Written in the Stars (3 page)

After slipping into the dry clothing, Grace dug around in her purse for a comb and any cosmetics she could find. A few minutes later she'd pulled her hair back into submission and added some eyeliner and lipstick. Wrinkling her nose at her reflection, she said, “Well, that's as good as it's going to get.”

And then the lights went out.

For a moment Grace simply stood as still as a statue, while thinking in a rather calm manner that she'd never experienced such pitch-­black darkness. Surely her eyes would adjust and she'd be able to see enough to make her way out of the bathroom. She blinked and then squinted, but she couldn't see anything. She did the classic test, holding her hand in front of her face. Nope...nothing.

Grace considered herself to be a pretty brave person, but she'd never been a fan of the dark. To this day she had a night-­light in her bathroom. Grace swallowed hard and her heart thudded. Should she yell for Mason? No, surely he'd come looking for her in a few minutes. After all, he knew where she'd gone, Grace thought, and then snapped her fingers, remembering that she had the flashlight app on her phone. She fumbled around, bumped into the sink, hit the toilet seat, and came up against the wall before finally locating where she'd dropped her purse. “Yes!” she said when she found her phone, but her triumph was short-­lived when she realized that her battery was dead.

With a growl of frustration, Grace decided she needed to exit the bathroom and give a shout out for Mason. She dropped her useless phone back into her purse and fumbled around for the doorknob, somehow thinking that when the door was open she'd have at least moonlight shining through the windows or something to guide her along.

Nope...just thick black darkness.

“Oh, well...” Grace hefted her purse over her shoulder and took a baby step forward, but then remembered the big vat of frothy stuff and decided to stay put and shout for Mason. She inhaled a deep breath, thinking she needed some volume, and then spotted a beam of light coming her way. “Oh, there you are! Thank goodness!”

“Sorry. I had to look for a flashlight,” Mason said as he reached her side. “I hope you weren't too scared.”

“Oh, of course not,” Grace said, barely resisting the urge to grab his arm and cling. “It's still just a warning, right?” And then she heard the wail of sirens. “Oh no!” Grace pictured a funnel cloud twirling toward them like in
The Wizard of Oz
. “Is this the real deal?”

“Maybe.”

Grace could hear the howl of the wind and then pinging against the windows. “What's that?”

“Hail,” he answered gravely.

“Crazy.” Grace didn't panic often, but when she did it was full-­blown anxiety. “Mason, what should we do?” She wanted to fist her hands in his shirt and pull him close, but she stood there and tried to appear calm.

“Go into the bathroom for shelter.”

Grace nodded and then heard something that sounded like a freight train coming their way. She reached for Mason's arm this time. “What in the world is that horrible sound?”

“I'm not sure, but let's hope it's not a tornado.”

“Oh my God!”

“We really need to head to the shelter of the bathroom. Let's go.”

Bring on the Rain

M
ASON USHERED
G
RACE INSIDE T
HE
BATHROOM
AND
shut the door. Although outwardly calm, he felt uneasy. If the electricity stayed off for very long, the backup generator would have to kick in. And what if a tornado hit the building? He groaned, not wanting to think about it.

“What was that noise for?”

Mason pointed the flashlight at her. “You mean outside? It's still hailing.”

“No, I mean the groan that just came from you. Groans are never a good sign,” she said, although Mason couldn't quite agree with that statement.

“Are we in for something horrible?” She sat down on the floor and looked up at him with a wide-­eyed, wary expression.

“I'm sure we'll be fine and this will blow over,” Mason said with more assurance than he felt. The weather station had predicted a cooldown, and he believed it.

“Okay...okay.” She gave him a jerky nod. “You don't have that chocolate ale on you, by chance?” Grace asked with an edge of humor.

“No, I thought the flashlight was more important at the time. Now I'm having second thoughts.” Mason tried to grin, but the loud boom of thunder made him wince. He sat down beside Grace, ready to shield her with his body if necessary. “I'm sure we'll be safe. This building used to house boats, and it's built like a fort. I just don't want any damage to the roof or windows. I've sunk my savings into this brewery, and I don't want to lose my ass from an act of nature.”

“You have insurance, right?”

“Of course I do,” Mason replied, wondering if Grace thought he was some sort of country bumpkin without a clue. His look must have telegraphed his thoughts, because Grace winced.

“Sorry. It's in my nature to immediately start thinking about that sort of thing. I didn't mean anything by it.”

Mason gave her a small nudge with his elbow. “Yeah, just when I was going out into the danger zone for the chocolate porter.”

“No! Stay right here!” When Grace put a restraining hand on his bent knee and squeezed, he thought it was kind of cute. “There might be a cow flying through the air or something.”

Mason chuckled. “I'll just dash out and be back in a minute.”

“No!” Grace repeated, but in truth Mason wanted to know what was going on out there. “Are you crazy?”

“All country boys have a little crazy in them. My brother, Danny, is worse, but I have my moments of
hey, watch this
.”

