Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
O f course, Grace had not left a candle burning, because who takes a random candle on vacation? She just couldn’t stand to sit there another minute while Ryan died a thousand deaths.
“I don’t get it,” Wes said for about the hundredth time. “ They’re all so… nice. His dad seemed totally charming until he showed up.”
“I don’t know.” Grace picked at a loose thread in the blanket they’d spread on the beach to watch A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream . “ There was an undercurrent the whole time.” She didn’t know them, but they’d all seemed on edge—his mother and Cait flitting around trying a bit too hard, his father putting on a mask every time he was pulled into conversation, Elspeth watchful and wary.
“An undercurrent? I guess,” Wes said. “ Hope they worked it out once we left.”
Grace nodded. Hope their host hadn’t high-tailed it back to the mainland. “ No one can make you small quite like your family.”
He’d reminded her of a lonely freshman, sitting miserably in his little folding chair, too low for the big dining room table. He looked young and vulnerable as he poked at the potatoes instead of reminding his mother he was vegetarian while everyone hammered him about the house.
Stubborn to the last, he kept glancing at her with a fierceness in his eyes, angry that she and Wes had encroached on the private family moment, daring her to join the public shaming.
“Gray, are you fretting about your Stoic Scot ? Or your book?” Wes asked during intermission.
“My book obviously,” Grace answered too quickly, and Wes raised an eyebrow. “ You know how I get!”
“You’re right,” Wes conceded. “ It’s my fault for expecting a different outcome. But do you think Shakespeare worried this much?” she asked, gesturing at the oceanside stage.
“Probably?”
Wes shook her head. “ He was too busy drinking and fornicating to worry this much. Maybe you should try it.”
“You’re right—about the worrying. I’m not sure you’re right about Shakespeare .”
“Agree to disagree. But ?”
“But it’s not that easy.” When I stop worrying about my new book problems, I start worrying about the landlord reading my old book and calling it brilliant, and what ’ s that supposed to mean?
Had anyone else ever called her words brilliant except maybe the Printz committee?
“It’s not that easy,” she said again. “ I won an award…”
“Hell yeah, you did,” Wes agreed.
“And I’m still not sure my parents take this ‘book thing’?”—she used air quotes—“seriously.”
Wes blinked at her. “ Ah … so dinner was a little triggering?”
Grace looked away. “ I’m sorry I’m ruining your vacation,” she said, nudging Wesley’s shoulder.
“Hey, I’m the one who let old Auntie Eilidh con us into that fiasco back there.”
“Maybe she thought if we were there, they’d all behave.”
“I don’t think that lady’s behaved a day in her life,” Wes snickered. “ I want to be her when I grow up.”
“Why did she invite us then?”
“Because I’m a delightful conversationalist.”
Grace snorted. “ You’re a delightful something, all right.”
“She probably wanted to study you like a specimen in a museum—you know, the rare and migrating writer who leaves her natural habitat only to bury herself in a stone cavern in a foreign land when she’s on a deadline.”
“Rude.”
“You know what might help?”
“Help who?” Grace asked, already guessing where the conversation was headed.
“We could figure out plans for your birthday,” Wes replied, catching her off guard.
Inwardly, Grace groaned. “ You coming on this trip was all the gift I need.”
“Great. Gift sorted. Where do you want to eat and how do you feel about those party cracker things they do over here?”
“Those are for Christmas .”
“Fine. Shortbread or cranachan for dessert?”
“I don’t know what cranachan is.”
“Forget it. I have a better idea for dessert anyway.”
“Oh?”
“You need to get laid.”
Grace groaned and threw her jacket at her friend, who balled it up for a pillow and reclined back on the blanket.
“I’m just saying. Birthday bang could solve all your book problems.”
“Again, I remind you, I write YA .”
“Not everything’s about research. It might help clear your head. Among other things.”
“I hate you.”
“I know. I’m the worst. How dare I care about your physical needs more than you do,” Wes agreed as Demetrius entered the stage pursued by Helena .
It wasn’t Wesley’s fault. She was a girl who loved love and didn’t know all the gory details of Grace’s hang-ups. She only knew it had been a long dry spell. And considering Wes had broken up with her last boyfriend when he proposed because he was—in her words—incapable of finding a clitoris with a flashlight, she couldn’t possibly understand that Grace had less than zero desire to get laid.
