Beguiled by Bourbon, page 2
“Plus I have to pick up Chloe,” Gavin said. “My fiancée,” he explained to us. “She’ll kill me if she misses this party!”
The guys laughed.
“I should clean up the bar in the tasting room,” I said, though I really wanted to get out of these clothes. I shivered as a breeze blew through, sending a shower of colorful leaves spiraling out of the trees to the bluegrass lawn.
“I’ve got somebody on it,” Gavin said.
“Thank you so much.” I was only a little embarrassed. Gavin had been nothing but helpful for the past two days, and he had a way of making me feel at home.
“No problem,” he said.
“Get dry,” Royce added. “I’ll see you soon. And thanks, Gavin.” He waved and walked away as Gavin gestured for us to follow him.
“What happened to you?” Neil murmured as we trailed after him.
“Oh, you know, going swimming, totally ignoring my responsibilities.”
I was pretty sure I heard Neil swallow at my sarcasm. “Ah. Um. You had an accident?”
“I had to retrieve Astra from the stream before the water wheel crushed her into the next bourbon mash.” Maybe I sounded a little melodramatic, but his lack of faith in me stung. And he didn’t need to know about the cat.
“You’re OK, right?”
“As you can see. Just cold, now.”
“We’ll get you into a hot shower,” Neil said.
Melody snorted.
“I—I mean,” he stammered, “you can have a hot shower, and then we’ll all get ready for the cocktail party.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“What is this inn?” he asked.
“I haven’t seen it either,” I said as Astra snored against my shoulder. Impertinent dog! “Royce’s people moved my stuff over there this morning. I was staying at his place for the past two nights.”
“You were staying with Royce?” Now Neil’s tone changed. I tried not to smile. Royce had no interest in me. In fact, he’d expressed interest in Barclay while we were in London, but Barclay already had a girlfriend.
I played it cool. “He has a massive old mansion on the property. I mean, not Mark Fairman level of mansion, but plenty big.” There. Mentioning the London distiller always raised Neil’s blood pressure, since Mark liked flirting with me. Mark and his entourage would be coming in later. “I’m told the inn is an old farmhouse that usually functions as a bed and breakfast. Royce is letting special guests use it this weekend for the big debut and the bourbon fest. That includes us.”
“I see.” I could almost hear the wheels turning in Neil’s big brain.
“Here we are,” Gavin said. “Let’s load up, and I’ll show you the inn.” He pointed to two golf carts, one big enough to hold six people. They were parked next to my car, the Angry Orange, a small, rotund Honda Fit.
Both carts had roofs, which was a good thing, because clouds were moving in. I didn’t want to get wet again. If I ever got dry, that is.
A few minutes later, loaded up in the carts, we trundled down a wide lane of fine gravel between the trees. Gavin drove the smaller cart with Neil and some of the luggage while Barclay drove the other. Luke sat in the front with him while Melody and I chatted in the second row, with the rest of the suitcases behind us.
“How was the flight to Louisville?” I asked her as the guys in front of us bantered about Barclay’s driving.
“Fine, with alcohol. Barclay used vouchers to upgrade to first class while the rest of us were jammed together in the back.”
“Long drive from the airport?”
“About an hour. Not bad. But let’s talk about what’s really going on,” Melody said knowingly. “I heard you getting Neil’s goat.”
“He deserved it. I have everything under control.”
“Except you are soaked through, and so is your dog.”
“Astra happens sometimes.”
Melody laughed. “So what is happening with you two? I mean you and Neil, not you and Astra. You should be, I don’t know, setting the sheets on fire by now.”
I harrumphed. “We made real progress in London, as you know.” I’d told Melody about Neil kissing me at the top of the Eye, the great wheel next to the Thames. “But we’re sputtering. I don’t know how to describe it.”
“Maybe he’s too good for you.”
I shot her a shocked look. “What?”
Melody grinned. “I mean maybe he’s actually good for you, unlike other guys you’ve dated, and that scares you.”
I thought about this for a minute. “You mean because it might be more … real?”
“Yeah. Something—someone—you could commit to.”