“This isn't going to be one of them. I'll block the doorway.”

“Yeah, like that will work,” Mason said with a chuckle.

“You might be surprised. I'm tougher than you might imagine.”

“So you're a rather-­be-­safe-­than-­sorry kind of girl?”

“Ha, not hardly. I'm always up for a new challenge. I'm all about the bigger the risk, the bigger the reward theory.”

“Or the opposite can be true.” Mason barely held back another groan. “I really think I want that beer now.”

“We'll drink to our safety after the whatever-­it-­is going on out there passes over.”

“I'll leave the flashlight for you.”

“Are you kidding? What if you fall into that vat of foamy stuff? Or—”

“I'll use the flashlight on my cell phone. Plus, I know my way around this building even in the dark. I'll be right back.” Odd, but Mason felt the urge to give Grace a quick kiss of reassurance—­but of course he didn't. He pointed the flashlight at her face and thought that her eyes appeared a bit big with fear. Maybe he shouldn't leave her. “But don't you move.”

“Don't worry about that! I don't want to get hit by a flying cow or land up in Oz.”

“Okay, well then, stay put. I'll be right back.” In spite of her squeal of protest, Mason hurried out into the taproom, where he located a couple of bottles of chocolate porter and hooked two of them through his fingers. Lightning flashed like strobe lights and the wind howled, but if a tornado had indeed touched down, it had thankfully missed his brewery, at least for now. But his phone still indicated that the storm warning was in effect for another hour, and although funnel clouds were spotted during these late-­summer storms where fronts collided, having a tornado actually touch down was rare. Still, after having been caught in a nasty storm out on the lake when he'd been so hell-­bent on winning a fishing tournament that he'd not taken heed of the weather warnings, Mason now took the sirens seriously.

Mason paused to text his mother to make sure everybody was okay. Her positive response made him feel much better. But when thunder boomed again, he felt a fresh flash of apprehension. He hoped to have enough stock to have a beer-­tasting party for friends and family in a couple of weeks, and having a storm do damage would just suck big-­time. “Come on, Mother Nature, give a guy a break.”

Mason's family owned Mayfield Marina. But like his sister, Mattie, with the bistro, Mason had invested his own savings in the brewery. He'd been pretty much telling Grace the truth about sinking his last dime into converting the boathouse into a brewery. Mason's nest egg from his pro fishing days was nearly depleted. Plus, he wanted to protect his friend Shane McCray's sizable investment in the brewery. Losing his own money would suck, but even though Shane was a country music superstar, he didn't want him to lose his investment either.

“Mason? Are you okay out there?” Grace shouted. When Mason rounded the corner he could see the beam of her flashlight shining here and there, as if searching for him.

“I'm fine!” Mason hurried her way and met her just outside of the bathroom. “You're not very good about staying put.”

“I was getting claustrophobic in there.”

Mason had to chuckle. “Right. I think you're just what my mom would call a busybody.”

“Who, me?” she asked, but when thunder rolled like angels playing bowling ball, she backed up toward the bathroom.

“Yeah, you.”

“Okay, I confess that I always want to know what's going on. I was concerned for your safety too, if you must know.”

“Were you going to come to my rescue?”

“I would have made a valiant attempt that would have most likely ended with an epic fail, but it's the thought that counts, right?”

Mason was about to give her a comeback, but he realized that she was being serious, and he believed her. “Good to know, I guess. We have about another hour before the warning is lifted. Hopefully the lights will come back on before then.” After she sat down, he handed her a bottle of beer.

“Oh, I love the swing-­top cap. So cute!”

“My beer isn't cute.” Mason sat down beside her and bent his legs. “It's robust...manly.”

“Please don't pound your chest.”

“Just sayin'.”

“We'll see about that.” Grace opened the swing top and took a sip. “Oh, wow, this is so good.”

“It should be served in a snifter beer glass so you can put your nose in it.”

“I want to put my whole face in it.” She licked her bottom lip.

“So, what do you taste?”

Grace took another sip. “Chocolate, of course...mmm...oh...cinnamon!” She took another lingering sip. “A hint of coffee, perhaps? Am I right?”

“All of the above.” His tone was casual, but he really wanted to know. “So, are you serious? You really do like it?”

“Let's make sure.” She took another sip. “No, I don't like it.”

Mason let out a breath. “Okay...what don't you like? A little too much for you, huh?”

Grace put a hand on his forearm. “You didn't let me finish, O so lofty brewmaster.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“I love it, Mason. Rich and dark...with a sweet aroma that comes through, even without a snifter glass.”

“How does it feel in your mouth?” The question was common in beer-­tasting lingo, but the suggestion took his thoughts in another direction.
God...

“Mmm, velvety in my mouth...Does that make sense?”

“Absolutely. You have a sensitive palate.”

“Dessert in a bottle!” She arched an eyebrow. “Now, you must admit this is kind of a girly beer.” She shined the flashlight on his face.

