POLLARD’S TAVERN
FRIDAY, MARCH 5
James Wall gives Brutus a longing glance as I tie up at the post beside the nag he’s bought to replace his Pacer. I recognize that look. It’s a kind of longing mixed with jealousy. The sort of gaze an unhappy husband would settle on another man’s wife.
He scratches the long bridge of Brutus’s nose. “You’re still riding this beast?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“He’s a lot of horse.”
“And you think he’s too much for me?”
James won’t dare answer that question aloud, so he clears his throat. Looks at the ground. Grins.
“Well, you’re not alone. My husband believes Brutus to be a villain as great as his namesake.”
“Yet he allows you to ride him?”
“Allows?” I laugh. “I am fifty-four years old. Ephraim doesn’t allow me anything. I do as I please.”
“Well, if you ever decide to sell him, I’d like the chance to make an offer.”
I know, for a fact, that James cannot afford this horse, but his suggestion is the opening I need. It’s the entire reason I crossed the street when I saw him dismount in front of the tavern. So I follow him up the steps, and he holds the door open for me.
“I thought you only rode Pacers?”
“I prefer them, no question, but I’m not as picky as people think.” He scowls over his shoulder at the nag. “As evidenced by that bag of bones.”
We shrug out of hats and coats. Stomp the snow off our feet. It’s midafternoon and the sun is shining, but it’s dim inside the tavern, and it takes a moment for our eyes to adjust.
“Are you drinking or visiting this afternoon?” I ask.
“Drinking. I’m not much in the way of company these days.”
“Oh I doubt that. Let me buy you a pint. Consider it a consolation prize for having to ride that old plug out there.”
James laughs, and Moses is there, ready to take our orders, by the time we’ve found our seats. Then he’s off to get our ale and cider, cheerful and efficient as always while we settle in.
“I am sorry that you had to sell your horse,” I tell James.
He frowns. “I knew better than to go to Joseph North for a loan.”
“Then why did you?”
“I ain’t proud of it. But it happened before that business with Mistress Foster. I would have never—”
Moses is back and he plunks two mugs onto the table. They’re both overfilled, and foam dribbles over the rim as the rich, amber liquid spills onto the table. James drinks his down to a manageable level as he waits for Moses to wander off again.
“Point is North had the cash and the willingness to invest. Went on and on about how we need a distillery in the Hook. And the terms seemed good. I had no trouble making the payments until the river froze.”
Most families make their own home brew, and while the quality of the beer varies, it isn’t an arduous task. Same for cider. The barrels used to ferment them are often harder to come by than the ingredients. But liquor is another story. All the rum, gin, and whiskey consumed in the Hook is shipped in from elsewhere. James is smart to recognize that need and try to meet it. Even I can’t fault him for taking the financial risk. After all, last summer North was just another businessman willing to invest in local commerce.
“You didn’t have anything saved to cover the loan during the winter months?”
“Not enough to pay it in full. Which is what North demanded, even though that’s not what he really wanted.”
“What do you mean?”
“He gave me two options when I went to him and said my December payment would be short. Said I could pay the entire loan, plus interest, in full, right then, or sign over a portion of the distillery to him.”
“But you’ve only just started construction.”
He scowls into his ale. “North said it was his way of ‘investing’ in the business. But what he really wanted was thirty percent off the top.” James can tell by my expression that I am outraged on his behalf. “I refused, of course. Ended up in the jail yard and had to sell my Pacer to get out from under his thumb.”
“Thirty percent is outrageous.”
“That’s North. Don’t you see what he’s doing?”
I shake my head.
“He wants to own the entire town.”