Chapter Seventeen
THE NEXT DAY, MOST OF the previously ill staff make a triumphant return. Of the department heads, Chef Melissa feels much better but stays home out of an abundance of caution, and Charlie is still recovering, but no one would ever guess that Daniel and Wendy had ever been sick.
Harrison steps up to help at the tasting bar again so that Wendy can focus on getting the gift shop back in order. Gwen and her impromptu team had done well there yesterday, all things considered, but seen through Wendy’s meticulous eyes, the shop might as well have burned to the ground.
Overall, the day goes well and is much more in line with how yesterday should have gone, and I’m able to step back a little more, which is great because I feel like absolute garbage.
Physically, I feel exhausted. I slept well, right up until my alarm went off, and it just didn’t feel like enough. Three coffees deep, I still feel bleary.
Emotionally, I know I owe Harrison an apology (again), but I also don’t think I’m incorrect, just kind of a jerk in how I phrased it, and I haven’t figured out how to account for both of these things.
I’m in the office, looking over yesterday’s numbers, when Daniel walks in, clearly ready to tell me something, but pauses when he sees me. Not much gives Daniel pause, and I look at him expectantly.
You look horrible, he announced. Like you ate a plate of the plague cookies.
I did not, I say flatly.
Tell that to your face, he says. You look pale and clammy. I’d touch your forehead to see if it’s warm, but…I don’t want to. And I can just tell. Go home! We’ve got everything covered here.
Now that he mentions it, I do feel a chill, even though the office is stiflingly warm.
Are you sure? I ask.
I am extremely positive that you should not be here right now. Honestly, text me when you get home safe. I’ll tell the squad that you left, he says.
I have zero fight in me to come up with a retort to any of that, and I do exactly as Daniel says. When I get home, I fall back into bed and into a deep, deep sleep.
Hours later, I wake up drenched in sweat.
It’s only 4:00 a.m., and I have no intention of staying awake, but I get up to get a glass of water and feed Steven, who I actually did neglect to feed for the first time in maybe his whole life.
I peek at my phone and see that over the course of the evening, many people texted to wish me well and that they hope that I feel better soon, and I realize I must have gone to sleep before 7:00 p.m. No wonder I’m awake.
One such message is from Harrison, and even though it’s more or less the same as the others, my stomach gives a little flip at seeing his name pop up on my phone.
HARRISON: told you’re under the weather. Sorry to hear it. Hope you feel better soon. X
Again, much the same as everyone else’s, though I notice he does not follow up with a subsequent text retraction of the X this time, which is something, at least. On that slightly more positive note, I go back to sleep.
I had hoped to wake up refreshed, my illness completely turned around like what seemingly happened to all my staff the previous day, but no such luck.
This is clearly not cookie-related food poisoning but a different beast entirely.
I email my coworkers and tell them as much and spend the day on my couch, checking work emails but not having the brain capacity to deal with any of them seriously.
It seems like they’re having a good day.
I text my mom about my symptoms since she’s the closest thing I have to someone who works in healthcare, and she informs me that the flu is very bad this year and that it’s been going around like wildfire and did I get my shot yet (I did not).
Well, at least that explains why my whole body hurts and my head feels like it’s going to explode.
I move through the day in a cold-medicine-induced fog, not even able to watch trash television in comfort, and the only thing that breaks up the day is when the doorbell rings.
For a brief moment, I hope that it’s Harrison, but I’m still happy to see Gwen walking away from my door.
At my doorstep is a large Tupperware container.
I brought you soup. I keep batches in the freezer for moments just like this, she says from the driveway, well out of reach of my germs. Feel better soon!
I wave my thanks as she drives away. The soup is turkey and rice, and I’m filled with affection for Gwen.
THE NEXT DAY IS SLIGHTLY better. It’s a Monday, and the cidery is closed, and I’m better able to relax. Chef Melissa, following Gwen’s example, drops off more containers of soup. Like Gwen, she keeps her distance and wishes me well.
