скачать книгу бесплатно
“I can’t believe this is all happening now!” her sister gasped.
Zoey could. Crazy stuff always happened to her, why not Kate for once? “Kate, do you need me to take Casper to his booty call? Is that what this is about? Because I’ll do it. You know I will.”
Kate inhaled. “I...”
The silence stretched and Zoey understood why. Unfortunately, her reputation as the family screwup was well deserved. She always had great intentions and great plans, if she did say so herself. It’s just that the execution rarely went according to Zoey’s plans, and after things fell apart, she’d had to call on the safety net of her family and friends—and credit-card companies—more than once.
She owed Kate and Ryan big time for letting her live with them for a few months when she’d run out of money a couple of years ago. She’d promised them that she’d earn her keep by helping as they established Ryka Kennels.
A memory flashed of a hot day, a fresh asphalt drive and tar embedded in dog hair. Never again would Zoey make the mistake of underestimating the wily intelligence of the Afghan hound. Could it be that Kate was about to give her a chance to prove it?
“It’s asking a lot,” Kate hedged, and Zoey knew she was trying to think of any other person she could ask. All of her friends were probably at the wedding in Costa Rica, too. “You’d have to fly to Virginia to get Casper and then take him to Merriweather Kennels, which is outside of Seattle.”
“I’ll do it. Gladly. Just tell me where and when.”
“I appreciate that, but you might have to take off as much as a week of work.”
“That’s okay. I can get someone to cover for me.” Zoey would have to pay someone on Loring’s temp list, but it would be worth it to rescue her sister for once.
“You know, maybe it would be better if Ryan came back...What? Ryan! All right, fine! I’ll go home and you can tell Lindsey why she’s short a bridesmaid!”
The next voice Zoey heard was her brother-in-law’s as he took the phone. “Hey, Zoey, thanks for helping us out. I really appreciate it. I’ll book the tickets, but I have no idea what kind of flights I’ll be able to get. I’ll try to get one out of Austin, but you may have to drive to Houston.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She meant it. For once, Kate-the-perfect needed Zoey’s help. “However it works out.”
“Thanks. Uh...Kate is going to talk to Phyllis—she’s the woman who’s running the kennel while we’re gone—and she’ll have all the instructions ready when you get there.”
“And promise me you’ll follow them exactly!” Kate yelled from the background. “Even if you think they’re stupid. Even if you think you know a better way. In fact, don’t think at all. We’ll do all the thinking.”
Her sister didn’t trust Zoey’s judgment. “Tell Kate to relax. I can do this.” She had to.
The truth was that Kate wasn’t the only one who doubted Zoey. Lately, Zoey had been doubting herself. She tried not to, tried to shake off her mistakes, tried to look at them as learning experiences, but her inner pep talks weren’t working anymore.
She had to do this for herself, not just for Kate. Zoey had to succeed at something. Once she tasted success, she could start her skin care business with confidence.
“It’ll be a pain,” Ryan warned. “Since it’s close to the date of the next show, you’ll have to maintain Casper’s daily routine. It’s all about the coat. You might even have to—”
“Don’t talk her out of it!” Kate’s voice was panicked.
“She has to understand what she’s getting into.” Ryan’s voice was filled with calm reasonableness.
Guess which made Zoey nervous? “Hey!” she said to get their attention. “I’m on my way home. Why don’t you call me in a couple of hours after you’ve worked out all this...stuff.”
They were still arguing as the call disconnected.
Although she knew she shouldn’t, as she walked to the parking garage, Zoey compared her life to her sister’s. Yeah, Kate was only two years older, but she had a husband and a house and a car that was less than ten years old and had a heater that worked. Although having a working heater in this part of Texas wasn’t that big of a deal. Kate also owned a successful business that was about to hit the big time.
Her sister deserved the success. Really. She and Ryan worked hard.
I work hard, too, Zoey thought. Except everything Kate touched turned to gold and everything Zoey touched turned to poo. It had always been that way. Her parents had expected another Kate—and got Zoey. In school, teachers expected another Kate—and got Zoey. So Zoey learned to avoid following in Kate’s footsteps while she tried to find her own success.
So far, all she’d found was failure.
