Chapter 41
Chapter Forty One
Paige
Dust motes swirl in the dim light as the musty attic exhales the scent of cedar and old books.
A single pull-chain bulb throws a cone of yellow over the plywood walkway. Beyond it: dark pockets, the silent hulks of forgotten furniture, a rolled rug, three Rubbermaid bins with masking-tape labels in my mom’s handwriting.
“Chest should be on the back wall,” Jason says, sneezing on the dust.
He ducks under a beam and raps his knuckles on a stack of boxes until something answers back with a hollow sound. “Not these—Christmas. Not these—summer clothes. Ah. Here.”
It takes both Jason and Ben to wrangle the chest into the light. The thing is big enough to be a pirate prop—dovetailed corners, tarnished brass hasp, wood gone honey-dark with age.
My mouth does that little pinch it always does when I see something of Grandpa Eddie’s. It’s like someone you only half-remember and love anyway.
Ben squats and runs a thumb over the lid, head tipped like he’s listening. “This it?”
“This is it,” Jason says, and flips the hasp.
The hinges complain. Inside: layers. A top sheet of tissue paper gone brittle, wavy with time.
Under that, the kind of jumble that would’ve made my mother buzz with organizing energy—paperwork, a couple of small metal cash boxes, two composition notebooks with their corners chewed, a leather folio, a stack of photo envelopes from the drugstore with the year scribbled across them.
Wedged along the side: a wedding album so large it takes up the entire side of it.
We sit cross-legged on the plywood like kids at a sleepover. Dust floats through the light in slow, lazy sparks. I pull the album out and park it beside me, saving it like dessert.
“Divide and conquer?” I offer. “I’ll do pictures. Ben, notebooks and the folio? Jase, you’re our paperwork guy.”
“Finally,” Jason says, deadpan. “My time has come.”
Ben grins and lifts the notebooks with both hands like he’s picking up something fragile. I know how important this is to him, so I’m determined to do everything right.
Jason peels a rubber band off a fat bundle of envelopes and starts laying out what looks like everything you collect in a junk drawer over thirty years—warranty cards, membership renewal forms, receipts.
The first paper he flattens makes him blink.
“Huh. Bunch of Elks Lodge receipts, Brewers Guild tasting.” He slides it toward Ben.
Ben glances up, mouth a line that might turn into a smile if he lets it. “That tracks.”
I open an envelope and pour out a drift of photos.
They fan across my thigh—Grandpa Eddie by a grill, my grandmother in a housedress and cat-eye glasses, Dad looking seventeen and trying hard to be cool.
Then a set in black and white: six men around a folding table with paper cups and brown bottles.
I don’t have to check the caption to know it’s the same picture from the library book, but this one is crisp, edges scalloped.
In the margin, someone has written names in blue pen.
Wm. Hoffman, Buck Sutter, Frank Delaney, Earl Pennington, Alton Mayes, Edward Richards.
“Hey,” I say, laying it where both of them can see. “Clean copy.”
Jason leans in. “Look at Dad’s dad,” he murmurs, soft with it. “He looks like he just told a killer joke.”
Ben’s thumb rests on “Wm. Hoffman.” He doesn’t press; he just touches the ink reverently. “There he is,” he says, and I hear the tiniest lift in his voice.
I set that one aside and open the first cash box. It’s the kind my grandmother kept bake-sale money in—green metal, shallow. The lid sticks, then gives way with a pop. Inside: paperclipped stacks of index cards, a coil of raffle tickets, and a small envelope labeled TASTING—TOKENS.
The index cards are a surprise. Each bears a date and a title in tidy block print—Brown Porter; Heritage Amber; October Trial—and then notes in two hands. One cramped and precise. One bigger, loopier.
“Comment cards?” I ask, delighted. “Oh my God, they did comment cards.”
Jason laughs. “Of course they did. This is Paducah.”
Ben takes one like it’s a relic. “Look at the backs,” he says, a little breathless. I flip mine. The cramped hand has written: “Too much caramel. Finish a hair thin. Try 154° mash.” Under it, the loopier hand has added: “Or don’t. People love it, Ed.” The bottom edge: W.H.
