Paradise Hops (25 page)

“Mrs. A?” Lori flipped through the projections, sales charts and various employee nightmares stacked on her desk. “Mrs. A!” Where the fuck was the woman? She needed to sign the month’s tax report. The damn accounting manager had gone home sick yesterday and left it to her assistant who, best Lori could tell, was a useless waste of space. By the time she’d noted the calendar and called down for the report they had to submit every month to the feds or risk huge ass fines, it was almost too late. She berated herself for not being on top of it. She dropped into back into the chair. A whiff of familiar leather, a slight citrusy cologne made her grit her teeth.

“Damn it, Mrs. Anderson where are you?” She stomped out, leaving behind the memory that threatened to wrestle her out of productivity mode. It was the only way she functioned these days. Forward motion. No looking back. No memories, fond or otherwise. Just work. Long days of managing construction, fighting with Eli, and falling into bed too tired to contemplate anything. Of course, now that she was as big as a house, she had to get up every three hours to pee. She put a hand to her back, trying to rub away the low grade ache that had developed there.

She saw her father’s profile, as he stood in the sales manager’s doorway, laughing, flirting, joking. Her face got hot. “Dad!” She called down. He waved to the people in the office and started to her. “Do you have the…,” she saw the necessary form in his hand, snatched it from him and took a quick look, making sure it was correct.”About time,” she muttered, turning back into her office. He frowned but left her to it. She felt bad for a second, then let the gray numbing fog that had gotten her through the last two months focus her on forward motion again.

That first day she’d forced herself to go into Garrett’s office had been brutal. But she didn’t cry. Hadn’t cried at all actually for weeks. She had a definite empty space in the middle of her chest, one that seemed to fill with animosity every time she saw Eli. Which led to the arguments. Epic, loud, thrown object type confrontations seemed to haunt their every attempt at communication. Lori didn’t know why, or rather she did but wouldn’t acknowledge it. A sick fury at him for still being alive, when Garrett was dead, as if it were his fault nearly choked her every time she laid eyes on the man. And a simultaneous accompanying anger at herself, for letting Garrett think she actually had chosen Eli over him that last week she was here made her want to smack her own self silly. As if that would accomplish anything. The round robin, vicious circle of guilt-anger-guilt ran her ragged twenty-four seven.

All she knew was that the serene, floaty feeling of semi-content that got her through the days dissolved whenever Eli was around. She had no words for it but found plenty to throw at him, whenever he opened his fucking mouth.

She sighed, sank into Garrett’s leather chair and pretended for a brief second it was him cradling her in his arms. As tears pressed against the back of her eyes she sprang up, gripped the edge of the desk for balance and marched out. She had a meeting with the general contractor. Again.

She was holding his damn feet to the fire, demanding updates, status reports, no excuses for delays. The look in the man’s eyes every time he saw her coming was clear. She was a raving bitch on wheels. But this project would get done on time and on budget. Garrett would expect no less.

She moaned at the sudden pressure against her kidneys, then her back. Pressing her hand against a hard bump that had formed on one side of her belly she eased the baby back over in place, out of her way, and out of her mind. It was easy actually, when you tried hard enough. The fact that there was life in her, life put there by the loving action of a man she missed like a phantom limb she simply let go—she had to. The random possibility that it could easily be Eli’s child she kept stuffed under a mountain of rage. It was Garrett’s baby. It had to be that way. But she kept pretending
It
would never emerge, just be this thing in her way, making her pee a hundred times a day, giving her heartburn and varicose veins as her body kept
It
alive.

At the last visit to her obstetrician—something she’d been notorious for missing or cancelling so much Mrs. Anderson had started driving her there herself—the chirpy, annoying doctor had said, “Oh, look at that! Hey, Lori, do you want to know what it is?” Lori had done her usual staring at the ceiling and ignoring what was happening as the baby kicked, rolled, and flipped around for the camera. She’d honestly been confused by the question, so deep into denial that a human actually would result from these last painful months. A human that she would feed from her body, clothe, love would emerge from her, soon. She’d clenched her eyes shut. She had no love left.

“It’s a baby still, right?” The doctor had stayed quiet, watching her. She’d settled back onto the pillow. “Well, then, as long as it hasn’t turned into an alien, I know everything about it I need to know.” She’d wiped the goo from her stomach, sat up and left. The drive back to work was silent. Mrs. Anderson had learned not to discuss anything baby-related since getting her head bitten off the last time she’d driven to the doctor’s office.

The fear that had started to work its evil way into her psyche grew daily. Lori had thought she’d could deal. Jesus, she’d survived her mother’s death, a brutal rape and beating. Why was she having such a time getting through this? She’d put a reluctant hand on the tight drum of her belly, tapped her fingers there trying to send a mental message.
“Look kid, the best I can do is hope you survive. I’ll feed you, dress you, take you to your grandparents. But what if I can’t love you? How can I? Without him with me?”
She had choked back a sob. Mrs. Anderson had put a hand on hers, and Lori left it there, allowing herself to take some comfort .

The baby quieted under her hand as she stood behind Garrett’s old desk. She started towards the brewery floor—to Eli. She smiled, but it was one of resignation. He’d been a real trooper, sticking around through all this. Then a dark cloud broke over her head because he was not who she wanted. Not at all. She nursed the resentment again, fed it little bites of her energy. And, by the time the double doors opened onto the busy production floor, she had a nice head of full-fledged anger, ready to toss in his face.

“Mrs. A. What can I do for you?” Eli glanced at the woman who stood, nervously biting her lip, carrying around some folders. He turned to her. She leaned against one of the desks in the brewery office.