But not this time. Zoey gripped the steering wheel on her fourteen-year-old Honda Civic. Here was the perfect opportunity to figure out where she’d been going wrong. Kate and Ryan were making all the plans, all the arrangements. Kate would leave incredibly detailed, nitpicky instructions telling Zoey exactly what to do and how to do it. She’d have a blueprint for success. All Zoey had to do was follow it.
Success breeds success. Zoey grinned as she backed out of her parking space. Or in this case, Afghan puppies.
* * *
CAMERON MACNEIL CAREFULLY packed a bottle of MacNeil’s Highland Oatmeal Stout in bubble wrap. Standing next to him—and not helping—was his annoyed cousin Angus.
“I don’t see why you want to bring in an investor,” Angus said. “And judging by your caginess, he’s no MacNeil.”
“Do you know a MacNeil with the kind of money we need who we haven’t already hit up?”
Instead of answering, because the answer was “no,” Angus chugged the rest of the bottle of stout he’d nabbed. Highland Stout was not a chugging type of beer, but the nuances of hops and yeast escaped Angus. The alcohol content did not.
“Easy,” Cam warned. “We don’t have a lot of that batch left.”
“Make more.” Gus reached for another bottle, but Cam grabbed his wrist and guided it to the Highland Spring Bock they were about to release.
“The stout is a seasonal. Try this one.”
“Dishwater,” Gus grumbled and went for the high alcohol Pumpkin Porter they’d experimented with last fall. Cam let him have it. He didn’t like the way the porter tasted, although a lot of folks did. There seemed to be some unwritten rule now that all brewers had to come out with a pumpkin beer in the fall. Personally, Cam didn’t think the mixture did the beer or the pumpkins any favors. And don’t get him started on raspberries. Their Highland Heather Honey beer had promise, but so far, he wasn’t satisfied with the recipes they’d developed. But he would find the right one eventually. At least the failures weren’t wasted, he thought with a glance at Angus.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Gus said after a deep swallow. “Och, laddie, ye just gotta have faith in y’self.”
Cam shook his head at the accent. Cam’s problem wasn’t a lack of faith; it was a lack of help at the brewery. He considered a moment and then packed a bottle of the Pumpkin Porter to take to Seattle.
“What?” Gus tilted the bottle to his mouth.
“The accent. It wasn’t that strong when you lived in Scotland.”
“Lassies luuuuuv m’ accent. It’s part of the package.” He burped.
“Is that part of the package?”
Gus waved it off. “It shows I’m a man who enjoys life.”
“Or at least beer.”
Gus turned the bottle until the label faced Cam. “Yeah, and whose mug is that on the label, I want to know?”
A swath of the MacNeil tartan ran across a corner of the label behind a smiling, red-bearded man with a receding hairline—Gus. Although in current versions of the label, his hairline had been considerably filled in, thanks to the miracle of digital photo enhancement. “We don’t want the lads to be associating drinking beer with losing their hair,” Gus had explained virtuously.
Cam nodded to the label. “Are women really and truly impressed by that?”
“A man capable of fully appreciating a good brew is a man capable of fully appreciating a good woman.”
“And that line actually works for you?” Cam decided to add another bottle of the Pumpkin Porter to the wooden sample crate. Gus actually did know his beers. He was the front man for MacNeil’s Highland Beer. Cam was the everything-else man.
Gus patted his belly. “You’ll never get a hit if you don’t swing your bat, if ye get what I’m sayin’.”
Cam gave an unwilling laugh. “I do, but I wish I didn’t.”
“Yer just jealous because the ad folks didn’t pick yer pretty face for the label.”
“I don’t want to be on a beer label.”
“Och, surprised ya, though, di’n’t it? That they picked me over you.”
“Not really.”
“Oh, come on, Cam. Give a guy a break,” Gus said, dropping the accent. All but the part that was real, anyway. “When I’m hanging around you, I need some kind of an edge. Women won’t notice me otherwise.” He took another sip of beer.
Cam glanced down to where Gus’s huge belly draped over his kilt. His cousin must have put on thirty pounds since they started brewing beer commercially a couple of years ago. Aesthetics aside, it was also a health issue. And Gus believing his beard disguised his double chin wasn’t good, either.
“What are you staring at?” Gus spread his arms wide. “The kilt?”
Actually the stomach, but now wasn’t the moment to get into it. “That’s not a kilt.”
