Chapter Five
IT’S A CHILLY DAY, AND my breath is visible as I go back out onto the path that leads to the fermentation room. The door is propped open to let some fresh air in, and I can hear laughter coming from inside well before I get to the entrance.
I peek in, trying to get a sense for how things are going before I interrupt whatever’s happening in there. I see that Charlie has acquired one of those little scooter-rollie things, and his leg is propped up on it. He’s a lot more mobile than I imagined he would be, which is a big relief.
Harrison is up on a ladder, measuring something in one of the vats, and gives a thumbs-up to Charlie, who nods and writes something down. Apparently, their friendship has already transcended words. I step in and cough, announcing my presence.
How’s it going in here? I ask. Sorry I’m late. Daniel caught me on the way in, and I had to handle a few minor issues.
I heard that Linda’s causing trouble again, growls Charlie, shaking his head. The old bat can’t leave well enough alone. She called Gwen last night, too, asking her what all the commotion was for.
Harrison climbs back down the ladder, and I realize that, thus far, I have only seen two modes of Harrison attire: practically naked or wearing the coat equivalent of a sleeping bag.
Today, he’s wearing jeans and a fitted henley shirt, and seeing him in normal people clothes catches me off guard.
I am not sure what I expected—terry cloth bathrobes are not the usual attire for cideries, nor are parkas.
Still, I find that I like fitted-shirt Harrison maybe even more than hot-tub Harrison, and then I remind myself that he’s here for a job. As an employee who would work for me.
Sorry, who is Linda? asks Harrison as he cleans his hands on a nearby shop towel.
An old bat, repeats Charlie.
A neighbour, I say. “An elderly one with a little too much time on her hands. So…how’s it going in here? I ask. I look from Charlie to Harrison, who smile at each other, and it looks for all the world like they’re about to announce their engagement.
Don’t know where you found this lad, girlie, but he can stay as far as I’m concerned, he says, giving Harrison a slap on the back. Knows his stuff. Bad taste in hockey, though, but don’t know what we can do about that.
The Vancouver Canucks are all I’ve ever known! he protests. I imprinted on them like a baby duckling when I first came here. I had no choice. I’m loyal now, he says.
Least it’s not the damned Habs, says Charlie. That I would not abide, no matter how good you are, son. Anyway, I like a loyal fan, even if it is the wrong team.
How’s the fermentation going? I interject, as Charlie could go on his hockey tangent for hours if left uninterrupted.
Beautifully, chimes Harrison. He is grinning from ear to ear. Reckon it’ll be ready to rack in a day or two.
Lad had a great idea about that, actually, said Charlie.
Said we should bring back a couple of barrels like we did in the olden days, nice ones, call it the ‘cider maker’s batch.
’ Something a little special just for the tasting bar for Christmas, and get us back to our roots a little, too.
Charlie is always excited about cider, but I can tell he really cares about this.
I raise my eyebrows in Harrison’s direction, who looks sheepish but maintains his wide grin.
It separates the commercial from the artisan, he said. There’s a place for both, of course, but it shows a certain…dedication, I think, when people visit.
I shrug. You guys are the cider makers. I like the idea. Get me a quote for the barrels you want, and I’ll look into it. I look over to Harrison and motion to the door. A word? He claps Charlie on the shoulder and follows me, grabbing his Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man jacket on the way out.
I nod my head in the direction of the fermentation building.
So, was all of that advice for free, or do you think you’d like to start getting paid for it?
I ask. We start walking back toward the main building, and the sun has finally come out.
It brightens up the place considerably, the red barn shining in the sunlight, beckoning.
Harrison smiles. Honestly, as soon as I drove in and had a proper look around, I was pretty sure I wanted to work here, at least for a bit, and then I met Charlie. He’s an absolute treasure.
I laugh. Don’t tell him that.
So, do you want my CV? It’s in the office.
Ryan and Britt don’t have a printer, so I printed it at the library this morning.
They’re really nice over there—a woman named Helen helped me, and now I’m invited to her granddaughter’s Christmas recital next week, if you’d like to join me.
Apparently, they’re singing the song from Frozen, and Sophie has been practicing her solo for weeks.
