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.
He swallowed drily. Tried to smile. Wondered if he looked like he was snarling instead. Wondered why it was so hard for him to remember names when he’d studied them all week. Wondered if his sweat was showing.
They all said things about the weather and nice to meet you and all that crap.“Why don’t we get started?” said the woman—Porter, Amy Porter, Porter like beer, good, he hadn’t forgotten her name.
“Sure, Amy,” he said.” Just give me one second to see where my business associate is.” The second time he’d said business associate in thirty seconds. He already sounded like an ass.
The call went right to voice mail. “Jess, is everything okay? I know you’re running late, but they’re here.” They’re here. Sounded so ominous, probably because it was. “Call me, okay?”
He texted that as well, just to make sure. What the hell good was technology if you didn’t use it, huh? Huh?
He took a deep breath, unstuck his sweaty shirt from his ribs and went back inside the conference room. Names. Names. Use their names.
“Jessica is on her way,” he said. “So! Trey! Amy! And um...all of you! I guess we can just get to know each other. Uh, I’m Connor. I own O’Rourke’s Tavern in Manningsport, and I have a new niece! My twin sister had a baby two weeks ago. I also have a ten-year-old half sister and a half brother on the way. Crazy, huh? Big age gap there.”
Oh, Jesus. Kill him now.
Trey, the handsome devil, stared at him. The fat guy—Generic? No, Gennaro—was taking notes. Amy, also staring. The guy whose name Connor had forgotten was looking pained.
“So. I...I feel uniquely qualified to make beer, since I’m a chef,” Connor said. “And I do have, uh, financial stuff. Papers. Projections. Just not with me. Jessica is bringing those, and she’ll be here very soon, I’m sure. What would you like to know?”
Trey went first. “What kind of facility are you envisioning, and where would it be set?”
“Right. Okay, uh, there’s this burned-out building right near the lake. Keuka Lake, that is. And it’s great. I mean it’s really...nice. Or it was, before the fire.” He took a napkin and blotted his forehead. “Needs work, but a perfect locale. Location, I mean. Whatever.”
Colleen babbled when she was scared. He used to make fun of her for it.
“You know what?” he said. “Obviously, Jess is the pitch man here, and I’m not sure what’s keeping her. Why don’t I do what I do best, and let you taste some beer? How would that be? Or is it too early for y’all?” He had never in his life said y’all before. Good God.
“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon,” Trey said.
It felt like four in the morning to Connor. Where the hell was Jess? Had something happened? “Well, just a sampling, of course. I don’t mean to encourage alcoholics. Right? Can’t do that!”
“My father’s an alcoholic,” Amy said.
Of course he was.
“Pour away,” Greg Generic said, thank God.
Connor lined up the growlers in a row. They were labeled—India Pale Ale, Amber Lager, Pilsner, Porter, Stout. He started with the Porter. “In honor of you, Ms. Porter,” he said, pouring her three ounces. She didn’t smile. He poured the same for the three men, and then one for himself.
“Nice, huh?” he said, gulping his down. “Dark and strong, really good head.”
Oh, shit, that sounded like a porno line. He glanced at Trey, who was also dark and strong. Hopefully, he didn’t notice the, uh, similarities. “We used rich dark malts, and you get this smoky, buttery flavor with the earthy hops.” Did he sound stupid? It felt like he sounded stupid. “Medium-range body with an enticing firmness, but so creamy.” More porn. Jesus. “What do you guys think?”
“I don’t drink,” said Trey. Fucking fantastic.
“It’s very smooth,” No-Name said. “I like the little hint of bitterness at the end.”
“Yes,” Connor said. Good, good, here was someone he could talk to. “Bitter. Exactly.”
“Hit me again,” No-Name said. Connor obliged. Filled his own glass, too. Took another healthy sip. Just settle down, he could hear Colleen saying. You can do this. He also remembered her saying that Jessica should do the talking. That he could barely string two sentences together.