Chapter 5
FIVE
KIRA
VIKING ENTERS THE CHAT
The weather person—our local meteorologist was a woman—had lied. Like all the weather people in my experience. Scorcher wasn’t even close to the reality of the whole week.
97o but really felt like 104o.
At freaking six in the morning.
Obscene.
I tucked up my T-shirt hem into my collar and made a knot. I didn’t even care that it meant I would be showing off my less than perfect middle. At least no one else was around to witness me melting.
I swiped my forearm over my dripping brow and stood back to look at the dining area of the taproom. I’d moved the furniture around three times, trying to figure out which of the four styles of tables I’d ordered off the restaurant website would actually suit the space.
They’d overnighted the samples to me—I was still recovering from the cost of that, thank you very much—so I could make the bigger order by the end of the week.
Did I want more high tops or lower tables and booths? As a taller woman, I appreciated the tables I could stand at. It was easier to have conversations at them even if the chairs were a pain in the ass for the curvier body type, which I also had. Lucky me.
They also tended to get out of balance quickly. Rickety tables weren’t exactly my favorite. I moved over to shake the table. The pedestal base was damn sturdy. That shouldn’t have surprised me since I’d been moving them all over the damn place this morning.
I took a step back to look at the entire space again. Did I want a second bar to break up the flow of traffic? If it was a light crowd, we didn’t have to have both bars manned. We could use it as a buffet table for a finger food night. Maybe a pairing night.
Hmm. Maybe I’d talk to Ronan about that one.
I wasn’t sure how many ciders he was creating for the re-opening. I really needed to get together with him about it, but I’d definitely been avoiding him.
Coward?
Maybe.
No. More like really busy.
Liar.
I shut the door on that internal conversation. Thoughts of the brewmaster invited far more trouble than I had time for this morning.
Tables, Kira. Back to tables.
Did I want a grid pattern or should I go with a more organic layout? Make more intimate spaces near the fireplace maybe? One of those massive curving booths for a bigger party?
Maybe I should use the oak barrels that didn’t pass muster for brewing to plant topiaries that would entice people to enjoy the massive room by drawing their attention up and around to all the details from the recent renovation.
The dark stain and black iron braces should have made it look more like a cave.
Instead it was open and airy thanks to the wall of windows along the back—from the peak of the barn down to the sliding glass doors that all but disappeared when they were folded open.
Industrial garage doors along the side of the taproom could also be opened so there was a 180o view of the orchard.
The rolling hills of the property went on forever, from the trees heavy with apples that were nearly ready for harvest, to the pumpkin patch in the distance full of fat leaves shading the quietly growing fruit, to the expansive Christmas tree farm.
Not to mention the massive old oak trees and pines that gave some privacy to the cabin rentals on the far side of the property.
And the taproom showed it all off. Or it would when I figured out a good seating pattern.
I’d attempted to hire a decorator, but after the fifth person gave me a 3D rendering that looked more in line with a city taproom, I’d given up.
It wasn’t right. And I couldn’t seem to convey that to anyone. I had a vision and I had to trust it was spot on.
We weren’t city.
We weren’t exactly country either—at least not really. The more modern slant that Beckett, Hayes, and Justin were trying to infuse into Brothers Three Orchard would reinforce the relevance of Happy Acres.
The family orchard had been the heart of Happy Acres for a damn long time and part of me wanted to keep it just like I remembered. Kids running around, people buying pies and baked goods, huge crates of apples ready to be shopped.
The problem was, the amount of families who took the time to visit the orchard was dwindling. We had to decide to either lean into the family design with playgrounds for kids or swing toward the adults looking for an experience.
Thanks to the familial ties with musicians, the concert series had started gaining momentum and the Manning brothers pivoted to add entertainment to the orchard.
Happy Acres was a blend of the visions from two families.
The Lodge and the chapel had been the Ronsons’ domain and was thriving due to their year-round wedding season.
There was overlap between the different aspects of the business too. A café and bakery catered to the seasonal fruit grown in the orchard. From berries to vegetables in the summer, the farm to table element had exploded into a major source of revenue.
