Chapter Six #2
Hm, nope, I don’t buy it, he says, clapping his hands on the bar. I don’t think you’re that stiff in front of real guests.
I am not stiff. I’m being—
Nah, I remember talking to you at the spa—you were natural then. Excited to talk about this place. Had a little glint in your eye, he says. Pretend I’m a cute old lady, maybe. What would you say then?
Alright, alright, point taken. I stretch my arms out like I’m getting ready for a workout.
I am, and have always been, a bit of an introvert.
My Aunt Jenn is, too, and says that we have indoor cat auras.
But I learned quickly that the best way to make money was from tips at the tasting bar, and the better the performance, the better the tips.
Some people are born for it: Aunt Lauren always had people dying of laughter as she poured them drinks.
Daniel can similarly keep a group of dozens of people at the edge of their seats, laughing and having a great time.
Wendy can make the sugar content of cider sound absolutely riveting, and Charlie has a salt-of-the-earth charm that people really respond to.
Each of them has an authentic presence when they’re speaking to customers that pulls them in.
None of this comes naturally to me, so I have to momentarily inhabit a completely different Kate: one who is effusive and people-pleasing.
A version of myself that is extroverted and likes talking about the weather and complimenting people’s giant hats that you can tell they’ve bought specifically as part of their wine-tour outfit.
So, I summon that Kate. What brings you to Spark Cidery today? I ask brightly, my tone of voice noticeably uplifted. Ah, there she is.
Harrison crosses one leg over the other in an exaggerated manner and continues his ridiculous impression: Sometimes, you just need to get out of the city, you know? And I saw a brochure for this place in our inn and thought it looked so cute!
Which inn? I ask while opening a bottle. We have so many beautiful ones here in the County.
The uh, green one? he says. I don’t know any of the names of the inns here yet, he stage-whispers.
Ah, yes, I know the owner. They’re so nice! I say. Have you had a chance to look at our tasting menu? Do any jump out at you?
Cranberry cider sounds unique! he says.
It’s very nice—on the drier side, though.
I grab a bottle from the fridge. It’s really nice with turkey and other poultry, as well as…
.as well as— I stop for a moment as I struggle with the bottle opener.
I didn’t notice that the top of this bottle is slightly dented, and it’s being an incredible pain in the ass to pry open. I pull harder.
Do you want me to—
Harrison’s offer of assistance is rudely cut off by a small metal tab to the face, as the bottle cap pops off dramatically, bounces off the table, and hits him square in the right eye.
Oh my God, are you alright? I ask, running from behind the bar to his seat. He has his hand over his eye and is wincing in pain.
I’m fine, I’m fine, no worries, he says, but it does not console me one bit as Harrison seems the type to say that, even if he had fully lost an eyeball. I have several worries.
Can I see? I ask, and he pulls his hand down.
I lean in to look more closely and am immensely relieved to see that I have not blinded my new employee.
I tilt his head toward the light to see better, and thankfully, everything looks alright.
His eyes are watering, sure, and the right one is a little puffy and red, but I don’t foresee any lasting damage.
It looks alright. Your eyes are really green when you cry, I observe for some freaking reason. At that moment I notice that, as I stand over him while he sits on the high-top stool, our faces are now only centimetres apart.
Alright, firstly, I’m not crying, and secondly, maybe I wouldn’t have hauntingly green eyes if someone hadn’t just tried to off me with a bottle cap, he says lightly, at first with a very theatrical frown, but then he quickly comes to the same realization that I do: that my hand is still touching his face and that we’re physically closer than we’ve ever been, even more so than in the hot tub.
I’ll get you some ice, maybe, I say quietly.
My hand is still on his chin, and our faces are very, very close.
His chin’s a little scratchy, like he maybe hasn’t shaved since his spa visit, and I kind of like the rugged look of it.
He has some freckles across his nose that you don’t really see until you’re this close, and I decide that I like those, too.
I’m finding myself questioning how I ever declined any invitation to do anything with this man and lean in just a bit closer—
Until I hear a door open, and we leap apart.
Mercifully, the gift shop and the tasting room form an L shape, so guests have to walk by several rows of clothing, pottery, crafts, and other souvenirs before the tasting room comes into view.
This setup ensures that when Charlie reappears, I’m standing a full three feet away from Harrison, leaning against the tasting bar in an exaggeratedly casual pose that I have never before struck in my life.
Harrison is examining the tasting menu with a ferocity that suggests that the menu contains the final clue to solving a murder.
Forgot my damned work keys, grumbles Charlie, and Harrison and I both look over to him as if we’ve only just noticed his presence. We greet him overenthusiastically and at the same time:
Hey, Charlie! Been a minute, what’s up?
