Each time we met, he insisted he needed one more thing before pulling the trigger. More detailed financial projections, preliminary approval from the town council for a liquor license, a site walk-through. It made sense—I was asking for tens of millions of dollars to make this happen—but I was growing tired of the hurry up and wait routine. I couldn't determine whether Barry was a flaky guy or not fully committed. His interest seemed to shift with the lunar cycle and that didn't fill me with much confidence.
"Tasting room," he announced, drawing invisible lines along the west side of the space. "We'd put the tasting room here. Keep it intimate, a little dark. Like a speakeasy. We want a space that evokes that air of secrecy and sin, you know?" He turned toward the ocean, facing east. "Save the sunlight for the restaurant. We can add twenty percent to the price of everything on the menu when we're garnishing with ocean views like these." He pivoted, holding his arms open to the wide space. "And the rest of it, well, that's where you show off racks of distilling barrels. Make the work of a distillery part of its art."
Whether flaky or not fully committed, when Barry was on, he was all the way on. His instincts were solid, and ideas—an on-site display garden to emphasize the locally grown ingredients—strengthened my plans.
"Love it," I agreed. "Let's walk the perimeter." I gestured to the wide doors on the opposite end of the space. "Back when this was a functioning cider house, this is where the wagons came in from the orchards. As you can see, it would make for the perfect patio area. Big enough to host large events like weddings and live music. With the right setup, it could house summertime farmers markets, food truck nights, and festivals. Bring in some potted trees and bushes and it's small enough for cocktail parties or bridal showers."
Barry glanced around, nodding. "The ocean view is worth the price of construction."
I was counting on it. This whole thing was a gamble of unbelievable proportions and every time our meetings ended without an exchange of funds, the stakes increased.
"Why not cider?" he asked.
I frowned at him as we rounded the building. "I'm not sure I follow you."
"This is a cider house." He shook his hands at the structure, as if his point was obvious. I knew where he was going with this, but I wasn't copping to that. He proposed crafting something different every time we met. "We should make cider. The hard cider market is—"
"Declining," I interrupted. "It boomed three years ago and it's on the way down. Beyond that, it's more labor intensive. Gin and vodka are mainstays."
Opening a distillery hadn't crossed my mind until a few years ago, when a tourist insisted on buying all of my house-made gin. I'd never sold my honey-steeped liquor by the bottle before, but this woman wasn't exiting the tavern without it. She offered a deranged amount of money, an amount that made refusing even more deranged. Before leaving, her husband told me it was time to expand beyond fried seafood and beer if someone was willing to drop that kind of cash on a case of gin.
As I didn't enjoy unsolicited advice, I ignored his suggestion. I went back to tooling around with small-batch liquors in my spare time and convinced myself there was no place for a high-end gin joint in Talbott's Cove. But then the deranged woman's friends showed up. They'd heard about this scenic town and its artisanal gin, and they'd traveled here from Boston to see it for themselves—and buy a case of their own.
That was when I realized it wasn't isolated to opening an upmarket gin joint. These deranged people spent the weekend at the local inn, shopped all over the village, chartered sunset boat cruises around Penobscot Bay. They poured money all over a region reckoning with warmer ocean temperatures and permanent shifts in the fishing industry, with declining employment and rising hopelessness. If they came for gin, others would too.
"Right, right," Barry murmured. "And you're sure we can't get in on the hard seltzer market?"
"As a marquee product, no, we can't get into hard seltzers." How I managed to respond without snapping at him was a mystery. "We could work on adding a specialty seltzer to the menu once we have the right equipment in place."
"Yeah, something seasonal and locally inspired," he replied, snapping his fingers. "It would coincide with the rotating menu."
"We'd need dedicated equipment for seltzer," I added. "It requires testing."
Barry laughed as if developing a carbonated liquor beverage with organic ingredients was a simple task. "You can do that now. Test it out at your tavern. Do some market research."
I didn't respond to that. Instead, I steered Barry toward the northernmost tip of the property which backed up to a thick grove of maple trees. "This land makes for the perfect pollinator garden and apiary. It's the right distance from the primary outdoor spaces so we won't end up with bees buzzing around the clientele, but still close enough to include it in the educational walking tour."
"People fuckin' love bees," he mused. "Can't we do rum with bees?"
"Dowhatwith bees?"
I marched away from the intended garden plot and toward the area I'd sketched out for deliveries and parking. The purpose of this meeting was to visit the site and then work through other elements critical to the business plan. We needed to make headway on licensing and zoning, as well as the paperwork necessary for overhauling a historical building. We needed to hire contractors, agree on budgets, and formalize partnership agreements with all the area farmers I'd tapped for this work.
"Rum," he repeated, jogging to catch up with me. "Doesn't Maine have a long, sordid history with the rum trade? Weren't there stories about rum barrels washing up on the shores after pirates and privateers intercepted ships? Capitalizing on a pirate connection would be a better way to leverage local history than the cider house angle."
I stopped at the front side of the building, dropped my hands to my waist and ignored Barry's presence for a second. After walking Brooke home, I'd managed three hours of fitful, furious sleep in which I'd dreamed about marching into the massive estate sitting atop the hill bearing her family's name and throwing her on the first bed I found. Telling her that, as long as she was in my tavern, I intended to interfere as much as I fucking wanted. I woke up with the kind of erection powered by regret and masochism. The kind that couldn't be helped.
That left me standing here, hot despite a brisk snap in the air, exhausted and aching all over. And I still had to put on a good face for the man with the money.
"Not sure about rum, Barry," I answered, exasperated as hell and working my ass off to keep it contained. I ran a hand over my head as I blew out a breath. I needed to chug some water and get a sizeable lunch in my belly if I was going to survive the rest of this day. "I think that was farther south. Cape Cod or Block Island Sound, maybe. I'll check into it, but you should know rum distilling also requires specialized equipment. The more we add, the higher the bill."
He considered this. "And it muddies the message. Are we rum or gin or cider? Who knows? Too confusing. You have to home in on one core competency."
I gave him a thoughtful look as I bit the hell out of my tongue. "Yeah, you're right about that."
Barry shifted to study the side of the building that would greet visitors. He lifted his arms, holding his hands out wide. "Down East Distillery," he announced. "The home of fine artisanal spirits."
I wasn't getting my hopes up, but— "This is the place?"
