Intoxicating Read online

  Heath didn’t deal well with change. Not even good change.

  The success of his brewery operation had been completely unexpected. He had never set out to be named one of the most successful craft brewers under thirty in the Pacific Northwest. At least once a week, someone asked him what he was still doing in tiny Clarkston, why he didn’t move to the city. It was a logical question. Portland was the home of more breweries than any other city on earth. The consensus was that he ought to take his rightful place.

  But Heath didn’t want to move to Portland. He didn’t want to move anywhere. All he wanted to do was experiment with his kettles and hydrometers and quietly run his business.

  Anyway, to his way of thinking, being the only beer producer in a wine town was an advantage, not a handicap.

  First thing he’d done when he could afford it was put away enough for Dad to live on when he finally retired from his tree nursery.

  Next, he started building himself a real house on the land he’d been trespassing on since he was a kid.

  The thought of Poppy coming up here tonight weirded him out. He’d had a few guys here, back in the days of skinned knees and hide-and-seek. But it had been a long, long time since anyone other than himself had stepped across the threshold.

  But what else could he do? Poppy needed help. And they had an unspoken arrangement that stretched back years.

  A fat yellow feline twined through his legs. She’d been a starving kitten when Heath first heard pathetic cries coming from the weeds along the edge of the Albertson’s parking lot in McMinnville on a sweltering July day. After unloading the week’s worth of food for him and his dad that he’d been carrying into his car, he’d gone back to investigate and found two terrified gray eyes staring up at him through the grate of a storm drain. He’d endured her wailing for two hours until someone from the county public works with the right tools finally came out and took the grate off. The loss of the meat and ice cream sitting in his hot car all that time had been worth it.

  He named the kitten Vienna, after a trip he’d taken to learn about Austrian beer. That’s where he saw an orphanage with a revolving crib built into its wall. Back in medieval times, when an abandoned baby was placed in the outside half of the crib and a bell rang, the monks inside would go retrieve it.

  That’s also what had given him the idea to cut a garage-sized hole in the wall of his tree house so that he could roll his double bed in and out, as weather permitted.

  It was already October. There wouldn’t be many more nights as warm as this one. It’d be a shame to stay inside. He rolled the bed out onto the porch then stood back looking at it, frowning. The tree house wasn’t designed with company in mind.

  Why was he obsessing? It was only Poppy.

  The purple comforter looked wrinkled. He whipped it off, shook it a few times, and spread it carefully back on the bed.

  There. That looked better.

  Heath bent to stroke Vienna’s soft fur, and she shut her eyes, bowed her head, and purred her appreciation. “That’s all this is tonight, Vienna. A mercy mission.”

  He could still remember the first time Poppy had come to his rescue. Sam Owens’s seventh birthday party. Heath’s dad had to promise him yet another trip to the Museum of Science and Industry just to get him in the car. Even then, he’d sat with his arms folded tightly across his chest the whole way over to Sam’s house.

  Once Dad pulled away from the curb, Heath hid behind the sycamore tree in Sam’s front yard, stealing an occasional peek toward the jungle gym where all the other kids clamored and shouted.

  Outside, Guinness and Amber started barking, shaking Heath out of his reverie.

  “Heath?” called Poppy, her voice carrying up from the wooded path, bringing him fully back to the present.

  He held back the beaded curtain and peered down to see his pit bull mutts blocking the path. Beyond the dogs, in a swirl of fallen leaves, stood a vision in a jeans jacket over a long white dress. A slouchy patchwork bag was slung over her shoulder. The setting sun filtered through her skirt, outlining the shape of her legs, triggering an inappropriate tug of desire he pretended not to notice.

  “Amber. Guinness. Come.”

  Tongues lolling happily, the dogs turned tail and galloped up the steep ramp Heath had built for them, first Amber and then Guinness on his three good legs. Both looked like completely different animals from the trembling, sad-eyed mutts Heath had found cowering at the shelter.

  Poppy nodded toward the glass-and-steel structure up on the hill that was partially visible through the trees, now that the leaves had started to fall. “How’s the new place? Did you move in yet?”

  “Couple months ago.”

  “How’s your dad doing since you moved out?”

  For the past nineteen years, it had been just Heath and his dad in the old house, a stone’s throw away. It looked exactly the same today as when Mom left. Heath had offered to take him shopping to buy some new things, but Dad wasn’t interested in making any changes. Heath felt guilty leaving, but he was tired of living in a shrine. Besides, a man needed his own place.

  “Helps that I’m right next door.”

  “I’ll bet.” Her candy-pink lips widened into a complicit grin. “Remember that time Old Man Waters chased us out of here?”

  “Summer between tenth and eleventh.” How could he forget? He had snitched four beers from the fridge, lodging two among the rocks in the creek to keep them cold. He and Poppy were sitting on a felled log dangling bare toes in the water, feeling very grown-up holding their beers when Mr. Waters had come stumbling down the bank with a raised fist, yelling for them to get off his property. They had hightailed it out of there in a hurry, sloshing beer in their wake, laughing so hard they doubled over, panting with relief by the time they reached Heath’s property and safety. Was it their fault the finest swimming hole on the creek happened to be on private property?