Ben swallows. “William Hoffman,” he says, and I see it hit him—this is the man, in ink, joking with my grandfather.
Jason points at the other initial. “E.R. is Grandpa Eddie. They were literally writing to each other on recipe cards.” He flips another. “Here’s one: ‘Buck says the hop bite is new-school and he’s wrong.’” He snorts.
I sift deeper in the stack, index cards sticking to each other, ink smudged by old thumbs. A card halfway down catches my eye.
It isn’t a comment this time; it’s a recipe. Below it, a neat column listing ingredients and portions is in my grandfather’s handwriting.
I understand none of it. I tap Ben.
“Look at this. Some sort of recipe.” I pass the card to him and continue sifting through the box.
It takes me a minute to realize Ben has gone completely still. I look up to see his face is pale as he stares at the card.
“Ben,” I say cautiously. “What is it?”
His mouth moves. No sound at first. Then, a whisper: “This is it.”
Jason stops rustling papers. “What is it?” he asks.
Ben swallows. “It’s the recipe for the Heritage,” he says, voice rough. “The grain bill. The hop schedule. Mash temp. My mash temp. ‘Let the toast speak.’ That’s my tasting note.”
He turns the card over again, like the ink might rearrange. “But why is it your grandfather’s handwriting on the card?” His voice cracks on the last word.
I lean forward a bit, like approaching a skittish animal. “Okay,” I say, slowly. “Okay, it’s… just a card, Ben.”
“It’s not a comment card,” Ben says, too fast now. He taps the title as if it’s an accusation. “That’s the beer. That’s my beer. That’s the recipe my father passed down to me. Which means it’s not William’s original recipe. Which means those guys were right—” He breaks off, breath sawing shallow.
“I am a thief. My grandfather was a thief. He stole this recipe, and that’s wh—"
“Ben—” I reach for his arm. He pulls it back without seeming to know he’s doing it.
“I’m a thief,” he says, so quietly the bulb hum almost swallows it. “I’m my father.”
“Absolutely not,” Jason says, hard as a brake. “No. We don’t know what this is yet.”
“I know what it is!” Ben says. He’s on his feet quickly. “This is the recipe for the Hoffman Heritage. This is my supposed legacy. A lie. A sham!”
“Bullshit!” Jason says, standing as well. “Even if that’s true, even if your grandpa stole this. That doesn’t mean shit about you, Ben.”
“Every time I pull a pint, I’m stealing,” he bites out. “I have to go take it off the menu. I have to go… I don’t know. I have to do something. I have to stop it.”
I rush to my feet before he can leave. His eyes are wild in a way I’ve never seen before.
“Ben.” I step into his space enough to make him look at me. “Breathe.”
He shakes his head, already moving. “I need to go.”
“Where?” I ask, incredulous. “You’re going to go pull it off the menu now?”
“We don’t even have enough information,” Jason says, trying to stay calm. He comes up beside him, not blocking, just there. “Don’t convict yourself over nothing.”
“Nothing? I have this,” he says, holding the card like it’s Exhibit A. “I have men who knew him calling me a thief. I have a bar with my name on a beer that might really belong to your grandfather—to your family—not mine.” He jabs a finger at the card. “Yours.”
“Could be Grandpa Eddie was documenting William’s recipe,” Jason says, patience on a hair trigger. “Could be Eddie naming it for the program. Could be Eddie writing it down because he had the neatest handwriting in the room.”
“You’re reaching,” Ben says. His laugh is sharp and wrong. “You’re both reaching. I need— I have to— I can’t keep pouring it if—”
“He’s our grandpa, Ben,” I say. “And we don’t care.”
I’m not sure that was the right thing to say because he looks more upset than ever.
“I care. I’m not going to sell something with my name on it when it doesn’t belong to me. I have to fix it.”
“By blowing up your life based on one card?” Jason’s jaw is tight. “Absolutely not.”
