Chapter Four
Boyd had already tasted what they were tentatively calling “Shamo,” named after a Japanese chicken with a long neck. According to Patrick, the label was going to be epic.
“The chicken already looks like he walks upright, so we added some biceps and a tattoo. It’s genius,” Patrick had exclaimed weeks before he’d climbed up Boyd’s ass about the deadline. And now, as he leaned against his work table, Boyd could rest easy that the beer behind the label would be epic too. Of course, his brothers still needed to do a taste, but if they didn’t like it, they were assholes. Especially Patrick, who he hadn’t seen or spoken to all weekend. Smart man.
“Are we done fighting?”
Speak of the devil. Boyd heard his brother’s voice but didn’t turn around. “It’s Monday. You back for more, little brother?”
“How’s your hand?”
“I’m no longer answering that question. Stitches come out the end of the week.”
“Good. I’m sorry.”
Boyd glanced over his shoulder, surprised by the simplicity of Trick’s usual embellished words. His brother could have easily pulled from his arsenal of sarcasm or charm, but when Boyd met his eyes, they looked as tired as his own, and with that, he forgot to be pissed.
“Me too,” Boyd said. He knew Patrick’s job wasn’t easy. Dealing with schmoozers and distributors was Boyd’s worst nightmare, but he wasn’t about to get into a my-job-is-harder-than-yours debate. “I might, maybe, minimize your deadlines and the pressure you’re under.”
“Most of the time.” He smirked.
“Yeah, well it’s done. The beer is done.” He knew his brother understood that was his apology. Boyd had recognized the urgency and fixed the problem. That was all Trick was going to get. “Do you want a taste?”
“Um… Yeah, I want a taste. This better be good. Keeping me waiting with all your temperamental creative garbage.”
Boyd laughed. They were nearly back to normal. He handed him a pint glass.
Patrick was an expert at knowing what people wanted. Boyd crafted the beer, with some input when he was in the mood, but Patrick knew what would sell. Pissed Boyd off to no end, but he listened because there was no sense in owning a brewery if no one liked what they were putting out.
“Darker than I thought it was going to be, but clean. More of an APA than an IPA.”
Boyd scoffed because he hated being confined to labels, but they’d already had one fight this week, so he let it go. “I’d still call it pale, but maybe more toward American, like you said. Midrange.”
“Good size head.”
Boyd nodded and returned to his computer as the glass hit his brother’s lips. He hated the first taste of any batch, but especially one he was this psyched about. Sometimes it took him a month of experimentation before he finally drew up a recipe. Especially for summer brews, because he tended to lean toward heavier lagers. Light and or fruity took a herculean effort. Every brewery, and there were more and more these days, did an IPA. Most of them were all right. Boyd didn’t brew beer for it to be average. He wanted a creation, which was complicated further with larger batches. Patrick wanted something for the upcoming tap house and a local distribution route he’d spent years working on.
His brother set the glass down on the work table next to Boyd, the unofficial signal he was ready to share his thoughts. Patrick wasn’t smiling, which wasn’t a bad thing. He was thinking. A good sign. If he didn’t like it, didn’t taste all the layers Boyd intended or the hell of a finish that was sheer luck, Boyd would start over. He’d be butt hurt, but all three of them had to love what they offered up to the public or the endless hours were for nothing.
“No grapefruit,” Patrick said.
“Nope.”
“Sorachi Ace and…”
“Citra,” Boyd added as if he were revealing a trade secret.
His brother took another sip.
“What’s the ABV on this?”
“Five point nine.”
He nodded.
“Are you going to tell me what you think, or stand there swirling it around like it’s friggin’ wine?”
Patrick laughed. “You must like this one. Sorachi Ace is a risk. Remember that one Plymouth Brew House tried a couple of years back?”
Boyd remembered but didn’t say anything. He never commented on another brewery’s output in case there were beer gods somewhere waiting to screw with him.
“There’s no grease, and it’s got the right amount of bitter,” Patrick said.
“You like the finish? The finish is what makes it. Well, that and the smell.”
“Fresh-cut grass.”
Boyd grinned. “Yeah, that’s right, little brother. Fresh-cut grass in time for summer.”
“It’s a hell of a beer, Boyd.”
“I know.”
“Yeah? You seemed a little nervous.”
“Right. The day you make me nervous is the day I—”
“How’d you balance the lemon? I mean, it’s almost tropical.”
“The lemon in the Sorachi was a bitch, but then I figured it out. Citra makes it even and gets rid of the bubble gum.”
“Bubble gum?”
“Yeah, I taste bubble gum when it’s off. No bubble gum.”
Patrick finished his last sip.
“Are we still calling it Shamo?” Boyd asked, relieved both because the first taste was over and he wasn’t fighting with his brother anymore.
“Well, we were going to go with Shamo because the Sorachi is Japanese, but now that I’ve tasted it, I think we need to address the tropical.”
“Tropical what?” Cade asked, joining them with a glob of mustard on the corner of his mouth and an overstuffed hoagie sandwich that was practically begging for a plate. Boyd remembered he hadn’t eaten since Mason handed over his toast crust before getting out of the truck at school.
Boyd poured another pint and gave it to Cade.
“Ah, Frankenstein is finally out of the lab. Is it any good?”
Patrick nodded.
Cade, only driven by taste, finished chewing the bite of sandwich and took a big gulp. There was no need for him to look at the color or texture. He served beer and once the remodel was finally finished, he would run the Foghorn Tap House. Cade could pair any beer with any food from prime rib to a Snickers bar. He never cared about appearances, so long as the taste was there. Boyd knew already that Cade would love the finish.