All around them, the audience laughed at the antics onstage as characters pranced around their woodsy bacchanal hell-bent on doing just that. Why was midsummer’s eponymous play also one of the horniest? It was starting to feel worse than high school.
And there it was, her book’s theme: Maya , surrounded by sex-obsessed teenagers, while she tried to sort out love and lust and what to do about the boy next door.
Grace itched to take out her phone and jot down the idea before she forgot it, but the problem with the Hebrides in summer was that this play was being performed in broad daylight, and it would be the height of rudeness. If only she’d brought a little notebook, she could pretend to be a theater critic or something.
Instead, she reached in her pocket, her fingers closing around the colorful worry stone. She turned it and turned it, tracing the letters on its soft, cool surface, spelling out her notes to commit them to muscle memory. She would write it all down, quick and dirty, as soon as they got home.
Or, back to the house, rather. His home.
Damn it . Now she was thinking about him again.
She kept on twisting the stone, pretending to pay the slightest attention to Shakespeare .
* * *
“Want to stop at the pub?” Wes asked as they neared the house an hour later. She was probably starving despite having taken her beef Wellington with her and devouring it before the second act.
“I’m sorry, but I? —”
“Have to write. I knew better than to ask.”
“Please don’t ever stop asking,” Grace begged, putting her key in the front door. “ Seriously , don’t.”
It was one of the things she loved most about her friend, that she hadn’t given up trying to force Grace to have fun.
Wes grinned at her, then jumped at the sound of an earsplitting crash.
They looked at each other with eyes the size of frisbees, then dashed inside to find their host had set up a pair of support posts jacked clear to the ceiling and was now attacking the back stone wall with a sledgehammer.
“Oh shit,” Wes said. “ I guess dinner didn’t get better.”
“Ryan?” Grace asked cautiously between hits. “ Is everything okay?”
“My name”— WHAM —“is not”— WHAM —“ Ryan .” WHAM ! WHAM ! WHAM !
Shit . She’d never asked, since literally everyone called him Ryan except the heckler at karaoke.
WHAM.
“Do you think you could?—”
WHAM.
“Stop hitting the wall?”
He stopped himself mid-swing and turned, swaying off balance. “ Were you trying to write? I didn’t think you were home.”
His face was red, but he was eerily calm, despite the sledgehammer and cracking stone.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Grace asked.
“Nothing to talk about. This was next on the list.”
She glanced at her watch. It was nine p.m., despite the bright light outside.
“Lùcas is going to be really bummed you started without him,” Wes interjected.
Grace put a gentle hand on his arm, so he let the hammer slide to the floor.
“Everyone calls you Ryan …”
He flinched, and this time Grace didn’t see annoyance, she saw pain.
“Everyone except that guy at karaoke. He called you?—”
“B- B - B - Bryan ,” he imitated, his face set like stone.
“I thought you had some kind of crazy alter ego as a DJ .”
“No. I had a…” His throat contracted, and his mouth tightened into a grimace. He took a breath. “ I have a s-stammer.”
In that moment he looked like such an ashamed little boy with a pasted-on beard, and every punched B and P came flooding back to Grace .
“Well, if Grace loses her hearing, we can be the perfect trio,” Wes piped up. “ Hear no evil, see no evil…”
“So they all call you Ryan because?—”
“Had trouble with my B ’s .”
“That’s so fucked up,” Wes said, and when they both turned to her, she added, “ I’m going to go pee,” and made herself scarce.
Grace had a weird urge to reach out and hug the man before her. She stuck her hand in her pocket to twirl the worry stone instead. “ Why didn’t you tell me I was calling you by the wrong name all week?”
He took a deep breath and huffed it back out. “ Much the same reason you didn’t tell Caitriona you go by Rios and we didn’t tell Wes my cousin Eòghann isn’t a priest.”
Her heart squeezed a little bit. She was putting together more and more of a picture about why he left and why he stayed away so long. Casting around for the right thing to say, she finally landed on, “ Family can be the worst, can’t they?”
He huffed again, half laughing. “ Aye , well, me too.”
She laughed. “ Oh definitely. You’re at the top of my worst list. Before Putin . Before Sister Mary Agnes , even.”
“Christ. There truly is no hope for me then.”
They were silent for a moment, taking up a little too much of each other’s space. Where was Wes ? Grace twisted the worry stone.
“I take it dinner didn’t improve?”