And still I could tell Beckett was restless with how the Manning half of the orchard still had room to grow. Which was where I came in. If I could get the taproom to take off, it would go a long way in making a name for Brothers Three.
Solidifying the younger and more modern aspect of the business wasn’t just good for the orchard, it created revenue for Turnbull. Which the town desperately needed.
But no pressure.
I unearthed a can of Diet Coke from the cooler I kept stocked for the workers and wandered to the edge of the room and out onto the wraparound porch.
Fire pits, comfortable chairs, and couches were clustered together in groupings across the outdoor space, with a stone path joining them together. It was a good space to listen to the music and visit with friends if people didn’t want to join the crush of the crowd in the actual concert space.
Justin had pushed hard for a more professional stage to draw more acts into the area. We were a perfect fit for the in-between and upcoming musicians who weren’t quite big enough for the large outdoor arenas, or maybe who wanted a more intimate flavor.
His idea had blown up, and now we had a full summer roster of musicians from rock to country to more folk and alternative acts. The stage was on the hill above the orchard and created one helluva backdrop for the concerts.
A caravan of food trucks kept most of the attendees happy, and the old taproom shed was more like a hard cider and moonshine concession stand these days. But it had been enough to fund the renovation to turn this old building into a real taproom.
I turned back to my domain and leaned against the post as I drained my can. The cold jolt of caffeine perked me up a bit and allowed me some perspective.
The taproom didn’t look like much yet, but I could see the potential.
The room was finished save for the final pieces of the bar installation.
The actual bar was a deep walnut with a natural edge that had been buffed and sanded smooth.
It was a statement piece that I’d commissioned by a local carpenter in Crescent Cove.
He’d exceeded my expectations, and I was excited to build around it to put our spirits and ciders on display.
I’d requested the shelves and lights be last, after all the workmen were out and the floors had been finished. Nightmares of shattered mirrors had given me more than one sleepless night. The Brothers Three Taproom did not need that kind of bad luck.
And neither did I.
Being a bartender and a waitress, I knew the need for good flow in a room. While Lucky’s had the perfect bar atmosphere, our venue would create intimacy as the focus.
A place to chat and sit over drinks, not shout over loud music and sports. A good place for a date, or a birthday party, or spending time with friends without being worried you’d be rushed out the door.
Which meant the grid pattern was out. I straightened and went back inside to move around the high top tables.
Again.
“Need some help?”
I grunted as I pulled the table over to the side of the room. “I’m good.”
“You sure?”
I knew that voice. I really preferred when he stayed in his workshop and left me to my space. Mostly because he was too big and distracting.
I brushed my dusty hands on the ass of my cutoffs and took a fortifying breath before I turned around.
Jesus.
Ronan was also dealing with the ungodly heat, but instead of looking wilted like me and my gross T-shirt, he was wearing a black tank tucked into his battered jeans.
A heavy Celtic knot design on his buckle cut the black denim and cotton and made his tight abs even more defined. His shoulders and arms were slick with sweat and grime and so many freaking muscles. Not to mention the sleeve of Celtic artwork that made my mouth water.
Mercy.
He was drinking from a large metal water bottle as he stared me down.
I hated when he did that.
No unnecessary words out of this one. Just expectantly waiting as he chugged the water too fast and it dripped down into his beard and finally disappeared along his bristled neck.
His neat beard had grown out a bit in the week since our first meeting. We’d both been too busy to talk much. At least I’d been able to avoid him.
Damn him for being an early riser like me.
I liked coming in before my small staff and getting a jump on the to-do list before everyone started asking me questions and expecting me to know who should be assigned to do what.
He looked around then set his water on the floor and came forward to move the large square table over to where I’d placed a barrel. He seemed to think for a moment, then he nodded.
“It’s a good space.”
I picked at the cuticle on my thumb and resisted the urge to move the table back where it had been. An empty space was what it was, and I really hadn’t let anyone else into my head about it. “Why did you do that?”