Chapter 7: Neighbors

The next Saturday, the brewery held its fall tap-room night.

Emmett told me it was optional.

"It's a hundred people in a brick hall with a polka band," he said. "Nobody would blame you for staying home."

"Will Lyle be there?"

"He sent a note that said he'd 'drop by.' He hasn't dropped by in nine years."

"Then I'm going."

I wore the one nice dress I owned that was not ivory, a deep green wrap that Cody had once called "a lot."

I did my hair in loose waves and put on lipstick I'd bought for the wedding and never used.

When I came out of the guest room, Emmett was standing at the kitchen counter in a dark button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbow.

He looked at me from the top of my head to my shoes.

Then he put the glass he was holding down very carefully.

"Say something," I said.

"I'm trying to remember the rule about the word 'beautiful.'"

"There's no rule."

"There is now," he said. "I'll use it sparingly."

"That's an excellent use of it."

The tap room was a long brick hall hung with white string lights.

Wooden tables ran the length of it, and a band in lederhosen played accordion near the back.

The brewers wore matching suspenders.

The place was packed and loud and smelled like pretzels and malt.

Everyone knew Emmett, and everyone looked at me.

A tall brewer with a gray beard shook my hand so hard my teeth rattled.

"The wife," he said. "We heard."

"I heard too."

"Welcome to the family. If he's a pain, tell me and I'll put him in a mash tun."

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