Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Ben
I don’t know why research feels different when it’s done in a living room, but it does. The table at the Pint turns reading into work; Paige’s couch turns it into a long conversation with pauses.
The room helps—lamps on instead of overheads, the river throwing a stripe of moving light across the ceiling whenever a car takes the bend just right, the ticking clock keeping time as it passes.
Paige has her laptop propped on a throw pillow, feet tucked under my thigh. Every now and then, she absentmindedly rubs a slow circle over her stomach with the heel of her hand. It shoots a quick, specific happiness through me every time she does it, like a private signal I get to notice.
On the coffee table: a small mountain range of library books that still smell like dust and plastic jackets.
Historic Paducah. River Town Commerce 1890–1960.
A binder of scanned city business licenses that somebody at the library printed for us.
Beside them, a legal pad in her neat handwriting labeled QUESTIONS, as if we’re running some sort of committee meeting.
“Okay,” she says, squinting at a microfilm scan on the county archive site. “I’ve got three mentions of the Paducah Brewers Guild in the late sixties. Meeting minutes, who attended, a note about a fall tasting in ‘69, and… oh.”
She leans, zooms. “And a blurb about a ‘heritage recipe demonstration’ from a guy named… William H.—wait—Hoffman.” She glances over at me, eyes bright.
“Spell it,” I say, even though I know how to spell my own name.
“Just like yours,” she says, nudging me with her foot.
“Let me see.”
She swivels the laptop so it faces me, and I lean in. The scan is bad, but it’s legible enough to get a hit of adrenaline: Heritage Recipe Exhibition—Local Brewer to Share Traditional Methods. Wm. Hoffman to present at Paducah Brewers Guild, Oct. 11. Public welcome, refreshments provided.
“Guild Hall,” I read, softly. “Do we have any idea where that was?”
Paige’s fingers are already moving. “If they were like every other club in town, probably the VFW or the old Grange hall before it burned.” A few keystrokes, a quick frown, then a triumphant noise.
“Yep. Looks like the Guild met in the community room at the River Museum for a while. And sometimes at the Elks Lodge. Here—look—there’s a map. I can email them in the morning.”
“Please,” I say, because the part of me that wants to call right now needs to fucking relax. “I’ll go in if they want me to.”
“Done.” She adds it to our QUESTIONS list, under a bullet that already says: Does anyone have the old ledger?
“Also, I found three William Hoffmans in the county directory in the eighties. One is obviously not him because he was born in ‘32 and listed as a school custodian out in Ballard County.” She scrolls.
“The other two are possibilities. One just has a P.O. box. The second is listed at an address on Sycamore that’s now a parking lot. We can cross-reference by looking for a spouse's name.”
“I don’t know my grandmother’s name,” I say, and the admission is sour on my tongue. My father never spoke about his mother, and every time I asked, I got a cuff on the head for it. So, I stopped asking.
She pauses. “We’ll find it,” she says, so simply that I want to believe her by force of will alone. “We’re good at finding things.”
Across the table, the book I’m working through—The Long River: Commerce and Community on the Ohio—has a chapter on post-Prohibition small brewers.
It’s light on specifics and high on sepia-toned civic pride, but there’s a half-page photo of six men in shirt sleeves standing around a table set with bottles and paper cups.
A handwritten caption under the scanned photo reads PADUCAH brEWERS GUILD, c.
1969. The names are typed below the photo, each one aligned under a face.
My pulse kicks at the fourth one. Wm. Hoffman.
The man is lean, later-middle-aged, with a butcher’s forearms and a tie loosened like he’s allergic to fuss. The photo is too grainy to be sure, but I think he’s got my mouth.
“I think this is him,” I murmur.
Paige sets a hand on my knee and leans in so the side of her face brushes my shoulder. “He does have your mouth,” she says, like she read my mind. “And those are your eyebrows. Strong and stubborn.”
I huff a laugh. “Careful, that’s slander.”
She bumps me with her shoulder. “Hey, that’s my grandpa.” She points to the man standing next to William.
I drag the book closer until the spine creaks and angle the photo under the lamp. The names are typed in a wonky column—someone fought a manual typewriter and lost. I read them out loud, finger under each like I’m back in third grade.
“Wm. Hoffman.” Tap.
“Alton Mayes.” Tap.
“Roy ‘Buck’ Sutter.” Tap.
“Frank Delaney.” Tap.
“Earl Pennington.” Tap.
“Edward Richards.” Tap.