“I don't admit any such thing.” Mason reached over and took the flashlight from her and tilted it upward, shedding soft, shadowy light on the room. “Well, watch out, the ABV is seven point eight percent. It will knock you on your very girly-­girl can.”

“I'm not a girly-­girl. And I can handle any...BAV you throw at me.”

He grinned. “ABV, or alcohol by volume.”

“I knew that. I was just seeing if you were paying attention,” she said, but he could hear the laughter in her voice.

“Right.” When he took a swig, his arm brushed against her shoulder, making Mason keenly aware of how close they were in the muted darkness. Her floral scent mingled with the chocolate porter, and both went straight to his head. “Girly...,” he muttered, trying to shift his brain in a different direction.

Grace lifted one shoulder. “Just sayin'. You could market this toward women, for sure. Lots of ladies still don't know about craft beer and how delicious and decadent it can be. I only found out that I was a fan when I went to a beer-­tasting festival with friends. You should think about bringing women into the fold. Market ­toward them and capture a demographic that's being ignored.”

“Nah, my taproom is going to be geared toward dudes,” Mason said, but he was pleased that Grace seemed to really enjoy the porter. “The other side of the main brewery is where I'll have the taproom. My brother, Danny, is going to help me build a really sweet bar that will run the length of the room.”

“Will it be a restaurant as well?”

“No, I won't be serving food, at least not at first, but Walking on Sunshine Bistro is just up over the hill. Mattie will cater some events and I'll do pig roasts and stuff like that for special occasions.” He took a sip of his ale, thinking that he was damned good and chocolate porter wasn't an easy beer to brew. “Maybe tailgating for big ball games or bonfires in the fall. I'm going to have a few flat-­screen TVs, darts, maybe some poker games, and of course corn hole.”

“Um, what in the world is corn hole?” She tilted her head in question.

“A beanbag toss into slanted wooden targets, but the bags are actually made with dried corn kernels. So you've never even heard of it?”

“Nope. Is it something unique to Cricket Creek?”

“Supposedly corn hole started in the Cincinnati, Ohio, area, then trickled across the river into Kentucky and has made its way south and throughout the Midwest. The corn-­kernel-­filled bags is where the name of the game came from.”

“Oh. Makes sense.”

“But, yeah, popular around here too. We have tournaments at the marina now and then.” Mason usually wasn't much for small talk unless it was about fishing or brewing beer, but he could hear the wind blowing, and rain pelted hard against the windows and roof. Grace seemed a little bit uneasy, so he wanted to take her mind off the storm.

“Are you good at it?”

“At what?”

“Corn hole.”

“Of course. Maybe you would be too.”

“As I mentioned, I'm not athletically inclined.”

“All you have to do is toss the bags into the hole. It's pretty easy. I'm sure I could teach you.”

“Ha, not likely. The fact that my name is Grace is a bit of a joke. I was a little-­bitty thing until junior high school, when my legs seemed to grow overnight like my mum put me on a stretcher or something. My body never did figure out how to respond. I still trip over my own shadow.”

Mason had a hard time believing that Grace was clumsy. And he had to admit that he was surprised at her modesty. Grace Gordon was one pretty woman. And that throaty voice with the hint of a British accent was quite a turn-­on. And those endless legs...“Oh, come on, you look a lot like your mother, who, um, just happened to be a famous fashion model. Didn't you ever want to follow in her footsteps?”

Grace took a sip of her ale. “Oh, don't get me wrong, I love fashion, but to this day I struggle with wearing heels, making following in her footsteps rather difficult,” she said, and nudged him to make sure he got the joke. “There was brief talk of me doing some modeling for BGC, my mother's company, but I can tell you that having me walk down a runway would have been a total disaster. And I know I resemble my mum, but I'm not the stunner that she still is at fifty-­five. And she isn't vain or anything, but she has that certain...you know,
thing
, like Audrey Hepburn. Just so effortlessly classy.” She leaned closer. “Plus, don't tell my mother, but I have a weakness for junk food,” she whispered.

Mason had to grin at the horror laced in her voice. “So what's your biggest weakness? Cheeseburgers? French fries?”

“Just about all of it,” Grace continued in a stage whisper. “I brake for the Golden Arches.” She shook her head and sighed. “Sophia is like my mother. They eat, you know,
clean
, or whatever.”

“Did you just roll your eyes?”

“No!”

“So you're the black sheep of the family?”

“Well, I think Garret wins that dubious honor. Or at least he used to until he married your sister, Mattie. But, yes, sort of, I suppose. I just can't...always
behave
, you know?”

“Well, like I said, from what I know of Sophia, you two seem to be opposites.” Mason took another drink of the ale, liking how it took the edge off. He'd been so stressed lately that in an odd way this little unexpected break felt kind of nice...well, as long as there wasn't any damage. “She seems almost shy whenever I go into the bistro for breakfast.”

“Yeah, Sophia was always quiet and studious, while I ended up in detention at least once a week.”