Chapter Six
Ella contemplated returning her sister’s call and the two text messages that followed, but she couldn’t muster up the strength. She knew that would sound awful to anyone who hadn’t met Becca, or Rebecca Walters-Blanchforth as she routinely introduced herself, complete with a noncommittal handshake. Ella and her sister were two years apart and back when she was Becca, they had a bit more in common but still nowhere near the sisterly bond represented in movies and television shows. Ella and Rebecca, an almost forty-year-old woman who at their last family event pondered over her second glass of wine, “Wouldn’t it be divine to own a little shop on Coronado to tinker with?” now had nothing in common.
There was no one to blame except their parents, of course, but Ella found blaming the dysfunction on her upbringing boring. There was nothing she could do about the lack of love and overabundance of spine-straight structure, so somewhere around twenty-five she chose to count herself as a survivor and move on with her own life. Time spent with her parents was limited and nonexistent during those lucky three hundred and however many days they were busy “living their second half.” Ella had hated the absence as a child, but as an adult, she coveted any distance from her mother and father.
Her parents, known to the world as Dr. and Mrs. Langston Walters, had a toxic relationship according to some online worksheet Ella found herself taking last December when her mother had called her a “callous deserter who was going nowhere fast,” after she’d purposely booked a double shift so she didn’t have to return home for Christmas. “Extremely Toxic,” the results had declared. As a rule, Ella avoided all things extremely anything since breaking free of San Francisco.
Outside of the occasional outburst over something they needed, her parents didn’t seem to care. Her sister, on the other hand, made things more difficult. Ella had attempted an on-again-off-again relationship with Rebecca outside of their upbringing, as adults, but it never worked. They’d been pitted against one another growing up, and some habits were nearly impossible to unlearn. Turned out trust and nurture needed to be taught among siblings, Ella had learned in her freshman year psychology class.
Her mother and father must have skipped that part of parenting and jumped right to which daughter was the favorite of the moment or who was “dragging the family name through the mud.” The latter was usually Ella’s department, which allowed Becca to flit around on a cloud of favored that only expanded as they got older. Truth was, Becca Walters had been a privileged girl trapped in the ignorance and indifference money allowed. Rebecca Walters-Blanchforth was a bitch.
Ella was certain her sister would say the same about her. She’d spat it to her face on at least two occasions, so Ella didn’t feel guilty for simply thinking it. Her family was what it was, and Ella usually kept the whole mess tucked away unless her sister called or texted. That’s when it all came spilling out like an overpacked box. The latest spill was her sister’s relentless drive to plan an anniversary party for their parents. Ella was certain she had “assigned tasks” and that her sister was steaming at being ignored. Ella picked up her phone, her thumbs hovering, and set it back on the coffee table, opting instead to finish the last chapters of her book. Stephen King, even with half the cast of characters dead, was less daunting than her sister, let alone trying to understand how their parents’ marriage was something worth celebrating. She’d call her tomorrow.
The phone vibrated again. Ella planted her feet on the ground in front of her couch, sat up straight, prepared for confrontation, and touched the green button on her phone.
“Hel—”
“You know, E, I get that you have some delusion that you’re better than the rest of us, but it’s rude. You’re rude,” Becca spewed.
Ella tossed her glasses on her coffee table and rubbed the pressure point between her eyes.
“Are you there? Effing Christmas, did you hang up on me?”
“I’m here, Becca.”
“Are you sick? Why are you whispering?”
She wasn’t whispering. She was merely trying to counter the noise her sister had forced into her peaceful home.
“I’m fine. What do you need?”
“Need?” she scoffed. “Darling, I need exactly nothing. I’m simply hoping you will acknowledge you are a member of this family for approximately four hours on May seventh. That is the moment, forty-five years ago to the day, that our parents vowed to love and cherish each other. Do you think you can grace us with an appearance?”
Ella’s eyes were still closed, as if that would keep the impending nightmare at bay. “Sure. What do you need me to do? Are you’re putting the whole thing together?”
“I gave up relying on you a long time ago. I have a staff. It’s going to be amazing. All I need you to do is show up in something other than those pajamas you wear to work and try to be nice to Mom and Dad. They want you there.”
“Do they.”
“Of course they do. E, every family has… a dynamic. I don’t know why you’re so hard on ours. Some of Mom’s friends are flying in, all of Dad’s colleagues, even a few of the now extremely accomplished women we went to school with will be there. Basically, anyone who is anyone in our circle is gathering to celebrate.”
Becca was in what Ella referred to as her Fairy-tale Mode. It was an affect she adopted, usually in between her lunches with the ladies or her all-important causes, that included a complete rewrite of their childhood. She recast everyone as whimsical characters and, as expected, made herself the princess. Everything was perfect, occasionally she slipped in a “mommy” or a “daddy,” and Ella played the role of the evil witch, the one with the wart on her nose, or the one who shoved children into the oven. There was no way to snap Becca out of it, so Ella conserved her energy and played along.
“It will be fantastic. I received the invitation. It’s stunning.”
Her sister released a soft “humph.” At least she’d stopped rambling.