Gus looked down. “What would you call it then?”
Cam hid a smile. “A denim skirt.”
“Get with the times, Cam. Not all kilts are plaid wool anymore.” Gus drained the rest of his beer. “And I gotta tell you, they’re a helluva lot cooler for a Texas summer.”
He wiped his shining forehead on his sleeve. He was sweating in the unheated brewing room in a Texas January. It didn’t bode well for when it actually was summer in Texas.
“The ladies do like a man in a kilt,” Gus informed him. “Now, I know what’s running around in that head of yours.”
Probably not, Cam thought.
“But here’s the way I see it—on our next Saturday tour, you put on a kilt and flash those dimples of yours—”
Cam hated his dimples.
“—and maybe a little more—” Gus twitched the hem of his kilt and laughed uproariously, holding his belly. He looked like a Scottish Santa Claus. “And every female in the room will buzz right on over to you.”
“Cut it out, Gus.”
“It’s true!”
“Then why would you want me to wear a kilt?”
“To get it over with. You take your pick of the girls and free up the others for the rest of us mortals. The women will be disappointed, but then they’ll see me in a kilt and if they squint real hard, and sample enough of the beer, they’ll be reminded of you.”
“I must be getting tired because that makes a weird kind of sense.” Cam arranged curly wood shavings around the bottles for padding. He’d remove the bubble wrap and fluff everything up for a nice presentation after he got to Seattle.
“And it solves another problem.”
Cam reached for the crate’s top. “That would be?”
“You don’t have a woman in your life.”
“Gus...” They’d been over this, although why Gus felt Cam’s love life, or the lack of it, was his business escaped Cam.
“I know. You don’t want a girlfriend. You don’t have time for a ‘relationship.’” Gus used air quotes, which Cam ignored. “But you being unattached gives all the lassies hope. And if they have hope in their hearts for you, they aren’t going to fully appreciate my magnificence.”
“I apologize for the fact that my lack of a girlfriend is impacting your love life.” Cam fit the top onto the presentation crate and admired the MacNeil logo burned into the corner. Without Gus’s face. That had been one argument Cam had actually won.
Gus set the empty bottle on the table next to Cam’s box of samples. “It affects more than that. And more than me. We’re all well aware you don’t have a woman in your life. You need a woman.”
“I need to hire help at the brewery.”
“Why hire someone when you have your family? I’m not talking about a relationship.” Gus moved his arms in a big circle. “Just a short acquaintance. A night or two, even.” Cam picked up a rubber mallet and Gus backed off, palms outstretched. “That’s all I’m saying.”
It probably wasn’t, knowing Gus.
“A woman might even be able to change your outlook. You might see things a little different and not want to expand the brewery and take on all that extra work. You’re already complaining about the work you’ve got.”
“Expanding shouldn’t cause much extra work. Not with all my brothers and cousins around to help.” Cam was being sarcastic, but he didn’t expect Gus to notice.
“Cam.” Gus touched his arm. “Leave things be.”
“I can’t.” He faced his cousin. “MacNeil’s is too big to be a family hobby, but we’re not big enough to get any kind of regular distribution. We grow, or we fold.”
“You have to relax, Cam. Enjoy life.”
If he did, there wouldn’t be a MacNeil’s, a point he hoped to make while he was gone next week. “You mean I should stand around and drink beer and spout clichés in a fake accent while wearing a skirt, like you?” Cam immediately regretted his words—not because they weren’t true, but that he’d indulged himself by saying them.
Gus didn’t take offense. “And didn’t that nonsense you blathered just prove me point about you needing a woman?”
Let it go, let it go. But he couldn’t. “It was a little harsh, but it wasn’t nonsense.”
“Och, laddie.” Gus shook his head.
“Fake accent.”
“It’s the excess man juices bubblin’ around in yer blood talkin’.”
“You did not just say ‘man juices.’” Cam whacked at the metal fastening staples. They sank into the wood and started a tiny split. Great.
“It’s the truth. Your juices are all backed up with no place to go, so they’ve spilled over into yer blood, where they’ve been bubblin’ and fermentin’.” Gus illustrated this by wiggling his fingers.
Cam whacked another staple into the box.
“Until one day, you’ll see a female and you’ll blow your top, just like that batch of summer ale the first year.”