“And you’re saying this out of what experience?” I teased.
“Come on. I get it. You’re looking at Miss Commitment Phobia here.”
I laughed. But I had a feeling she was right. Which was scary. I’d had my share of guys, but almost none of them were good for me, at least for more than a weekend. And I’d been scarred by my longest-term boyfriend back when I was hopelessly naive—Mr. Mixy, aka Stephan Sully, now a big-bearded celebrity mixologist who’d already arrived with his TV crew.
I’d become a lot more picky recently, but I wasn’t used to being with someone who was actually good for me. And Neil was a good guy. Besides, I was skeptical of any club that would have me as a member, as the saying goes.
My speculation ended when we reached the inn, a rambling two-story white clapboard farmhouse with a big front porch and a huge addition on the back. A sign made from the top of a whiskey barrel hung on the wall by the door, with “Coppercopia Inn” burned into the wood.
The golf cart path met up with a long driveway that went out to a road so real cars could get in, too. We parked in a designated space, where Gavin showed us where to plug in the cart to charge the battery.
“We have rooms for each of you,” Gavin said as we all grabbed bags. “Eleanor will make sure you have what you need. She’s made a quick meal for y’all too. I have to head back. You can hang on to the big cart and drive it to the venue. The party tonight will be in the reception area and the tasting room where Pepper’s been working, so just come right on over whenever you’re ready. You have a couple of hours. She can show you the way.”
Everyone looked at me. “Yes,” I affirmed, perhaps more stridently than necessary. “I can. Thanks for everything, Gavin.”
“Glad to help. See you later.” Gavin trundled off in the smaller cart, and we brought our stuff into the inn. A roomy, comfortable seating area featured a big TV, game table, bookshelves, a rustic fireplace and, of course, a bar, currently unmanned. Through an arched doorway on one side, a large dining room sported flowers on the dark-wood table and a huge antique sideboard covered in snacks and soft drinks.
“Let’s meet in an hour and a half and head back for prep,” Neil told all of us as Eleanor, presumably, entered the room.
“I’m manager and chef here at the inn,” said the thirtysomething redhead, dressed in black jeans and a dark green blouse, her hair barely tamed in two thick braids. Eleanor doled out keys, all for rooms on the second floor, and told us she would set out heartier fare in the dining room.
I’d put my boots back on, but my socks squished inside them as we trudged up the stairs. I finally let Astra loose, and she trotted up next to me.
My room happened to be next to Neil’s. Great. I’d be imagining him on the other side of the wall all night long. Fine. I certainly wasn’t ready to have him on my side of the wall.
He and I just nodded at each other, both out of sorts, and headed into our sanctuaries. I closed the door behind me.
Antiques adorned the room, not huge but big enough. I pushed down on the bed, draped with a pretty old quilt in pale greens, pinks and cream that complemented the off-white walls. Super comfy. No time for a nap, though.
All my stuff was already here, including Astra’s crate. She sniffed it. “Not yet, girl. You need a b-a-t-h, and so do I.” I pulled out the bottle of her shampoo I’d packed just in case and gave her a quick bath in the mercifully modern tub. I didn’t trust myself getting in and out of one of those clawfoot deals, and this had a nice shower, too. As a gently blow-dried Astra settled into her crate bedding to snooze, I got cleaned up and dressed for the cocktail party.
Usually Melody got creative when planning our clothes for these occasions, but Neil was very clear about tonight: Traditional all the way. Black pants, white shirts, staid vests with non-tropical colors, and bow ties. Melody argued we’d get better tips if she and I were allowed open collars, and he said there would be no tips—Royce was paying us quite enough. But at her wheedling, he relented on the top buttons and bow ties. I was pleased. The girls had to breathe, and let’s face it: They were my best asset.
I put up my hair again and added cocktail shaker earrings, my nerdy glasses and my good-luck leather bracelet adorned with beads and a gator tooth. A deep red lipstick went on last. Yeah, I could rock the Plain Jane look when I wanted to.
After I’d walked Astra and settled her back in the room—Eleanor, a dog lover, promised to take good care of her—we scarfed down sandwiches and sides and headed outside to the porch.