Charlie! Hey! How’s it going? We’re just looking at the tasting menu here. Yeah.
I have to imagine that the impression of all of this, to Charlie, is deeply weird. Thankfully, he just grabs his keys from the end of the bar and turns back around.
Bye for now, he says as he rolls back away.
Harrison and I are alone again, but the moment has vanished. He turns back to me, right eye still a little squinty. I go into the ice machine, scoop some cubes into a clean bar towel, and hand it over the counter.
Thanks, he says and puts it over his eyes. But you know, I still don’t buy it.
Buy what? I ask.
That whole performance, he says, nodding toward the empty bar. It was a fine show and all, very…exuberant. But I like yesterday’s version better. When you were talking about your aunt’s crap pizza and the care that’s been put into this place, that’s when you sounded real.
Well, sadly, that’s not the version people usually get, I say. It’s hard to get into all that when there’s a line out the door. Not that that’s been the case lately, but— I stop myself in my tracks, realizing what I’ve just said.
Has it been slower lately? asks Harrison. Of course he picked up on that.
The shoulder season—you know what it’s like. This weekend will likely be a little on the quieter side, too, but it’ll all pick up once the Wassail weekends start.
That’s all Britt and Ryan talk about, too, he says. Guess it’s a big deal round here?
I desperately wish he hadn’t brought them up, but I press on.
It is for the cideries and wineries, anyway.
Farewell to another year, hello to a new batch of cider and a new tourist season in the spring.
Also, the County has a lot of cute Christmas events, so it makes sense for us to all try and piggyback off of it as much as possible.
We had Wassail events in the UK, too, but it was a little different. Usually, it was just an excuse to drink and sing, but one of the cideries I worked at took it very seriously. We were out there with bits of toast, warding off bad spirits and singing to the tree spirits for another good year.
So, did it work? I ask. Because I am open to all of that, if you think it worked. Toast away. Daniel actually has an amazing singing voice. We could totally do it as long as the apple tree spirits like Kylie Minogue.
I mean, they do if they have taste, says Harrison through a giant yawn.
You should head home, I say. I’m here making you work overtime on your first day.
Consider me off the clock. I don’t mind, as ‘home’ is currently my friend’s basement IKEA pullout couch, he says. Plus, their dog isn’t fond of me.
Milo doesn’t like you? I ask, surprised.
Have you met him? asks Harrison. Oops. Nope, I just regularly scroll through @milothebluheela on Instagram when I’m feeling in the mood for some self-flagellation and want to remind myself that the cidery-next-door’s dog has more followers than I do. I keep all of this to myself.
Oh, I’ve just seen a picture online. He looks really cute.
He is! But he keeps eyeing me suspiciously from the next room. I suspect he thinks I’m trying to steal his people from him, and he keeps taking all my socks and bringing them outside. I think it’s a message.
It kind of sounds like it, to be honest, I say. I am secretly thrilled to hear that Milo is maybe less perfect than his social media suggests. My cat would never—he would just suffocate you in your sleep with his enormous heft. He favours a direct approach.
I will keep that in mind if I ever sleep on your basement IKEA couch, says Harrison. This, naturally, leads me to thinking of Harrison sleeping on my couch, and I have to force-quit my whole brain to get it back on track.
Did you still want to go for that tour? I ask. It’s chilly out, though. You’ll have to track down your duvet-slash-coat.
Actually, I just got these from some sort of online army surplus store yesterday, he says, holding his arms aloft to better showcase the long-sleeved shirt he’s wearing.
I remembered you mentioning thermal underwear, and then I actually looked into it.
The online shop was kind of sketchy, to be honest, but I got, like, twelve pairs for thirty bucks, so.
I hadn’t noticed, but his new fitted shirt is, in fact, the top half of what appears to be a thermal underwear set.
I’ve been toasty warm for the first time in days.
I am deeply suspicious of your online thermal underwear supplier, I say. Let me look at the tag to see where it’s made.
He sits down on a stool, and I pull out the label of his shirt.
It doesn’t list the material, the country of origin, or have laundry care instructions; it just says thermel wear.
More troubling is that the small patch of skin that I’ve just glimpsed is visibly a deep, itchy-looking red.
Harrison, I don’t think you’ve been warm for the right reasons.
Hm? he says, turning around.
I have reason to believe you are having a severe skin reaction to whatever in God’s name this shirt is made from. You should go home and shower, like, right now and pray to God that Britt and Ryan have maybe a gallon of hydrocortisone.
His expression is horrified. I am…also wearing the pants underneath my jeans.
I am now also equally horrified.
Harrison rushes out of there, peeling out of the parking lot in his rush to get home and out of his horrible clothing.
I expense out a bottle of ginger spiced cider and head home.