"We weren't finished with the sheets even ten minutes when Owen decides he wants to revisit a mistake I made last weekend," he continued. "I'd picked some berries in the woods near the house, but it turned out they weren't edible. They looked like wild blueberries. Like I said, it was an honest mistake. He didn't have to keep bringing it up as if I was an incompetent child who couldn't be trusted to play in the backyard without supervision."
I set the glass in front of him. "Not edible or poisonous?"
He closed his fingers around the stem, shook his head. "I'm not sure. Owen prefers an abundance of caution in all things."
I leaned back against the opposite countertop, crossed my ankles and peered at Cole. "Did he mention which kind of berry it was?"
"Pokeberry? I'm not sure. Something like that." He sipped his drink. "Oh. This is fabulous."
I warmed at the compliment. "Good to hear it, but those pokeberries are poisonous. A handful will kill a child. Two handfuls would take down either one of us."
Cole jerked a shoulder up and pulled a defiant frown. "Even so, it doesn't benefit anyone to treat your partner like a helpless fool and there's no sense bringing it up days later."
"Yeah, Owen should've gotten over the poisonous fruit you touched and brought home to eat much sooner," I replied. "It's outrageous to think he's ruminating over this incident."
"How do you know this?" Cole asked. "How do you know when it's a blueberry and when it's a poison berry? Owen said I should've noticed the color of the stalk.”
"The pokeberry has a pink-purple stalk. Blueberries have a green stalk."
Cole shook his hands at me. "How do you know this? I don't think most people carry this kind of information with them. If I went back to Silicon Valley and asked around, I doubt I'd find anyone who knew these distinguishing characteristics."
"It's the sort of thing you learn when you grow up with Talbott's Cove as your backyard." I crossed my arms over my torso. It was all I could do to keep myself right here, rooted in this spot, rather than running and not stopping until I laid eyes on Brooke and convinced her we were in this together. "But, also, didn't you invent something where you can take a photo and the internet tells you what you're looking at?"
He set the martini glass down and leveled me with a glare. "Do not weaponize my tech against me." When he was satisfied that point landed, he continued, "Anyway, as I was saying, I must've stepped on all of his toes because it didn't end with the allegedly toxic berries. We had to dredge up the bad experience we had with the dog groomer and how Owen knew that person wasn't right for the job and I never listen to him and now we've traumatized the dog."
When he drained his glass, I picked it up, asking, "Another of the same or something different?"
"Surprise me," he replied. "I agree, Sasha was horribly groomed and we'll never go back to that shop. I understand that he's putting all his stress and anxiety about our poor girl's bad haircut—plus a dozen other things that have nothing to do with the dog—on me and I know he's doing that because he trusts me with that stress and anxiety, but sometimes, it's tough to absorb it all."
On any other night, I would've tuned out this story the same way I tuned out all the others, picking up enough to chime in at the appropriate time with nods and murmurs of agreement. But listening to Cole only pressed the sharp edge of Brooke's absence deeper. It made me realize I wanted to argue with her about sheets and poisonous berries and dog grooming. Or, some version of that. I wanted to fight with her about everything, every day, and I wanted to do it until I ran out of days.
Goddamn, I should've told her that. I should've stopped and said that before I said anything else. I should've said nothing but that. As I shook Cole's next beverage, I shot a glance at the wall clock. It was too late to catch a flight to New York. The best I could do tonight was call or text.
Setting a fresh drink in front of him, I said, "This one is a little floral. The gin is steeped with beach rose. If it's too strong for you, I'll make something different."
He sipped, glanced at me over the rim of the glass, and sipped again. Then, "How is it I've lived here almost a year and I'm just now having a beach rose gin martini?"
I wiped my hands on a towel and busied myself with rinsing out the shaker. "I don't know your life, man. Maybe you should come in here more often. Get that boyfriend of yours to socialize a bit."
"That will be my next order of business after fixing his bruised toes," Cole replied. "I can't believe this drink. It's amazing. When you said floral, I thought I'd be choking down some hand soap, but this is the right kind of rose martini." He took another sip. "My original CFO from back in our startup days loves gin. He kept a trophy case of gin in his office. It was very strange. He lives on a chain of islands he bought in the South Pacific now. Rumor has it, he's building an end-of-days bunker. Not sure the South Pacific is the right place for that sort of thing, considering how oceanic it is." He lifted the glass up, studied it in the light. "I've missed the days of drinking good gin martinis with him."
I glanced at the clock again. "No hand soap served here."
Cole swirled the liquid in his glass. "Which brand is this? I'd love to send him some. He'd get a kick out of my tastes evolving for the better."
Against all my better judgment, I replied, "It's my brand. I distill small batches of gin and vodka in-house."
Not missing a damn beat, Cole said, "You need to develop a national distribution strategy."
Laughing, I said, "I've explored several expansion opportunities. They haven't panned out as of yet."
Giving me his bestthat doesn't sound rightface, he asked, "What kind of opportunities and why didn't they pan out? Was it a licensing issue? Distribution? I know certain states have blue laws that go back to the Puritan days and those can create headaches, but it's a simple matter of locating your warehouse in a more legally friendly state."
"It's not that."
"Then…what is it? This is phenomenal liquor and there's no reason to keep it a secret. Why isn't it flying off the shelves?"
I wasn't one for sharing. Not my stories and not those of others. But tonight, with a near empty tavern and every vital organ aching for Brooke, I didn't have the strength to hold back. "It's not going anywhere because my financial backer bailed on an initiative to convert the local apple cider house into a distillery and gathering place with dining and event options."