  Since then, Heath had bought out Waters for a fair price and had his ramshackle old house bulldozed. Now this entire hillside belonged to him.

  Poppy stood at the base of the tree, looking around at the rope hammocks slung between branches, the fire ring Heath had built from fieldstone, and the brightly colored Adirondack chairs. “It looks way different than it did back then.”

  “I’ve fixed it up over the years. Guess you could call it a hobby. Come on up.”

  She climbed the boards nailed to the tree and emerged through the curtain, sending a thousand beads clacking.

  He sniffed the air for her intoxicating scent.

  Tonight, the citrus topnote was diluted by the breeze, leaving him wanting more.

  Poppy took a step in the direction of the opening in the wall and peered out toward the green Chehalem. “Is the rope we used to swing on still down there?”

  “Still there. Been, what—twenty years? Don’t know if I’d trust it. Probably pretty deteriorated.”

  Poppy’s leg nudged the bed, inadvertently causing it to roll an inch.

  “It’s on wheels!”

  “Casters.” He demonstrated by rolling it back and forth a little. “I made it mobile, so you can fall asleep looking at the stars.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than his face grew hot with their implied meaning. “Not you—”

  Poppy smiled softly and turned her attention to the tree house’s interior.

  That was one of the things that made Poppy so great. She pretended not to notice when he stuck his foot in his mouth, which he tended to do every other sentence.

  “If it looks like rain, I roll the bed inside and close the shutters.”

  “You’ve got a little galley kitchen and everything.”

  Heath pushed a button on a remote and the small screen hung high in a corner flickered on. He turned that off, pushed another switch, and music filled the tree house.

  “Sweet,” breathed Poppy, nodding with appreciation as she continued to look around.

  Heath kept his expression neutral, but deep inside, he glowed
at her approval.

  Amber loped back down the ramp. Poppy bent to pet Guinness, curled up on the rug. “This would be a great place for a party!”

  “You know how I am at parties.”

  Their eyes met, recalling as one the day when she had noticed him standing alone under that sycamore tree at Sam’s birthday party, taken him by the hand, and led him over to where the others played.

  Even in second grade, Poppy had never had to think twice about what to do, what to say, or how to act around people. It was her gift, just like Heath was driven to understand how things like temperature and pressure and the other forces of nature acted on matter, the stuff of the universe.

  “This is my getaway. It’s where I go when things get crazy.”

  She nodded in understanding.

  Even when they were kids, she had accepted without judging that he was better one-on-one than in big groups.

  “Look,” she said, backtracking toward the curtain, sidestepping Guinness’s bulk, “I appreciate you asking me here. But you’re really busy, what with building a new house and running your business. We don’t have to do this . . .”

  “If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have offered.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He lowered himself onto the bed and swatted the mattress. “Sit down. Show me what you got. I mean, your stuff. Er, you know what I mean.”

  Her childlike enthusiasm returning, she hopped up across from him, crossed her long legs in front of her, and pulled some folders from her bag.

  “First, here’s the multiple-choice exam I already passed.”

  Heath’s eyes zoomed in on her grade, circled in red.

  “Sixty-six?” he exclaimed, the words slipping out before he could catch them. “What’s passing?”

  “Sixty. I didn’t say I aced it, I said I passed.”

  Barely.

  “Okay. What’s next?”

  “Sitting for my Certified Sommelier Exam, the test I need to get my new job. If I don’t take it within three years of passing the first one, I have to start all over.”

  “It all sounds very professional.”

  “It’s pretty intense.”

  “But didn’t you say the restaurant’s opening in three months?”

  “Now you get why I’m so stressed. Here, look.”

  He read aloud from the page she gave him. “ ‘Part One. Table Service. Recommend, select, prepare, and serve wine in the appropriate glassware with skill and diplomacy.’”

  “Diplomacy? You’ve got that nailed.” Poppy was at ease around with types of people.

  She shrugged. “I’ve been waiting on customers my whole life. But I need more practice popping champagne corks without putting someone’s eye out and pouring the bottle evenly on my first trip around the table. The biggest assortment of wines in town is at the consortium. I told Sam I’d foot the bill if he agreed to proctor some mock tastings. Will you be one of my pretend customers?’”

  That sounded simple enough. “Tell me what to do.”

  “I’ll recruit enough people to fill up the table and hand out information about all the wines ahead of time. All you have to do is act like finicky diners. Challenge me to figure out which wine you want by asking probing questions, and I’ll try to guess what it is and serve it.”

  “Could probably get Holly and Junie to come. They know a lot about wine.”

  “Great idea. So, we’re good on table service. Keep reading.”

  “ ‘Part Two, Practical Tasting. Identify six different wines, tasted blind.’ How are you on that?”

  “It’s a matter of naming three whites and three reds in twenty-five minutes. I just need someone to pick and pour the wines so that I can’t see the labels, and then I’ll try to determine what they are.”

  “I’ve done that. It’s the same as tasting ales.”

  “Then comes Part Three, the part I’m nervous about. I have to write about the classic regions, grapes, and terms.”