“Thanks for checking on me. I’ll be there.”
“Why are you so… snide?”
“Okay. Let’s wrap this up. I’m happy you’re happy with the way things are going. Wish your staff well. I’ll see you in—”
Becca had hung up. Peace and quiet, finally. Well, quiet at least. It would take a very long bike ride before peace was restored.
Boyd, Patrick, and Cade stood on the main floor of what in two weeks would be the Foghorn Brewery Tap House. The floors were concrete and the old bay doors that were rusted and barely moveable when they bought the place were now refinished and fitted with heavy glass windows from top to bottom. They overlooked a beer garden that Cade had been dreaming about since that first day they met to talk about starting a business. Boyd surveyed the beamed ceiling, exposed vents, and polished wood. The far wall was repurposed wooden egg crate pieces, some of them still with old logos. The place was coming together. They turned to face Cade’s pride and joy—his bar.
“I might cry,” his younger brother said, gliding his hand over the glossy pale wood surface.
“Don’t,” Patrick said, handing him a beer. “You don’t want one?” he asked Boyd.
“I’m good.” He took in the smell of polish and ran his boot along a crack in the floor that Aspen Pane, their Wonder Woman disguised as a business manager, termed a defect. Cade declared it was “purposefully placed character.” The petty arguments didn’t matter now because the place was going to be a hit. Boyd could feel it, and somehow the looming success made his mind spin. What did that mean for the brewery? Would he eventually need to hire someone to help him, and how would he keep the quality from going to hell if he had to rely on other people?
“Maybe he’s losing his hearing,” Cade said and chomped into what Boyd recognized from the menu as their buffalo chicken wrap.
“You with us, old-timer? The mugs are staying where they are, but once we get the pints, pilsners, and tulips, should they hang or stack?” Patrick pointed behind the bar.
“Does it matter? How are you hanging a pint, or a pilsner? Leave them in the washing crates behind the bar or chilled.”
“Glasses need to be on display. It’s a thing.”
“Then it’s your thing, no need for my input. I’ll bet after the first week, Cade will have them wherever it works for him and his bartenders.”
Cade barely caught a piece of chicken before it fell to the floor and popped it into his mouth.
“How is it that you eat all the time, but I’m the one creeping closer to a dad bod?”
“Sex. I have a lot of it,” Cade said through his chewing.
Patrick and Boyd both stared in bewilderment, wondering how their brother managed the simple tasks of life like grocery shopping and paying the electric bill. The man was a muscled adolescent.
“With yourself?” Patrick asked, and Boyd laughed like they too were kids.
“No, Brothers Monk, not with myself. I date and that often leads to sex. You two should try it.”
“How the hell much sex are we talking about here? I saw you eat two burritos for breakfast a couple of hours ago.” Patrick said, wide-eyed.
Cade wiggled his brows. “Wouldn’t you two like to know.”
“No, nope, we do not want to know. No one wants to know,” Boyd said.
“And I’m not a monk—I had a date last night,” Patrick added, overly defensive as usual.
“Really, how’d it go?” Aspen said over the pencil in her mouth as she carried a box into the bar. She put it on one of the round high-top tables and pushed the pencil into her hair.
Those must be the labels, Boyd thought before Patrick practically dropped his beer.
“Fine. Great, if you must know,” Patrick said to all of them, avoiding eye contact with her.
“Oh, I’ll bet. Sex?” Cade asked, oblivious or not caring that they were in mixed company. “Don’t answer that.” He tossed the last piece of his sandwich into his mouth and wiped his hands. “The answer is no.”
“You’re an asshole.” Patrick reached into the box and pulled out a roll of labels. Boyd noticed the familiar butcher paper color and walked behind the bar.
“What? Boyd’s the one who wanted to know about my hot body. He’s the girl. No offense, Aspen.”
“None taken. Feel free to discuss all hot bodies in my presence.” Aspen handed Patrick two pieces of paper.
“Good?” she asked him.
Patrick was still turning the labels in his hand, and Cade leaned over his shoulder.
“Yeah, better than good,” Patrick said, shrugging their brother off. “They’re perfect. Worthy of the beer, Boyd.”
Boyd glanced up from checking out the taps. He wasn’t all that interested in the bottle labels. They were clever, but he tried to stay out of the hype and promotion because he believed it messed with his creativity. If he ever started pandering to public perception or tried to create a taste around some image, he’d be doomed. Call it superstition, but he believed to do his job well, he needed a kind of vacuum. He had a feeling that might become more difficult as the brewery grew.
“Looks good,” he said to appease his brother. “You decided against cans.”
“It needs to be in a bottle,” Patrick said.
“Agreed.”
“Cans are making a comeback,” Cade added. “How about you, Boyd, any dates… sex?”
“Nope. Still a monk.” Boyd turned one of the beer mugs in his hand and started thinking about fall and what he was going to do for a stout this year. Now that he’d solved Lemongate, it was time to create again.
“Mason tells me you and the ER doctor are getting cozy,” Patrick said.
“The one who stitched his hand?” Cade asked.
