Page 13 of Spicy Ever After
I usually reserve a booth at the Moncus Park Farmer’s Market in the middle of harvest season. We’ll be back there next weekend, and last night Javier suggested I bring my bottles and offer tastings.
No matter how many tons of Covingtons or Beauregards we’ve produced over the years, it’s not like we get to see customers humming in satisfaction over their sweet potato pancakes or pies. It’s a rush watching Javier and whoever he’s got crewing for him come into the store shed and enjoy a tasting, the way their expressions change and their eyes brighten as the vodka hits their tongues and the flavors open up on their palates.
The thought of spending a Saturday morning dispensing samples and selling bottles has me grinning like a fool.
But I don’t have a label or a marketable name for the recipes or anything close to that.
And I’d be lying if I said that the absence of a label is the only thing stopping me. I still haven’t said anything about this scheme of mine to Pop.
Or Griffin.
Or Uncle Paul.
Javier’s kept this mouth shut to everyone else, but he busts my balls almost every day about what he calls my hidden agenda.
You should tell them. Maybe Paul would get off your back. Maybe Grif wouldn’t feel so guilty about up and moving to New Orleans with his professor husband. Maybe your Pop would have something to be excited about.
He might have a point. Or three.
Maybe all those things would be true.
And maybe they would think I’m crazy to imagine I can grow a fortune—or at least a comfortable life—out of a homemade distillery and some sweet potatoes.
Maybe tipping my hand would only show Paul I’m really fucking scared of this place going belly-up. Maybe knowing that I must branch out or die would make Griffin feel worse. Maybe seeing the direction I want to go would only piss Pop off even more. Change hasn’t been especially kind to him the last few years.
We lost Mom. He got a crippling diagnosis—one that doesn’t leave a lot of hope for his golden years. Griffin gave me control of his share of the farm so he could move to New Orleans with Kennedy instead of running things with me like we’d planned as kids.
Though, if I’m being honest, that last move didn’t come as much of a surprise. Griffin has never shied from hard work, but the land isn’t in his blood the same way it is for me and Pop. Far from it. He’s an Associate Director of Enrollment at River Parishes Community College, a far cry from agriculture.
But Javier is right. I should at least tell my brother. He’ll get it. Shit, he might even be able to help me.
My shoulders loosen at the thought, and Highway 182 in Carencro rolls into University Avenue in Lafayette. Maybe when Grif and Kennedy get back from New York, I’ll invite them over for a secret tasting.
The thought takes shape as I pull onto Lee Avenue. I’m thinking about putting together an evening when Javier, Griffin, Kennedy, and I sample a flight of my current recipes. Maybe get their take on where to go from here.
I’m hardly seeing the world around me when I pull onto the alley behind The French Press and get out. I wrap my knuckles against the steel door, scanning the restaurant’s vat gardens that hold herbs and greens. They grow their own romaine, green onions, and rosemary.
It’s a good thing they don’t have more room back here or they might not even need us.
The door swings open and a sous chef I recognize but can’t name sees me and props the door wide.
“Thanks, man,” I say with a nod and turn back to my truck.
They’ve ordered a crate, not a sack, so I’m reaching over the opened tailgate, shifting loads, when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.
Probably a server or busboy coming out to take a smoke break.
I haul out one of the crates, turn toward the door, and nearly drop the whole thing on my feet when I see her.
A girl—not a girl. A woman. Young. Lovely. Wearing a party dress and?—
Crying.
The heavy crate.
Sweet potatoes.
My own name.