Paige snorts. “Grandpa Eddie.” She taps the man beside William—hairline retreating, grin wide and familiar in a way that makes something warm uncoil in my chest. “I was like five when he passed. Shortly before you moved back to town.”
I lean in. Now that she’s said it, I can’t unsee Don in the bones of the face—same thin face and easy-set mouth. I smile despite myself.
Then my finger goes back up the list on reflex, lands on Roy “Buck” Sutter, and the bottom of my stomach drops.
Because Buck Sutter is not just a name I’ve seen printed somewhere. He’s the man who called me a sham yesterday. A thief. Same sharp cheekbones gone softer with age, same narrow-set eyes under a brim.
In the photo, he’s a younger man with a hand hooked in his pocket, close enough to William to share a joke. In my bar, he stood three stools down and cut me down with a few words.
“Paige,” I say quietly.
She picks up on it. “What?”
I don’t answer. I trace to the next: Frank Delaney. Guy with the belt buckle in my bar—Delaney—only younger here by forty years, with a collared shirt open at the throat and a great laugh on his face. In the Pint, he set the glass down without taking a drink and accused me of cheating him.
I blow out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “Buck Sutter. Frank Delaney,” I say, and tip the photo so she sees what I see. “Those were the guys in my place yesterday.”
She goes still. Her eyes flick between the names, the faces, the picture. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.” The kind of sure that lives in your bones. “They’re older now. But it’s them.”
She scans down to the last name. “What about the last guy? Earl Pennington or Alton Mayes?” she reads, glancing up.
I shake my head slowly, looking at their pictures. “I’m not really sure. He was wearing a hat pulled low.”
I can feel my brain trying to paste a hat onto each of the faces. None of them was wearing one in the photo. Doesn’t matter. The pull in my gut is the same.
“I think, maybe this one?” I point to Early Pennington. “But the other guys, Sutter and Delaney. That was them for sure.”
She looks back at William—at his loosened tie, his butcher’s forearms, the way his shoulder tilts toward Eddie. “They were all friends,” she says softly, and then the question slides out before she can dress it up. “So why would they…?”
My mouth goes dry. I run my thumb slowly over the caption. The picture doesn’t answer the question. It’s just proof that all of them were in the same room at the same time at some point. Sutter stands close to my grandfather, and Delaney grins like a fool. Paige’s grandfather is there as well.
“They were all in the same club, at least,” I murmur because the word “friend” feels wrong for whatever this is. “Once.”
Paige sits back and studies the faces like they’re a puzzle with four pieces missing. “Maybe something happened. A falling-out. Money. Pride.”
I look at William again. My grandfather. I want to ask him a dozen questions. I can’t. Did you laugh with these men? Did you hurt them? Did they hurt you? What happened?
“Paige, what if my grandpa stole from them?” I say, turning to her. “They called me a thief, implied that the Hoffman Heritage was, I don’t know, sub-par. What if that’s it? What if my grandpa really is just like my dad and stole the recipe? Passed it off as his own?”
“Wait, wait. Hold on a second,” Paige says, holding her hands up to stop my tirade. “We don’t know any of that. All we know for sure is that they were in some Brewer’s Guild together. That’s it. Don’t jump ahead, okay?”
“But what if I’m selling something that isn’t mine to sell? I have to take it off the menu.” My heart is pounding too fast and too hard. “I can’t—”
“And again, put the damn brakes on. You’re jumping to conclusions.” She reaches over and takes my hand in hers. “Just take a breath, all right? We’ll figure it out.”
My pulse is doing that ugly stutter—like I’m skipping steps on a staircase and waiting for a shin-cracking fall.
“What if I’m the guy selling a lie?” I say, and now the words won’t stop. “What if I built a whole brand around a beer my family doesn’t own, and those men were just—right? I should pull the Heritage, scrap the tap handles, redesign the whole—”
“Ben.” Paige’s voice lands like a palm on my chest—firm, warm, not moving. “Breathe.”
“I am,” I say, not breathing.
She squeezes my hand. “No, you’re not. Inhale.” She inhales slowly, exaggerated. “Hold. Exhale.” She blows out. “Again.”
I’m ridiculous enough to copy her. Air in, hold, air out. The first try barely dents the panic, but the second knocks one notch off the dial. On the third, my shoulders actually drop.
“Good,” she says, softer now. “Now, look at me.”
I do. Her eyes are steady, not judging, not minimizing.
“Fact check time,” she says, tapping the legal pad labeled QUESTIONS. “What do we know?”
“Photo,” I say, pointing. “Names. My grandfather presented a ‘heritage recipe’ at a guild event. Sutter and Delaney were also there, and they were in my bar yesterday.”
