Frank Schabert had given her the important-sounding job title “cellar master,” but she was mostly still a glorified janitor, lugging around kegs, pushing mops and brooms, and lifting fat white bags of malt all day. Frank didn’t talk to her much, and neither did his humorless wife, Anna, but the two young dudes, Mo and Matt, were nice and did the grunt work right alongside her most of the time, instead of just ordering her to do everything. Now, much more often, she came home exhausted, but it was a ripe, enlivening physical exhaustion, hatched from productive effort. And even better, she was
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