Patrick nodded. “Mase stopped by while our dear brother was having his stitches out and the doctor gave the kid some advice on girls. There were some sparks between the adults, from what I hear.”
There was no way his son used the word “cozy” or “sparks.” His brother was fishing, and Boyd was about to remind them both who was born first in the family.
“Seriously? Why am I the last to know?” Cade asked.
“Because there is nothing to know. Trick is making shit up in his mind. He does it for a living. Ella did take out my stitches because she’s a doctor, and she gave Mason some advice on girls, well, advice on ‘she.’”
“Ella. Pretty name,” Cade said, moving to Patrick’s side.
Yup, they were squaring off.
“She’s blond, according to our astute nephew, and tall.”
“Tall, huh? I’ll bet she’d be perfect for Thad. He’s single. Right, Aspen?”
Aspen, being female and smarter than the two lugheads combined, didn’t even acknowledge the question.
Boyd leveled a stare at his brothers and tried not to laugh as they stood shoulder to shoulder. “Is this the part where I get jealous and say, ‘No. She doesn’t like Thad. I want her.’?” He smacked the back of Cade’s head. “What is this, amateur hour?”
Patrick laughed.
“She is beautiful,” Aspen said and Boyd, who’d almost made a clean escape, knew he was in trouble. “She’s in our book club now. Vienna from the bakery invited her. Apparently, she reads Stephen King. I remember your mom tried to get us to read Gillian Flynn last year, but that’s the closest we’ve come to dark. Anyway, she hangs out at the bakery a lot if you’re looking to casually bump into her.”
All of them stared at Aspen. Boyd didn’t know where to begin. He had no idea his mom was in a book club, let alone that she liked dark books. Hell, did he know anything anymore?
“Our mom is in your book club?” Patrick beat Boyd to the question.
Aspen nodded after opening her yogurt and taking a bite. “She’s one of our founding members. She does our taxes every year. Of course she’s in the book club. Sistine is the president, and then me, Vienna…” She took another bite and glanced at the ceiling as if she were putting together an organization chart on the fly. “That’s right, then Vienna recruited Bri because she comes into the bakery every once in a while. She’s a nurse at the hospital. Another connection to Ella.” She took her last bite and shrugged. “So, that’s a pretty extensive network. Weird how things are connected, right?”
Yeah, weird. Boyd and his brothers seemed equally stunned at the things that went on without their knowledge.
“What are you guys reading?”
“Well, it’s a… women’s book club, so we’re not guys.”
Patrick rolled his eyes and stuck his hands in his pockets.
“Mostly fiction.” She peeled a banana and bit into it. “We like a little bit of everything.”
They all nodded, and Boyd tried to remember the last time he’d read something that wasn’t eighth-grade required or on the internet.
“Oh, and my brother is not her type,” she added.
“Why not?” they all asked, including Boyd, who couldn’t stop himself.
“He’s too… pretty. Women like her don’t go for muscles and perfect teeth. Do you ever notice that? Most gorgeous women look for something else in a man.”
“What about Giselle and Tom Brady? They’re both pretty,” Cade said.
“Yeah, but I’ll bet she’s more turned on by his career, his drive, than his looks. He’s an isolated example of a hot football player.”
“I don’t get all the fuss with him,” Patrick said.
“No?” Aspen closed her laptop, stood, and tossed her lunch trash. “I do. Me and thousands, let’s make that millions of other women and likely quite a few men, we get it.” She patted the box with the labels as if to say her work was done.
“Thad is dating Vienna. The doctor is all yours,” Aspen whispered to Boyd.
“I am not interested in—”
“Shh, I’m not all that romantic, but you might want to think on this one. I mean strictly from a supply-and-demand point of view. What are your other dating options? The snack bar moms?”
“They’re married.”
“Exactly. This is a small pond, Boyd. Keep your options open.”
“Is that your professional advice?” he asked and couldn’t help but smile.
“It is,” she said before turning to bump Patrick’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch up. Google Tom Brady or my favorite—sweaty Tom Brady—you’ll see what the rest of us are fussing about.” With a sarcastic grin, she walked away.
“Hey, any idea when we’re getting the rest of the glasses?” Patrick called to her.
Aspen pointed over her head as she pushed through the door. “Ask your bartender. He’s in charge of the aesthetic glassware, remember?” Even with her back to them, Boyd could tell she was rolling her eyes, and then she was gone.
Boyd loved that woman like the sister they all needed. She was the real deal, as their dad liked to say.
Patrick crossed his arms and leaned against one of the stools, trying for cool and failing. Boyd muffled a laugh, but Cade let his go and said, “She’s got your number, Mr. Smooth.”
“Always has been immune to the Patrick McNaughton charm,” Boyd added, and just like that, the focus in the room shifted from two against Boyd to two against Trick. The beauty of three, Boyd thought. It wasn’t so easy when their youngest brother, West, was home and things were even. Boyd would take whatever advantage he could get so long as he didn’t have to discuss Dr. Ella Walters or the fact that Mason hadn’t stopped talking about her advice.