IPA, taken on the bar of the restaurant. It was like beer porn.
Each page of the book was beautifully laid out. The first few pages were the labels; she’d hired a graphic designer to finesse her basic ideas. His favorite was for the Dog-Face IPA, which showed a picture of a very happy collie who actually did look a bit like Colleen. There were photos of the proposed building, taken by Jack Holland, who was a really good photographer, and then the “after” vision of the brewery—Faith had made a mock-up on her architect’s software, complete with people sitting at the tables, leaning on the tasting bar, on the patio. There was a nice shot of him and Colleen behind the bar of O’Rourke’s, taken a couple of years ago.
The marketing breakdown focused on Connor’s experience as a chef, same as in the PowerPoint presentation. Why he was specially positioned to craft beers that not only stood on their own, but also elevated the beverage to enhance both fine and everyday dining. That was the part that made Connor the most nervous. The stuff about him.
Then came the financial breakdown, which Connor had emailed her, and which she formatted to look clean and professional—where the money would be spent, and how. Then the timeline, projected one-, three-and five-year costs and profits.
And then, finally, the last page—the logo for the company, and that great tag line—Make every day special. Drink O’Rourke’s.
He could never have done this without her. Though she didn’t know it, once the funding came through, he’d be making her a partner.
Last night as she’d done her thing, he sat there, entranced—not by the brewery, but by her. She was smooth and confident with a wry edge to her words, and he would’ve bought a shoe box full of dirt from her, because she had a way of making everything sound fantastic.
He’d meant to bring his copy of the book, but he forgot it at home. Didn’t matter; Jess would have a bunch of copies, as well as her PowerPoint presentation and his talking points. The only thing Connor had had to bring today was the beer itself. He and Tim had been working for weeks to get just the right flavors and fermentation.
He had them here, in a cooler, seven growlers full of the different varieties, as well as glasses and napkins from O’Rourke’s. “That will be the most important part,” Jess had said last night. “I’ll warm them up, and you bring them home. Talk about the flavors in each one, what foods they’d go best with, and then, if they seem happy, we can take them to O’Rourke’s for dinner so they can see what a successful business you’ve got going.”
We. She may have been talking about the business we, but it sure felt like the couple.
Connor cracked his knuckles and looked at his watch. 2:30. The investors were coming at 3:00. A hotel staffer poked her head in. “Is there anything you need, Mr. O’Rourke?” she asked.
“No. Thank you.”
He texted Jessica.
You close? I’m here.
Nothing. She was probably driving. She’d be here any second.
He had a text from Colleen: a picture of sleeping Isabelle, and the tender words Good luck, Uncle Idiot!
Still nothing from Jess. He checked his email. Checked the Blue Heron Facebook page and Twitter accounts to see if there might be a hint of why Jessica was running late. Not that she was really late just yet. Traffic, maybe. He called her phone. “Hey, you’re probably in the car.” Her Subaru didn’t have Bluetooth. “Um, just checking in.”
He went out of the conference room to the hotel bar. “Can I have a glass of ice water?” he asked.
“Sure. Lemon with that?”
“Sure.” His eyes fell on the array of taps. “Can I also have a pitcher of, uh...Pabst?” Yeah. He’d bring in a mass-brewed beer as a compare and contrast. That’d be smart.
He carried his water and the pitcher back in the conference room and checked his phone again. Still no Jess. No call, no text, no email.
It was 2:48 now.
He texted her again.
Everything okay?
Waited for the little dots that would show her answering. Nothing.
Then he heard voices in the hallway. “Mr. O’Rourke is expecting you,” said the hotel staffer, and there they were. Fresh sweat broke out under his arms.
Shit.
“You’re early,” he said. “Come on in, come in. I’m Connor O’Rourke. Uh...my, um, my business associate isn’t here yet, but please come in.”
They shook hands all around—there was Amy Porter, a woman of about fifty or so; Mark Something, a balding white guy whose name Connor knew he was destined to forget immediately; Trey Williams, who looked like a really well-dressed NFL player, gray suit, white shirt, shaved head, at least six-five, perfect teeth that gleaned against his dark skin; and Gary Gennaro, a ginger-haired guy who was packing a hundred or so extra pounds, the president of Empire State Food & Beverage. Use their names, Jess had advised.