3. Chapter 3 - Paxton
There was a woman standing at the bar, not looking anything like our usual patrons. She was wearing a skirt suit and holding a thick leather portfolio. When she spotted me, she gave me a tight smile. “Mr. Lowell?”
I shook her hand and nodded. “You can call me Paxton, though. How can I help you?”
“I’m Barbara Traylor. I’m here from the planning commission. Do you have an office or somewhere we can speak more… privately?” She glanced around at Tommy and the few patrons in the taproom.
“Sure, right this way.” I led her past the door to the back room and down a short hallway. “Office is in here. You’re welcome to have a seat.”
She hummed and sat in one of the chairs facing my very messy desk, while I took my place behind the desk and made a futile attempt to tidy the papers that were sprawled everywhere.
“Sorry about the mess,” I murmured.
“Not a problem.” She placed her portfolio on the desk in front of her. “I just came to talk with you about a few things.”
“Sure, go for it.”
“I see here you’ve applied for expansion?” She pulled out the application I’d submitted just the day before.
“Yes, ma’am, I have. We’re hoping to add on to both the taproom and the production room, plus storage.”
“And you’ve secured financing for the expansion?”
“Well… no, not yet.”
“It’s just, well, we’ve received a competing proposal for the land you want to purchase.”
I frowned and pinched my lips together in a hard line, waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t elaborate, I prompted her. “What does that mean for us?”
“This competing proposal has already secured their funds. All they need is the green light from the county. Now, we’d like to accommodate you, we really would, but…” She shook her head a little. “My hands are tied.”
“Wait a second. I just submitted my proposal yesterday. You’re telling me we’re already being rejected?”
“They’ve got the funds.”
“Look, Mrs.…”
“Traylor.”
“Right, sorry. Mrs. Traylor. My family has owned this plot of land since the sixties. We’ve always been self-sufficient, supported the town, we’ve brought tourism and awards.
I’ve been waiting for almost a decade for that lot next door to go up for sale.
Now that it’s available, you’re telling me I can’t buy it? ”
“I—”
“Who’s the other purchaser?”
“I can’t talk about that, Mr. Lowell. It’s confidential. Just as your application is.”
I pressed my fingers to my temples and let out a slow breath. She had to be fucking kidding. “So that’s that?”
“Well, nothing’s a done deal quite yet.”
“Great,” I said, my voice terse. “What can I do to improve my chances?”
“You’ll need to secure the funds or at least provide proof that you’re attempting to obtain the money. Grant or loan applications would benefit your case very much. Besides that, any supporting documentation—”
“Like what?”
“Well,” she said, ignoring the fact that I’d interrupted her.
“You mentioned that you’ve done a lot for the community in terms of tourism and awards.
If you could provide any documentation about those, it would help.
The planning committee meets again in a month.
We’ll review both applications thoroughly then. ” She shifted in her seat a little.
“If you haven’t even met to discuss it, why are you here telling me this?”
Mrs. Traylor leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’m not exactly supposed to be here. I’m only trying to help. I saw your application and I think expanding Celestial Cask would be better for the county than having a developer come in and do only God knows what to the land.”
I let my guard down a little, exhaling some of the built-up tension slowly. “Understood. Thank you for your support.”
She sniffed and tucked the papers back in her portfolio. “Of course, Mr. Lowell.”
“You really can call me Paxton,” I reminded her.
She gave me a small smile. “Paxton, then. I’ll see you this time next month.”
“I appreciate it.” I stood to show her the way out, but she held up a hand.
“I can see myself out. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.” She hesitated. “One month, Paxton. That’s all you have.” With that, she was gone.
I took a deep breath and tried to shake it off before I headed back into the taproom.
One month. I had thirty days to get this expansion in motion or we were going to lose out on the lot next door and miss our chance to expand the meadery on the same property we’d been founded on.
I’d tried for loans in the past and could never get approved for enough money to make the changes I wanted to make. Grants it is, I guess.
I stepped out of my office and walked down the short hallway to the taproom to find Tommy at the bar, chatting with Cal.
There was a flight in front of Cal, six small glasses each filled with a different type of mead.
I held back and watched as he took a sip of the first one.
He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as he tasted.
A moment later, he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and he opened his eyes.
Tommy must have asked if he’d liked it, because Cal nodded vigorously and jotted something in his little notebook. I took the moment to approach, going around behind the bar.
“Which one was that?”
“It was the Mama Bear,” Tommy said.
“Wait, they don’t all have mead puns for names?” Cal asked.
I chuckled and shook my head. “I don’t win every argument around here, unfortunately.”
Tommy shook his head and put a friendly hand on my shoulder. “Look, we can only come up with so many puns before it sounds forced.”
I leaned in toward Cal. “Tell him,” I said. “Tell him all mead puns are good mead puns.”
Cal held up his hands in front of him as if he were surrendering. “I’m staying out of this.”
Tommy cackled triumphantly. “See?”
“That doesn’t mean you win,” I said. “It just means he’s being polite.” I fixed Cal with a look and dropped my voice to a stage-whisper. “It’s okay, you can tell me.”
In response, he picked up the next glass and took a sip. “Oh, no,” he said immediately, wrinkling his nose and putting the glass back down.
“What swill are you serving our customers, Thomas?” I asked, elbowing Tommy in the side.
“He asked to try a variety of flavors,” Tommy said defensively. He shook his head and fixed Cal with a look. “Traitor.” He walked away to help another patron.
“It’s got… mango? Passionfruit? Something like that.”
I pinched my lips together briefly. “Ah, the Manga Maracujá. It’s got both, actually.”
“I hate both of those fruits.”
“That’s fair. So tropical fruits aren’t your thing.”
“Generally not.” He shook his head.
I looked at the flight card Tommy had filled out for him. “You’ll like the next one, I bet.”
He gave the dark-colored mead a wary look. “What’s in it?”
“Too much to recite,” I said with a chuckle. “No tropical fruits, but it is a melomel—flavored with fruit juices. It’s probably got every kind of berry you can name and then some, plus other added flavors, including almond, vanilla, coconut, and marshmallow.”
“I’m trusting you,” Cal said slowly. The words made my chest tighten and butterflies flutter through me.
“Good. You should.”
He sipped it and immediately smiled. “That was good. What’s it called?”
“I Mead More.”
“I take it you named this one?”
“Bingo.” I winked at him, and his cheeks turned pink again.
Butterflies exploded inside me again. Jesus Christ, I was in trouble.