You are…very chatty today, I say. He’s talking a mile a minute through all of it, and his accent is just enough that I have to really focus when he’s talking this fast. Also, I have not had a single cup of coffee yet today, whereas Harrison’s whole vibe is that of a person who has had maybe seventeen of them.
Just excited, he says with another winning smile. And maybe a little nervous, he adds with a wink. I can see how he won Helen over.
Right, well, first let’s have a coffee, I say. My brain needs a moment to catch up.
We walk through the tasting bar and through a shortcut that takes us to our upscale-casual restaurant, Root & Stock. It’s a beautifully designed space, all restored barn board and sleek black accents, with a rotating selection of locally made art pieces that are available for sale.
It’s nice in here, says Harrison. It looks newer than everywhere else.
When my aunts—the founders and original owners, who have since retired—finally had enough money to build this addition, it took a while for them to figure out what they wanted to do with it.
When it first opened fifteen years ago, it was with plastic tables and a pizza oven, I explain.
It got a little fancier every year, and now it’s a spot worth visiting, even without the cidery attached.
Maybe don’t tell Charlie and Wendy I said that, though, I add.
Actually—hold on, I have a picture saved on my phone.
Let me find it. I scroll through a million photos that I have never organized until I find the one I’m looking for: a photo of me and Aunt Lauren all sitting at a table with a plastic tablecloth, eating pizza.
I am maybe eleven and have atrocious braces and a terrible haircut with long, stringy bangs framing my face.
I had forgotten those details, and I try to put my phone away quickly.
Wait, wait, wait, he says, pointing to the phone. That’s your aunt?
One of them, I say. Aunt Lauren. Not the one I share genes with, the one I officially got after I was flower girl at their wedding.
That would be Aunt Jenn, who I think is either making the pizza or taking the photo.
The clarification on who I’m related to is usually unnecessary, as while Aunt Jenn and I both have wavy, dark brown hair, light brown eyes, and are on the taller side, Aunt Lauren is short, blonde, curly, and freckly.
When I was very little and drew pictures for them, entirely different sets of crayons were used for each aunt, even down to their outfits.
Aunt Jenn has never met a floral she didn’t like and will buy every canary-yellow thing she comes across, whereas Aunt Lauren exclusively wears black and maybe also dark grey so that she doesn’t ever need to match anything.
It looks so different. This place is beautiful now, but it looks kind of fun, back then, says Harrison. Nice braces, by the way. Mine were worse, I promise you.
Doubtful, I say. This photo doesn’t show the headgear I had to wear at night.
But yeah, it was fun. Sometimes, I still have a craving for the exceptionally mediocre pizza of that era.
It was made with love, I laugh. Our current menu’s signature pizza has prosciutto and a pile of local arugula on it, and it’s delicious, but the too-cheesy pizza made with sauce that I’m pretty sure came from Costco was the taste of my youth.
Anyway, coffee, I say and lead on to where an espresso machine and accompanying setup sit behind a rustic-looking bar.
I walk behind it and start going through the motions: grinding the coffee and getting everything on and ready to go.
Harrison sits on a nearby bar stool, his head leaning casually on one hand as he watches me.
Do you want one, too? I ask over my shoulder.
I want to see how you make it first.
Oh? I say, turning around. Am I being judged?
A little. It was my first job, he says. Other than working at my granddad’s cidery.
Be my guest, I say and hand him the portafilter over the bar. Before he accepts it, he stands up, rolls up his sleeves, and grabs one of the bartender aprons.
I didn’t realize this was such a serious affair, I say, leaning back against the bar.
You’ve never been to Melbourne, he laughs, tying up the apron behind him. What am I making you?
Latte, please. Milk’s in the mini-fridge below the machine. Just the normal two percent, please. I go and take his place at one of the handful of stools that sit in front of the bar.
From below the counter, I hear a slightly mumbled Right, I see almond milk, oat milk… He emerges from below with a bag of milk in a stainless steel container. …and whatever this is.
That’s the milk.
It’s in a bag.
Yep.
Sorry…why is it in a bag?
Welcome to Ontario? I shrug. I forgot that the West Coast doesn’t really do that.
He inspects the bag of milk, looking at it suspiciously. That…seems for the best.