What makes the day suck, above and beyond my illness, is remembering that I had hoped to spend today with Harrison, that last week I had made giddy plans to spend today and tomorrow with him in a not-boss capacity.
I was going to bring him to one of Aaron’s games, as he’s playing in Toronto tonight.
My parents are going, and for a change, I thought it might really be fun with Harrison in tow.
Now, I can’t leave the house, and I’m not even sure if he’d want to see me if I could.
BY TUESDAY, I’M ABLE TO eat non-soup-based foods.
My dad drops off a very healthy-looking stir fry that he had meal-prepped over the weekend, and he regales me with details about the hockey game through the open front window.
When he tells me about seeing Aaron for a quick visit before the game, I find myself honestly sad to have missed it.
It would have been nice to see my brother, even for just a few hours from the stands.
You should try and get some fresh air today, honey, he says. You sound better, but you look…you look like you need some air, he finishes.
BY WEDNESDAY, I AM NOT in leaving-the-house shape, but I am in work-from-home shape. I make myself my first coffee in days and set up shop on my dining room table: laptop, notebook, box of Kleenex, ibuprofen. Gang’s all here.
I catch up on emails, really catch up this time, and see that the cidery really did have a great weekend in my absence and looks to be gearing up for a decent start to this week as well.
There are a few minor fires to put out, but overall, I’m proud of my team and confident that if I were to, say, take a weekend off next year, they would be able to handle it. Something to look forward to.
I am feeling pretty good about the state of things until I get the phone call from Charlie.
Something is wrong with tank three, Kate, he says. We don’t know what happened.
Tank three had been holding about 1,000L of racked cider that we were getting ready to blend and bottle into a new release in the spring for Maple in the County.
It’s not as big as tanks one and two, which are 10,000L each and need a ladder to get to, but if tank three’s product is lost, it’s still a major hit.
How wrong, I ask.
Vinegar wrong, he says simply.
Vinegar. The cider’s been oxidized—something’s been introduced to it, or it’s been mishandled somehow. This hasn’t happened since the cidery’s earliest days, and I can’t believe it’s happening now.
Kate?
Sorry, I—how do you think it happened?
I have no idea. You know how careful I am. And honestly, cider is tough stuff. It takes a lot for something like this to happen.
I pause.
Have you asked Harrison?
Charlie sighs. He’s told me every single step he’s gone through, and I can’t see a single mistake on his part. But I’ve been leaving him to it, so I can’t be sure.
The fact that even Charlie has the slightest hint of doubt tells me everything I need to know, but I don’t want to confront it.
We’re going to try and see what we can do, but it’s not looking good, he says. You rest up. We’ll keep you updated.
I do not rest up. I pace around my cottage, unsure what to do. I’m not yet healthy enough to go to the cidery, even though I desperately want to. Without seeing the tank myself, without talking to Harrison…I don’t know what to think or what to do. Mistakes happen, but this is a big one.
By the end of the day, I open up my email again and see that the choice has already been made for me.
Dear Kate,
I’m sorry to have to write this, but I don’t think my employment with Sparks Cidery is working out. I have no idea what happened with Tank 3. I promise you that I did everything I thought was right, but clearly, something went wrong on my watch, and I can’t forgive myself for it.
I also know that my position has put you in a difficult place from the start, and I think it would be better for you to have a less complicated cider maker on hand to work with Charlie.
I want to thank you for everything. I wasn’t in a great place when I arrived here, and meeting you at the spa was the thing that helped turn everything around.
Working with Charlie reminded me of being with my grandad at times.
And then there was spending time with you—I wish there had been more of it.
I’ve made the decision to return to Melbourne in the new year, as I think it’s time I go home, at least for a while.
I wish you every happiness.
Yours, Harrison
It takes a lot to shake me. I don’t cry easily.
But by the end of the letter, tears are running down my face, and I realize that I no longer care about tank three at all.
If I thought calling him right now and explaining that we could figure this out would make him stay, I would.
But the fact that he’s going back home makes me pause on the dial.
He’s already made the decision, he wrote.
I close my laptop, pick up Steven, who protests loudly, and go back to bed.