I wrinkled my nose. “Ugh. It’s raining. It was so nice earlier today.”
“It’s not too bad,” Barclay said, trotting down the front steps and claiming the driver’s seat of the big golf cart. He started it and flipped on its headlights. “Makes it kind of dark, though.”
“At least the gravel isn’t slick. Shotgun!” I climbed into the seat next to him as the others piled in. Neil gave me a funny look and sat in the very back with his big bartender bag. Melody and a delighted Luke—who still pined for her—took the middle. Barclay wheeled us around, and we headed back toward the main campus.
As we crunched along the gravel in the gloomy rain, my phone rang from inside my big bag. I pulled it out and accepted the video call.
“Aunt Celestine!” Her silver-streaked curly red hair just about filled the tiny phone screen, but I could tell she lounged by the pool behind our duplex. My half adjoined hers; we shared a wall and the dog. Twilight was brighter in Florida, and the palm trees swayed against a sunset sky in the background.
“How are my girls?” she asked in her warm voice.
“We took an unexpected swim earlier. Mishap with Astra. But we’re OK.”
“You look nice.”
I smiled. “Thanks. What’s up?” It wasn’t like her to just check on me, especially when we’d talked last night.
“I got a call from your mother.”
Uh-oh.
3
My mother, Evangeline, and Aunt Celestine were sisters, but they couldn’t be more different. My parents ran a church in New Orleans and went on missions regularly. Aunt Celestine was a free spirit, a former NASA engineer who’d invested well and retired early to write best-selling books on herbs and natural healing. She’d also been my guardian when my parents shooed me off to Florida after Hurricane Katrina. They had what seemed like good reasons at the time, with New Orleans in tatters, but they never invited me back. My relationship with them hadn’t improved much since.
“What’s up?” I asked my aunt, dreading bad news.
“They’re OK. In fact, they’re more than OK. They’ve come into some money.”
“How nice for them,” I said.
“A lot of money. Several million dollars left to them by a parishioner several weeks ago. I think she wanted me to tell you all this so she wouldn’t have to tell you herself.”
I huffed. “I don’t care. I really don’t.”
“That’s good, honey, because she made it pretty clear they’re using the money for the church. In other words, you’re not going to get any of it.”
“Just a sec.” We’d entered the parking lot, and I pointed to the service road that would take us to the visitor center. Barclay nodded and drove that way as I talked to my aunt again. “I appreciate the call, but I don’t want their money. I don’t need anything from them, no small thanks to you being awesome.” Her smile just about filled the tiny screen. “And why would I even know about this if she didn’t tell you about it?”
“Apparently there were some news stories in New Orleans. Maybe she thought you’d hear about it.”
I shook my head. “I don’t have a Google alert set up for my parents. I wish them well, but that’s as far as it goes. Thanks for telling me, though.”
“I’m glad you’re OK with it. But I’d understand if you weren’t.”
“I’m fine. And Aunt Celestine?”
“Yes, honey?”
“I love you.”
She smiled again. “And I’m proud of you. Talk to you later.”
Barclay glanced over when I ended the call. “I couldn’t help hearing some of that. Dude. It’s like you won the lottery and lost the ticket.”
I laughed. “I won the lottery when Aunt Celestine took me in. And when I met all of you goofballs.”
He gave me one of his wise smiles and nodded. A moment later, we entered the small lot for staff carts behind the visitor center and parked.
We got only a little wet as we dashed between the raindrops and hustled inside the back door. The tourists were gone, but several employees scurried around the high-ceilinged reception hall, setting up food kiosks and displays touting Royce’s new whiskey, which wouldn’t be offered to guests until tomorrow.
Wood rafters and posts, memorabilia-covered walls, strategic warm lighting and a tinted concrete floor gave the space a soft industrial feel, inviting and impressive. Perhaps the most striking feature of the big room was a brick wall embedded with vertically stacked windows that went up three stories. They framed a gorgeous copper column still in the working part of the distillery. Resembling a large pipe studded with portholes, it rose into the rafters like a steampunk skyscraper.
