April nods. “That’s roughly one of the scenarios I had worked out, but I think we have a better chance of getting Brian to agree now that the dynamics have shifted.”
* * *
Three hours later we’ve created a parenting plan. I will retain sole parental responsibility for Maisie, and Brian decided that he wanted to start with two weeks in the summer—not the whole summer—along with every other Christmas. He agreed to fly back and forth with Maisie, so she’ll never have to be an unaccompanied minor. It’s not what Rosalie wanted for him, but after we returned to the conference room from taking a break, she smiled a little more, nodding and squeezing her son’s hand when he spoke up for what he wanted.
As we shuffle out into the hall, Brian catches my sleeve. “Hey, Rachel, you got a second?”
I hang back and tell Mason I’ll meet him in the lobby. Brian and I slow our pace until we’re alone outside the conference room door.
“I, um—I haven’t been very nice to you and I’m sorry for that. I just didn’t know what to do,” he says. “I’ve also been a pretty crappy dad, so thank you for giving me another chance.”
“Maybe when Maisie is older and you’re feeling more confident about being a parent, we can revisit our agreement,” I say. “But please, just talk to me first, okay?”
“I swear I will never get my mom involved again.”
I smile. “She loves you and wants you to be a good father.”
“I want that too.”
“You can do it.”
“So, that’s the new boyfriend, huh?” Brian asks as we reach the lobby. Mason is chatting with April near the water fountain. He glances at me over her shoulder. His dark eyes shine and the corner of his mouth cocks up in a grin that sends a flutter through me.
“No,” I say, smiling back at my love. “He’s my home.”
November
CHAPTER 25
Ikigai
Japanese
“a reason for being”
I squeeze through the crowded taproom to the makeshift stage, where Mason and Matt stand, ready to announce the winner of the Amber Ale Showdown. Around me, people are sampling beers from breweries across northern Ohio, all gathered at the Limestone for the first annual Owl Fest Brewhaha.
Each year, on the first weekend in November, Kelleys Island hosts Owl Fest, a scientific and educational weekend featuring lectures about bird migration and an evening “owl prowl”—a guided tour through the woods at night, looking for northern saw-whet owls and other night birds. The main draw of Owl Fest is the owl banding. Nets are strung each night in the trees at Scheele Preserve and owl calls are played, luring the migrating owls into the nets, where they are banded and released by scientists. The data gathered from the bands is used to track migration patterns, life spans, and population growth. It’s a beloved event, but Mason’s kicked it up a notch.
The idea blossomed when his best friend, Matt Long, came to celebrate the grand opening of the hotel last month. Matt booked a cabin, and the two of them spent hours hanging out in the brewhouse, catching up, reminiscing, talking shop, and—eventually—talking smack about their beers. Mason had just finished brewing an amber ale that he planned to launch in conjunction with Owl Fest, and said he thought it was better than the original amber ale that made Fish Brothers famous.
“That’s a bold claim,” Matt said. “Let’s try it and see.”
“Better idea,” Mason said. “Let’s plan a beer event during Owl Fest. We’ll invite a bunch of Ohio breweries to showcase their fall and winter offerings, book some bands, and we’ll have a blind taste test. We’ll charge a cover—all the proceeds going to owl research—and give the public a chance to vote for your beer or mine.”
“You do realize that you made both beers,” I pointed out.
“Oh, I know,” Mason said. “But I bet my new amber is better.”
“All right, all right, all right.” Matt began nodding, his eyes lighting up. “What are the stakes?”
“Loser matches one hundred percent of the cover donations.”
Matt extended his hand. “You’re on.”
So here we are, and in my hand is the sealed envelope with the winner of the showdown. But I don’t know which beer is which, so even I don’t know who won. On the stage between Matt and Mason is a table with a full beer glass labeled A and a second full beer glass labeled B.
Matt switches on a handheld microphone. “On behalf of Fish Brothers and Limestone Beer Company, we’d like to thank you all for coming out today to drink some beer and support owl research. With your cover donations and matching funds from the losing brewery, we’ve raised nearly six thousand dollars.”
“We don’t have a giant check to present,” Mason chimes in. “Because this whole event was based on an impromptu bet that my little Kelleys Island beer is better than a world-renowned brand. But Fish Brothers—I mean, the loser—will make sure the money makes it into the right hands tonight.”
“Before we announce the winner, I want to tell you a story,” Matt says. “About two college roommates who decided to start a brewery … to save money … on beer.”
Laughter ripples through the crowd.
“I know, right?” he says. “It was a terrible idea, but I think it turned out okay in the end, don’t you? But what some of you may not know is that the brewmaster behind Fish Brothers was Mason Brown. Which means both beers you tasted today were created by him. However, there can only be one winner.”
“The envelope please,” Mason says, reaching out a hand to help me onstage. It’s low enough that I don’t really need the help, but any chance to hold his hand is fine with me.
Mason slips his arm around my waist as Matt tears open the flap and pulls out an index card. “And the winner is…” He turns the card, revealing a big black letter B, and sighs heavily. “This is like back in the day when I took the Pepsi Challenge at the Cuyahoga County Fair and picked Coke. The winner is Limestone.”
The crowd cheers and whistles, and the two old friends embrace, slapping each other on the back.
“Well done, man,” Matt says. “It’s good to have you back.”
“It’s good to be back.”
As Mason and I move through the room, people pat his shoulder and offer their congratulations. He says thank you dozens of times, the grin never leaving his face. We go outside, leaving the noise behind, and walk hand in hand to the house, where we sit together on the side steps. Maisie runs over from where she’s been playing in the sandbox with Leo, and we shift to make room for her between us. The brewhouse is lit up and buzzing with life. We look at this place that we created together, so different from where we started. Our eyes meet over the top of Maisie’s head. And as our lips touch, we smile.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Had 2020 not been such a traumatic year, The Suite Spot might have turned out to be a different book, but I found myself needing to tell a story that was warm and gentle. If you’ve just turned the last page, my first and biggest thanks is to you. I hope you felt as much comfort reading as I did while writing.