  This was where things got tricky, thought Heath. “You must have learned a lot working in the wine shop or you wouldn’t have started down this road.”

  “I memorized pictures and terms from studying labels. Having visuals to go with the words really helps. But there was no pressure. I could take my time. And I didn’t have to write anything.”

  Heath recalled a game they used to play in Mr. Lu’s class. One student left the room. Another hid. Then the first student came back and had to guess who had hidden.

  “You always killed in that Who’s Missing game.”

  “Training myself to be good at memorization was the only way I managed to get through school. But you know that.”

  Heath did know. He’d tutored her on and off for years in exchange for her smoothing the way for him at school and parties. If not for her, his social life would have been as empty as his home life.

  He leafed through the rest of the folder. “You’d think they would come up with a way for people to take the wine steward test orally.”

  “This isn’t public school. The governing body for sommeliers might allow that, eventually. But I don’t have time to wait. It’s on me to adapt, or else it’s back to the café. Back to square one.”

  “ ‘Part Three, Theory, examines comprehensive knowledge of wines and wine production. Candidates are given one hour to complete a written exam.’”

  “Here’s a sample question,” said Poppy, pulling a paper from the sheaf.

  “ ‘Define and compare the following viticulture practices: sustainable, organic, and biodynamic.’” Lowering the paper, he frowned. Poppy knew her limitations, otherwise she wouldn’t be here, asking for help. Still, he was a realist. “Writing aside, can you talk about this stuff?”

  She chuckled. “All day long. It’s reading the questions and writing the answers in the time allotted that gives me a problem.”

  “Obviously you’re going to memorize the sample questions. What do you want me to do?”

  “I’ll dig up material that I think will be on the test. You make up questions based on that and quiz me orally. I’m not nervous around you. I’ll be able to take my time coming up with answers. I’ll write everything down as I go and then read back over it on my own until I have it down cold.”

  More than once, Heath had seen Poppy break down in tears over the most basic written assignment. He skimmed over the rest of the questions with growing doubt. This exam was no walk in the park, even for someone without dyslexia. He could feel her eyes on him, waiting for a response.

  “Well? What do you think?” she pressed, looking worried.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  He felt the mattress shift as she sat back, discouraged. “You think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.”

  Now was his golden opportunity. Without realizing it, Poppy had just dangled the key to his future within his grasp. All he had to do was reach out and take it.

  She couldn’t pass this test without his help. If he refused, she wouldn’t be going anywhere. He’d have her right there where he wanted her. Thanks to all they’d been through together, she trusted him implicitly. Whatever came out of his mouth next she would do, without question.

  He’d be a fool to throw this chance away.

  Tasting victory, he plunged ahead before his conscience could intervene. “Look . . . you’re right. This is a bad time. Building the house has already taken me away from the creative side of the brewery for too long. I need to catch up. Plus, I’ve got development targets, marketing goals . . .” He pushed back the lock of hair that was always falling into his eyes, tempering his rejection with a wry grin. “Can’t even find time for a haircut.”

  “I understand,” she said with a quiet resignation that nearly ripped a hole in his heart.

  She began gathering her scattered papers into a pile as he tried to quell the rising panic inside him.

  No. He couldn’t do this. She had just arrived at his tree house, and now she was leaving. He had to drag this out until he cam
e up with a better solution.

  “What’s wrong with Clarkston?” he asked, provoking an argument. Anything to make her stay.

  She stopped what she was doing. “Nothing’s wrong, it’s just that I need to move on.”

  “Why? Because of some dumb thing someone put in the yearbook?”

  She turned on him, red-faced. “It’s not just ‘some dumb thing’! It’s me. Or what people think of me, anyway. ‘Stupid Poppy.’”

  Exasperated, she began cramming her messy pile into her bag.

  “Have you thought about looking for another hostess job or a wine steward position that’ll take you on the basis of the test you already passed?”

  She shook her head as she yanked her overstuffed bag, papers peeking out of it, onto her shoulder. “That’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”

  “If it’s just about being in Portland, you could find work as a server tomorrow, even without your certification.”

  She avoided meeting his eyes. “I’d be working at least forty hours per week, with no prospects for advancement. I’m better off working thirty at the café, studying in my off hours, and saving money by living at home. Besides—” She stooped to retrieve a paper that had slipped onto the plank floor.

  “What?”

  “I promised Red I’d model in her fashion show.”

  Something in her tone caught his attention.

  “Fashion show?”

  Cautiously, her eyes met his. “It’s a benefit. You know, for people going through hard times. And people who are sick.”

  They shared a look full of meaning. Heath knew all about hard times . . . serious illness.

  She hiked up the strap on her bag that was slipping down her arm. “There was no reason to bring it up before. No sense in dredging up bad memories.”

  Hayden. He’d died years ago. But it hadn’t ended there. The death of his twin had shattered the family to pieces. When no one else could—or would—look out for Heath, the Springers had stepped up to the plate without a second thought. And now Poppy was still protecting him.

  And here he was, making her believe she was incapable of reaching her dream so that he wouldn’t have to face her leaving. Who was the real loser?