Speakeasy (True North #5)(84)

Everyone roars except for Audrey, who looks like she might punch Griffin in the nose for suggesting it.

I take a bite of excellently seasoned fish and then pull the stopper out of beer number one. “This is an oatmeal stout. Let’s see what you all think.” May gets the first taste. I pour some into one of the tiny cups and say, “Now be honest. Griff and I can take it.”

“Mmm!” she says immediately, because she’s a loyal person. “I love it!”

Walking around the table is the best way to do this, so I circle the room pouring taster’s portions of the new beer. It took Griffin and I thirty small batches to get something we actually wanted to drink. And then thirty more to zero in on three different ones that we felt were worthy.

God, I hope this isn’t a miserable flop. But if it is, I’ll still have a girl who loves me and a bar that’s thriving.

That’s enough for any man. It really ought to be.

The table is quiet as everyone tastes the beer I’ve poured.

“It’s…chocolatey,” Audrey says.

“In a good way?” I ask, and she smiles.

“I’m getting…plummy notes. Or fig, maybe,” Ruth says.

“Nice texture,” Dylan adds.

“I just taste beer.” Grandpa sniffs. “But it’s damn good.”

Grandpa Shipley never butters anyone up, so I’m feeling pretty good about his review.

“It’s great, Alec,” Jude Nickel says from the other end of the table. “Then again, I haven’t had real beer in five years. So I don’t know if my opinion counts.”

“Totally counts!” Griffin says with a smile. “Your opinion probably counts the most.”

I sit down in my chair to eat some of the exquisite food May has put on my plate. Pea tendrils. Who knew? Beneath the table, she sets a hand on my knee. When I glance at her, she gives me a happy smile. “Want me to pour the next one?”

“That’d be great.” I reach under my seat and pull out our India Pale Ale. “This one should taste totally different.”

May stands up and does the honors, and I watch everyone’s faces as they taste.

“I like this one better,” Audrey says. “It’s more aggressive.”

“And you do enjoy a bossy man,” Griffin teases.

“No.” She sniffs. “But a bossy beer is nice.”

“Tough call,” Jude says. “I think the oatmeal stout is more convincing.”

“Would you order it in a bar?” I ask him.

“Heck yeah. I could become an NA beer drinker for these. Right now I just order soda.”

Jude is my perfect customer—a non-drinker who hasn’t discovered that good NA beer is possible.

I eat everything on my plate, and then serve a third beer—a porter. And I can’t help but feel like it’s all coming together. “Do you all mind if I share some news?” I ask as the optimism bubbles up inside me.

“Besides my granddaughter going to live with you in sin?” Grandpa asks.

“Grandpa, nobody says that anymore,” Griff says. The man actually defends me lately. I don’t even know what to think about that.

“You said that about ‘speakeasy,’ too, and now you and that young fella named a new place after it.”

Sometimes it’s pretty hard to argue with Grandpa.

“But go ahead, young fella,” he says. “Make yer speech.”

I clear my throat. “We picked a date to open the Speakeasy. Mark your calendars because we’re starting with a private party on the third of May. We’re open to the public the following night.”

“That’s soon,” Ruth says. “Are you worried?”

“Of course,” I admit. “A hundred things could go wrong to delay it. But you gotta have a goal. And the contractors haven’t hit any major snags yet. So…” I shrug. “The biggest benefit to being a half-assed businessman is not sweating the small stuff.”

Griffin cracks a smile. “Never change, Alec.”

“Not really sure I could.” I smile at him. “Anyway, I have a lot to celebrate. It’s been really fun testing this NA beer product and planning the Speakeasy with Griff and Lyle.”

I don’t mention Otto, because he’s less fun. But that part has been fine, I guess. We haven’t killed each other yet.

“And May has done so much to help me and to convince me that all the things I want are possible.” I give her a big, cheesy smile. “She’s the best girl I ever met. Three snaps in the shape of beautiful girl.”

I snap my fingers and May rolls her eyes.

“So on this momentous occasion, I thought I’d tell you my favorite guy-walks-into-a-bar joke ever.”

“This will be good,” Dylan says.

“It actually might not be,” May teases me.

“So, a mushroom walks into a bar,” I say.

“A mushroom?” Grandpa protests. “How does it do that, exactly?”

“Just listen, Grandpa,” May coaches.

“The bartender says, ‘We don’t serve your kind.’”

“I think I’ve heard this one,” my sister says. “Can I have more of the IPA?”