The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(19)
“Maisie,” I call out, closing the takeaway boxes. “It’s time for us to go.”
“I’m not ready,” she calls from the swing set, where she’s got her belly draped over the seat of one of the swings. “I’m playing.”
“Mason has to get back to the island for work, so we need to leave.”
“But, Mama—”
“Now, please.”
* * *
The return trip to Kelleys Island is excruciating. Mason gives off a boiling kettle vibe the whole way and even Maisie must sense it, because she plays with her new pack of little plastic dinosaurs without the usual narration, which typically involves mermaids and at least one Disney princess. Without having to focus on driving—or talking—I notice things I didn’t see before. Pizza places. The local farm stand still closed for the season. And a giant fiberglass waiter standing on the side of the road. He’s wearing a black jacket and red bow tie, with metal framework where his hands should be—like there was once a sign or he was holding something. It’s probably some retro roadside attraction with a fun backstory and I’m desperately curious, but the quiet, devastating way Mason said no when I asked if he’d lost custody of his child in the divorce still haunts my heart.
Back at the house, I give Mason a wide berth as we stash away our groceries. Afterward I unload the plants and other purchases, and put Maisie down for a nap. Yōkai slips into the room as I shut the door. Downstairs, Mason isn’t in the kitchen or living room. And when I check his bedroom—which turns out to be a converted sunroom with French doors—I discover a desk drowning in paperwork and a futon made up for sleeping. It doesn’t make sense to me that he owns this big, beautiful old house and relegates himself to the tiniest space. What the hell has he been through?
I find him in the brewhouse, pouring a bit of beer from one of the large tanks into a small glass. He sniffs. Takes a sip. He startles a little when he notices me. “Oh,” he says. “Hey.”
“I’m beginning to think this arrangement isn’t going to work.”
Mason’s eyebrows pull together. “Why?”
“You are clearly uncomfortable around kids,” I say. “I told you I had a child. I gave you an out—even if I didn’t know it at the time—and you still offered me the job.”
He stares at me and seems to decide something. He walks past, beckoning me to follow. We go out into the taproom, where he grabs a couple of glasses. “Do you like beer?” He gives a short laugh. “That probably should have been my very first question, huh?”
“I do like beer,” I say, watching as he fills the first glass from one of the taps. “I prefer pilsners and lagers, and I really like a good Berliner Weisse.”
He moves on to the second glass. “Any special flavor?”
“Not really. Raspberry and woodruff are traditional, which … you probably already know, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
He hands me a glass of beer, and I follow him outside, where we sit on the low front stoop of the building.
“This is my eighth attempt at a lager,” Mason says. “I can’t quite nail it down, and it’s been driving me up the fucking wall.”
I take a sip. “I don’t have anything constructive to offer because I’m not an expert. It tastes fine to me.”
“‘Fine’ is not great.”
“True.”
He takes a long swallow, draining half the glass in one go. “Ever hear of Fish Brothers?”
Fish Brothers is a brand that popped up seemingly overnight. One minute, no one had ever heard of it; the next, it was being served in every bar in town. The TV commercials usually featured two cartoon fish heads talking in thought bubbles about random stuff. Every time a new one came out, it would go viral and wind up as a meme. “Is this a trick question?”
Mason laughs. “Is that a yes?”
“I think most people have heard of Fish Brothers.”
“That was me.”
“Wait. Really?”
“I mean, not only me,” he says. “My college roommate and I were a couple of dipshits who thought it would be cool to brew our own beer so we wouldn’t have to pay for it. Matt was already majoring in marketing, so I went from undecided to fermentation science major. Long story short: we landed on a few ‘thirty under thirty’ lists, our little operation blew up, and we sold the brand to a global brewing conglomerate about five years ago.”
“That’s incredible, but … why would you sell a brand that’s so ridiculously popular?”
Mason fidgets with his glass, swirling the beer up the sides. “We’d already been approached to sell when my daughter, Piper, was born with a heart defect. She was going to need surgeries and hospital stays, and I didn’t want Jess to carry that weight alone, so I cashed out and Matt stayed on. Piper had three operations in the first two years of her life, and her prognosis was great until she had an allergic reaction to one of her medications. She died a couple of weeks before her fourth birthday. The anniversary of her death was … recent.”
“Oh God, Mason. I’m so sorry.”
He scrubs a hand across his face and closes his eyes for a beat, then two.
“Working on the hotel together was supposed to help Jess and me reconnect, but it made things worse, and she finally had enough,” he says. “Not many people on the island know this, and the only reason I’m telling you is because it concerns you as my employee. If you were less observant, I wouldn’t have said anything. I’m sure Maisie is a great kid. She seems great. But I guess I’m not in a place where I want to be around children yet.”