“I need you to know something.” He raised an eyebrow. She’d been such a champion for Garrett. His death had really flattened her. Eli tried to force a patient look on his face. Between Lori’s elaborate bursts of temper and his own frustration with the slow progression of expansion, every day promised tension he’d started to channel into long morning bouts of exercise. Everything from running, to pick-up basketball at the Y, anything really to dispel all the excess energy and stress. Not getting laid for the better part of seven months didn’t really help either, but he had no energy to locate and procure an outlet for that either. He tried to focus on Mrs. Anderson’s words. And tried to stifle the voice that helpfully reminded him that he hadn’t had sex with anyone other than his left hand since Lori.

“I didn’t like you.” She frowned and looked down then back up at him. “I mean, you are good at your job. Very good. But I did not like how you treated Lori or how you talked to her or how you, well, let’s say I know how you felt about her.”

Eli stared, trying to process the odd conversation. “Okay.” He started, for lack of anything better. “And you are telling me this why, exactly?”

“Because now, well, I just….”

Eli turned away, already not wanting to hear it. He let the raging dickhead in him rise to the surface, hoping she’d flee from it. “Spit it out Mrs. A. I have work to do.”

She came up behind him, put a hand on his shoulder. He flinched as she pointed at his computer’s screen saver. A photo of him and Garrett popped up in the lower right hand corner. Someone had snapped it about a week before Lori’s accident and emailed it to him. They’d been at the pub, after a long day of meetings with architects, contractors and investors. He’d managed to ignore the damn thing until she pointed a carefully manicured nail at it. “You were his friend at the end. Now I need you to be her friend. She needs somebody, or something, that isn’t work to distract her.” Eli turned his chair around and propped his rubber booted feet up on the desk.

“She hates my fucking guts, Mrs. A. I thought that tidbit had more or less made the company newsletter.”

The older woman smiled, and patted his bearded cheek. “Oh, honey. No, she doesn’t.” Eli stared at her. “You men.” She put one of the folders she’d been holding down on his desk. “Be there for her, Eli. She’s about to snap, I swear it. She’s using work as an excuse not to deal with her grief. I know, I know,” she held up a plump hand. “She had the opposite problem for a while, but the balance isn’t there, and if she doesn’t find it soon, well, that poor baby….”

Eli looked up at the ceiling and forced his growing weird obsession with Lori’s body out of his head. It fueled him nightly, got him off, again and again. And probably was not healthy. But damn he wanted to touch her, run his hands over that ripe belly, feel it pressed against him. He groaned and stood, needing to move around to dispel the rush of irrational horny he kept harboring at the thought of her.

“Tell you what,” he turned around pulling on his brewer’s apron to try and hide the physical evidence of his thoughts. “I’ll be as nice to her as she is to me. So, when she marches down here and starts heaving shit at my head again, I’ll try to wait a few minutes before throwing something back at her. Fair?” He moved out into the dark hallway. “I have work to do. You should get back upstairs and mind your own business.”

“Hold on a minute.” The woman pinned with a look, making him feel about three inches tall and five years old. “I’ve known Lori her entire life. I know she’s miserable. Just plodding through the days, ignoring the fact that she is going to be a mother very soon.” She came close, pointed at him. “You are what she needs, Eli. As much as I hate to admit that Garrett Hunter can be replaced in her heart. She needs you. Get over yourself a half second and see that. It’s not healthy for her or her baby. And the Brockton family
is
my business, young man. I will not let you and her stubborn each other out of happiness. Do you hear me?” She glared at him.

He put his hands on his hips and watched her go. That had to be the strangest conversation he’d ever had. But a lightness filled him, the band around his chest lessened its grip. Maybe he should try to let her know how he felt. His phone buzzed then. It was Kristy, Lori’s friend in California. “Hey,” he leaned against the wall.

“Hey yourself. How’s our girl?”

“Nuts. Insane. Working her ass off. Bashing heads and making enemies, but shit is getting done. We’re back on schedule with expansion.”

“I don’t care about that, Buchanan. How is
she
?”

He moved towards Jace, the kid he’d been grooming to take his place. Because until Mrs. Anderson’s little reveal a few minutes ago, he’d been ready to call Cooperville to see if they still wanted him. This scene was killing him, and getting as far from Lori as he could, seemed like the only way to cope. He motioned the kid over. “Hang on Kristy.” He hit the mute button. “How’s our project coming along?”

Jace nodded and whipped out his phone to show Eli the graphs for the new beer he’d stuck into the schedule. It was an Imperial Black Lager, nearly nine and a half percent alcohol, deep, roasty and full-bodied. The exact beer Garrett had described as his favorite. Eli brewed a small batch, tried it out with some fellow brewers, tweaked it according to their suggestions and stuck it into a Saturday evening brew so Lori hopefully wouldn’t notice. The label was done, tucked in with a batch of others they’d submitted to the federal government for approval. “Paradise Hops” had a simple rendering of a man’s blue suit on the label, and the words: In loving memory of Garrett Hunter 1971-2012. He checked out the numbers and told Jace to pull a sample for them to try, then turned back to the phone.

“Listen,” the woman was saying. “I’m gonna be back over in about three weeks. Her due date is then. Thought I’d surprise her.”

“Sure,” he muttered, distracted by the sight of the woman in question at that moment. Determination lit her eyes, and the outline of her stomach made him suppress a groan. She never hid it, wore suits and dresses tailored to highlight it, caress it, show it off even. Odd for a woman in denial of the whole thing. But he liked it. A lot. Today a soft looking deep blue fabric encircled her making his palms itch to touch. But she had made it clear early on to everyone that “rubbing the belly” was not tolerated.

“She is not balanced at all.” He spoke softly making his way back to the office, walking gingerly to make room for the swell of his cock under denim. “We’re worried. She can’t seem to find the place where she’s not in deep mourning or not in an obsessed work-mode. Not healthy.”