“Right,” she says. “And what do we not know?”
I huff. “Everything else.”
“Exactly. And until we know it, please do not rebrand your entire business because three assholes decided to bring up some shit from over forty years ago.”
“Two,” I mutter. “The third might have been Pennington or Mayes.”
“Fine. Two and a half.” She slides closer so our knees touch. “You built the Pint on your work. If the story needs correcting, we’ll correct it. But self-destruction? Not on the menu.”
I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling. “I hate not knowing,” I say.
“I know.” She nudges the book. “And we will find out, I promise you that.”
The handle on the front door jiggles, then opens, and Jason shoulders in with a cardboard carrier and a brown grocery sack balanced on his forearm.
“Food,” he announces, which is both a greeting and an olive branch in this family. “I didn’t order it, but I claim credit for picking it up.”
The living room fills with the scent of roast chicken, something herb-y, maybe a hint of chocolate? He sets everything on the coffee table, shoes already off like the civilized man Gwen raised.
“Hey,” I say, standing, because I’m not a monster; I can carry a bag. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yeah, I did,” he says, not unkindly. “We are officially a multi-front operation: feed Paige, feed the grandkid, figure out what the hell is going on.”
Jason starts laying out takeout containers as if we’re at a field hospital: mashed potatoes, green beans with almonds, a lidded tub of salad, and a bakery box that he parks in front of Paige.
“Mom said, and I quote, ‘If they’re researching, they need brain food.’ Also, she said not to forget forks. I forgot forks.”
“I can get forks,” Paige says, already pushing up.
“I’ll get forks,” I say, already moving.
“I’ll get forks,” Jason says, because apparently we’re racing now.
“Everyone sit down,” Paige orders, and because she’s the only one here with actual authority, we obey. She disappears into the kitchen, returns with forks, spoons, knives, and plates.
The first bite of delicious mashed potatoes makes me realize just how hungry I am. Paige has gone right in on a slice of chocolate cake. I wonder if she ever gets tired of eating sweets.
Jason watches her with the satisfied expression of a man who successfully executed a mission, then shovels chicken into his mouth.
“Report,” he says finally, mouth half full, nodding at the avalanche of books. “What do we have?”
Paige points at the photo, and he leans in, one forearm on the table. He’s quiet as he reads the caption and then the column of names.
“Grandpa Eddie,” he says, and his face does a small, involuntary soften at the sight. “Look at him. That tie. Dad’s going to lose it.”
My finger lands on the names. “Wm. Hoffman,” I say. “I think that’s my grandfather.”
Jason nods slowly. “He looks like you,” he says, same as Paige did. Then his gaze shifts one name down, and his mouth goes flat. “Paducah Brewer’s Guild.”
“I think these are the guys from the Pint,” I say and point to two of them. “This might be the third, but I’m not sure.”
“Buck Sutter and Frank Delaney,” Jason says. “Sound like assholes to me.”
“Obviously, they were all friends at some point,” Paige says.
Jason is still studying the picture. “Question is, what happened between this picture and yesterday?” He glances up. “Dad might know some of it. He and Grandpa Eddie were around for all the town’s petty dramas. Dad probably has opinions on it.”
“Paige thinks the museum might have a ledger,” I say. “We’re emailing tomorrow.”
“Do it,” Jason says, then taps the legal pad. “What else?”
“Directories,” Paige says, pointing to her laptop. “Three William Hoffmans in the 80’s; two possibles. One P.O. box, one Sycamore address that’s now a parking lot. We’re going to cross-reference with a spouse's name once we have one.”
Jason sits back and chews thoughtfully. “Did you look through the stuff in the attic?”
“What stuff?” Paige asks, furrowing her brow.
“Grandpa and Grandma’s stuff. Dad put a bunch of stuff there when he sold the house after Grandpa died.”
Paige just shakes her head.
“Probably too young to remember,” Jason says. “We went through Grandpa’s house and picked a few things to keep. Everything else got sold in the estate sale. Dad kept everything in a chest up there.”
With every word, my heart lifts a little more, hopeful.
“Well, what the hell are we waiting for?” Paige says and stands. “Lead the way.”
Jason is already headed for the hall when Paige snags the bakery box, pops it open, and plucks out a biscuit the size of a saucer.
“Field provisions,” she says around a grin, pressing a second into my hand. “Attic runs require carbs.”
Jason rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he takes the creaky stairs two at a time. We follow him up, biscuit crumbs trailing like we’re marking the way back.