“Oh, hell yeah.” He wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “Well done. I get the tropical now and the dry finish. Nice. Shamo Sunset.”
“We can add some water and a sunset to the label. I held the final print until we tasted it,” Patrick said.
And with that, they’d created another beer. Boyd felt his shoulders drop and his chest relax because once again he’d been given a reprieve. Whatever shoe or change was on its way was not dropping today, he thought. He knew they’d all considered leaving in a cloud of frustration at least a dozen times over the last seven years, but the three of them knew that like a great rock band, it would be the death of their brewery. They were each vital and as Boyd poured another round, he knew he’d stitch his hand up a hundred times for moments like this with his brothers.
Ella finished a twenty-nine-mile bike ride, showered, and loaded her breakfast dishes while brushing her teeth. Monday mornings were her favorite. Things felt right at the beginning of a new week. She packed her lunch and grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl on her small round table in the alcove of her kitchen. Her house was clean, laundry done, and it was time to go back to work. She wasn’t ready for another double, but she was more than ready to get back into her scrubs. She had no idea how people worked from home. She’d no doubt start alphabetizing her spices if she had one more day off. After watering her one plant, Ella smiled at her tidy home and grabbed her keys.
“How is that even possible?” Bri asked as Ella handed over the bag of salt-and-vinegar chips she’d agreed to pick up on her way in. “No one likes Monday. That’s not even a gray area or a minority opinion. No one. You are completely alone with your Monday love.”
Ella shook her head. “I think a lot of doctors like Monday. I like them because weekend shifts are usually chaotic, people out getting into trouble, you know? Monday is a new week. Everyone returns to their responsibilities and order is restored.”
Bri stared at her and crunched into three chips at a time. The ER was empty so she had joined Ella while she put her things away in the locker room. “No one,” Bri repeated. “There are coffee cups about it, memes, T-shirts. The hatred of Monday is an American pastime.”
“I thought that was baseball.” Ella pulled her hair back with an elastic at her wrist and closed her locker.
Bri kept crunching. “Yes, baseball, apple pie, and Monday loathing.”
“Well, I like it. Maybe it’s left over from working in a big hospital. Mondays were tame.” She put her stethoscope around her neck and walked into the hall.
“Forget about work. Don’t you hate that the weekend is over? Even if you’re working a Saturday or Sunday shift, there’s still a weekend feel when you get off. Sleeping in, a larger newspaper, brunch. Remember when we went to Wishbone for brunch a few weeks ago?”
Ella nodded before adding a stuffed bunny and a coloring book she’d brought in for the collection box. The hospital was putting together spring baskets for the kids in pediatrics.
“We had yummy food and Bloody Marys. Wasn’t it hard getting up the next morning, having to shake off the fun of the weekend?”
“I had orange juice and worked that night.” Ella patted her on the shoulder as the glass doors buzzed open and an older man leaning on his son or grandson slowly approached.
Dehydration, Ella thought but held judgment until she had more information.
“Duty calls,” she said to Bri as Wilma, the triage nurse, asked the gentleman to take a seat for her initial assessment.
Ella turned her back, still eavesdropping to see if she was right, but Bri kept on espousing the evils of Monday, a perfectly decent day.
“Never confuse having a job with having a life,” Bri said softly next to her as she threw out her empty chip bag.
Ella instinctively rolled her shoulders as what felt like judgment settled at the back of her neck. Familiar, but less hurtful.
She stopped listening to Wilma and met Bri’s eyes, unable to determine if she’d meant the comment as a jab. “Do you think you’re the first person to tell me I work too much?”
“No, but you can’t like Monday. It’s a cry for help.”
Ella shook her head. “You’re a crazy person.”
“True, but I’m your crazy person and this”—she extended her hands to include the whole of their department—“can’t be something you look forward to after pancakes and time with your girls.”
“I like my job.”
“Too much.”
“Oh, okay. And you determined this how?”
“When you said Monday is your favorite day of the week.”
“This is ridiculous.” Ella heard Wilma take the patient to Exam 1.
“You are comfortable commenting on my lack of drawer organizers, my need to hug, and my attraction to cruel men, except for Sam.”
Ella and Bri bowed their heads. “Sam was a wonderful man,” they said in concert.
“I’m admittedly an open book of mess, but I’m calling you out on Monday. Stop it.”
“I’ll review your objections,” Ella said.
Wilma handed Bri the chart.
“Do that,” she said and walked toward Exam 1. “Any guesses? I know how you love this game.”
“Dehydration,” Ella said quietly.
Bri opened the chart shy of the door and gave Ella the thumbs up.
“Knew it,” she said to herself as the door closed behind Bri.
Ella leaned against the wall and crossed her arms. Her initial pride at her on-site diagnosis turned to angst. She was pathetic; hospitals were her life. She spent more time sanitized than she did in the sun. What did that say about her?
“Hey, Wilma. Do you like Mondays?”
The tiny blonde wheeled around in her chair. “Is that a trick question? No one—”
“Likes Monday. Right, I know. No. One.”
Ella considered why she preferred work over her downtime. She guessed, as with all things, it was rooted in her upbringing or her past experiences. Most likely, she didn’t know any other way. Even before she knew what work was, she’d preferred school to summer, study hall to recess. Bri was right—what the hell was wrong with her?
Ella patted her hair and tightened her ponytail when Bri emerged and called her into the exam room. This was officially not a good Monday.