The tasting room, where we’d be working, lay through the double doors on an adjoining wall. A couple of windows in the wall made it feel like part of the larger space.
Royce talked earnestly at a swag table with two men I recognized from my work around the place the last two days. He saw us come into the lobby and gestured us over.
“Neil and friends,” Royce said, “I’d like you to meet Tom Vanover and his son, Asher. Their marketing firm is helping me launch the new whiskey.”
Tom, a fit fifty-something with a ruddy complexion and slightly wet silvering black hair, wore a sport jacket and open-collar shirt. He smiled. “I see y’all got caught in the rain too. Not a nice night, is it?” He nodded at me and shook the others’ hands.
Asher, who looked like he was barely drinking age, had dark brown hair that hung damply in his eyes and a preppy style—two layered button-up shirts, no socks and brown and white saddle shoes. He didn’t bother to engage. I wasn’t surprised. He seemed shy to the point of agony. Not a great trait for a marketer.
“Asher’s learning the family business,” Tom told Neil. “He got in a couple of years of college studying computers, so he’s my go-to guy for graphics and websites. Just in case you need anything.”
Tom elbowed Asher, who straightened up and produced a weak smile. “I can do it all,” he said, as if he’d been coached. I felt for the guy. His dad was a hard-driving schmoozer, and if you didn’t inherit the gene, it was hard to live up to all that extroversion.
“You’re handling the printed menus?” Neil asked them.
“Yes indeed,” Tom said. “Pepper’s kept us up to date. We’ll have them for the luncheon tomorrow and the big launch party. Right, Asher?”
“Got them already. They’re all right,” Asher said.
“They’re gorgeous!” Tom corrected him with a trace of annoyance.
“I’m sure they are,” Neil replied. Then he turned to me with a smile that said, “Sorry for doubting you.” And also, “Please don’t be pissed at me.”
I raised an eyebrow at him and turned to Royce. “Did our supplies make it?”
He nodded. “The guys from the restaurant just brought everything into the tasting room. All set!”
“Fantastic.” I looked at my friends. “Ready?”
The tasting room had a warm glow at night, thanks to subtle lighting and the rich wooden floors and accents. The gas fireplace’s flames added to the ambience, and one of Royce’s assistants roamed the room, turning on the LED candles on each table. She smiled and nodded at us before heading out of the room to join the bustle.
Gavin’s minions had already cleaned up my minor mess on the tasting room’s bar and stacked my tools next to the sink. I felt a little guilty but relieved, too, as I saw and smelled the boxes full of our ingredients. Mainly mint and lemons.
So many lemons.
We’d already talked over the recipes in our crew’s online chat, and with feedback and testing, we’d come up with tasty options for the weekend. But like our clothes, tonight, our cocktails would lean toward the traditional. We’d go back to the late 1800s for a whiskey smash, and for that, we began chunking lemons and gathering mint leaves that would be muddled in a shaker, joined by simple syrup and bourbon, shaken with ice, then served in a rocks glass and garnished with a gently spanked mint sprig.
I checked the fridge; it was stuffed with the bottles of freshly pressed apple cider I’d ordered from a nearby orchard. Those were for our second cocktail, an Apple Cider Sour to celebrate the beautiful fall weather. At least I hoped it would be beautiful again tomorrow.
The cider would join lemon juice—which Barclay began squeezing with an electric squeezer Royce had provided—as well as triple sec, bourbon and orange bitters in a shaker. We’d serve it in a stemmed Nick and Nora glass for style points, with a slice of lemon.
As we worked to get ready before the crowd arrived, a man I didn’t recognize came through the double doors bearing a guitar case and other equipment. None of us said anything, though Melody’s “Hmmm” made me look twice at him. I could see her interest. He was handsome, with short, dark-blond hair, pale blue eyes with fine lines at the corners, a square jaw dusted with scruff, and freckles. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt. And probably even better from Melody’s point of view, he was a musician. She really liked musicians, given that she’d once tried to make it as a singer in New York and still did an open-mike night now and then.