Ben looks at the card again. Whatever seesaw he’s on slams to one side. “I can’t— I have to go.” He slips his wrist from my hand, already turning toward the dark end of the walkway.
“Benjamin Hoffman—” I say, more bite than I meant, because the urge to shake sense into him is fizzing under my skin.
He steps around Jason, dodges a stack of storage tubs like he’s run this route before he’s even taken it, and heads for the hatch.
“Ben.” My voice cracks. He doesn’t stop. “You promised me you wouldn’t run again!”
I turn on my heel, looking for something to kick when I stumble on the stupid cashbox.
Everything in it comes tumbling out. I open my mouth to curse when my eyes land on something.
“Wait,” I say, my voice hoarse. Then stronger: “Ben, wait!”
He stops at the hatch, turns, jaw set. “Paige, you can’t stop me. I’m going to right a wrong—”
“Hold on.” I’m already crouching, fingers shaking as I lift the photo I nearly stomped. It’s glossy, with scalloped edges, colors gone a little worn with time.
“Ben,” I say, getting to my feet. “Look.”
He sighs and steps back to take the picture. His eyes drop, and so do his shoulders.
Jason leans in over his arm. “Well, would you look at that?”
Two men stand shoulder to shoulder in front of a brick storefront, a ribbon sagging between their hands. Hand-painted letters curve over the door: The Lockside Public House. They’re both in aprons, both grinning like proud fools.
On the window behind them: a chalkboard swash with fresh, proud script.
Tonight’s Specialty: H–R Heritage Amber (Hoffman nothing comes out. Jason reaches over and taps the word Heritage.
“It’s not Grandpa Eddie’s or William Hoffman’s recipe,” I say quietly. “It was both of theirs.”
“That’s why all the notes and comment cards,” Ben murmurs. “They were building the recipe together.”
“Check the back,” Jason says.
Ben blinks like he’s refocusing a camera. “H–R,” he repeats, barely there. “Hoffman… Richards.”
Jason tilts the photo to catch the light. “Check the back,” he says again.
Ben flips it over. In blue ballpoint, neat and proud: Opening night — The Lockside — 10/11/79. First pour of H–R Heritage. W.H. + E.R.
Ben rubs his temple, a shaky laugh breaking loose. “Opening night.” He looks between us, the fight gone out of his posture. “He wasn’t stealing. They were… partners.”
“Looks like it,” Jason says. “House recipe, their place. That would explain the comment cards—two hands, one beer.”
Ben studies the faces again. “And those guys from yesterday were in the guild with them. There must’ve been a falling out of some sort. After this.” He swallows. “But this—this is them, together.”
I squeeze his wrist. “So the story isn’t theft. It’s collaboration.”
“And somewhere along the way,” Jason adds, “it all went to hell for some salty old men who decided to take it out on you. We don’t even know what happened.”
Ben exhales, long and shaky. “I was about to rip taps off a wall over an index card.”
“Which we are framing,” I say definitively. “Beside this photo. Exhibit A and Exhibit B: the beer and the men who made it.”
He huffs. “Yeah. With a plaque: Dear Buck, kindly shut the fuck up.”
Jason snorts. “We’ll workshop the plaque.”
Ben looks at me, eyes clearer. “I’m… not a thief.”
“You never were,” I say.
He nods, once. “Okay.” He looks back down at the names on the window, then to the cash box. “There might be more in here—menus, flyers, something with the logo.”
“Then we keep digging,” Jason says, already reaching for another stack of envelopes. “And tomorrow we see what else we can find. Shake some people down.”
“I wonder how Dad doesn’t know about any of this,” I say.
“He might’ve been too young,” Jason offers. “Sixty-nine? Dad was really young. Maybe Grandpa never told him about it after the group fell out.”
Ben tucks the photo back into its sleeve like it’s a living thing. He glances at the hatch, then at us. “Either way, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good,” I say. “Because we have a story to put back together for this little one.” I pat my stomach. “And you are done running, remember?”
“Copy that, boss.”