“I wish you hadn’t witnessed that.”
Grace wanted to say she was sorry he had to experience it, and especially sorry there were witnesses. “ Is it just the reno?” she asked.
He shook his head. “ It’s everything. Going away but not to uni. Keeping away for years on end. Missing Grandad’s wake, when they think I was his favorite.”
He frowned, fighting off tears, it looked like.
“Well… fuck ’em,” she said, because it was all she could think of.
He burst out laughing. Then he sighed. “ I didn’t intend to tell them about the distillery, not until I know Jules is all in. Didn’t want to have to face them if I fail.”
“Then I guess you can’t fail, Bryan ,” Grace said, and that name sounded right. It fit Mr . Bee in a way Ryan never had.
He nodded and shook his head at the same time, still scowling.
“You want to go to the pub, Bryan ? I was going to write, but I don’t have to.”
“No. I had an idea in mind for the two of you—before everything went to hell,” he added, eyeing the wall. “ Give me ten minutes to clean up?”
He was covered in plaster dust, and when Grace raised her eyebrows, he looked around sheepishly. “ Maybe twenty.”
* * *
While Bryan showered, Grace took a moment to jot down her ideas from the intermission.
Bryan.
God, how embarrassing. She’d been calling him by an insulting childhood nickname for over a week now. She thought about telling him he could taunt her with Gordita Gracie as her penance, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it.
“Everything okay with our Stoic Scot ?” Wes finally asked.
“Why are families so adept at making the good things bad?”
“Maybe I’m not the best person to answer that.”
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Grace said.
Now her friend’s eyes narrowed. “ Why ?”
“Well. Because . You …”
“I am mature enough to realize that having a shit dad might sometimes be worse than losing an okay one. I only meant, you know, I was six when my dad deployed, eight and a half when he died, my mom hasn’t been super present, but she hasn’t ruined anything. Just , you guys are my family. So please don’t ruin anything.”
Grace grabbed her friend and hugged her tight, squeezing into the hug every ounce of the ditto that would sound trite if she said it out loud.
There was a knock at the door, and Bryan called, “ Y’all ready?” affecting a terrible Southern accent.
“That ruined it,” Grace said.
“Definitely,” Wes laughed before hollering back, “ Hell yeah, we’re ready,” in a far more Southern accent than Grace considered strictly necessary.
“You don’t have any idea what he’s planning,” Grace hissed.
“I’d be up for anything with that man. And so should you.”
Grace rolled her eyes and stomped past her friend to the door.
“So, what’s the big surprise, Bryan ?” she asked, aware that using his correct name as often as possible was just making it weird instead of making up for the past.
In the kitchen, a rock playlist droned softly from a Bluetooth speaker, and Bryan stood on the opposite side of the counter like a bartender with his cuffs turned up just enough for the bee tattoo to peek out. What magic in his shower had transformed him from an angry bear into this suave host?
“Welcome.” He gestured them to the two stools he had pulled up to the bar, and a charcuterie board he’d prepared over to the side. “ Ssstill or sparkling?” he asked, holding up a fancy bottle of water in each hand.
“Sparkling, please,” Wes trilled. “ I’m all about those bubbles.”
“Wise lady.” Bryan set down the bottle and two tumblers.
“Thanks, Bryan ,” Grace said, unable to stop overusing his name. She needed to say something rude quick to put them back on equal footing.
His eyes flicked to hers. “ You’re welcome, Rios ,” he said before she could think of anything, and it made her tummy do a little somersault.
“Aren’t you joining us?” Wes asked, digging into the mouthwatering slices of meat and cheese and briny olives. “ I mean, not this part, obviously,” she added, mouth full as she pointed to the meat.
“No, this is all for you. Fill up, and then I have a s-special treat.”
“This isn’t the treat?” Grace asked.
“This is an ordinary treat, not a special one.”
“Oh! We like special treats, don’t we Gray ?”
“We sure do, Wes .”
“Thank you, Bryan ,” Wes teased.
“Thank you, Bryan ,” Grace echoed, and she could see the tops of his cheeks redden above his beard.
Once they put a good dent in the charcuterie, he produced two plaid bandanas folded up like blindfolds. Wesley’s eyebrows shot up as she darted a look back and forth between Grace and their host, her filthy mind going places Grace didn’t want to imagine.
“Go on,” Bryan prompted when neither of them moved.
“Mr. MacNeil , just what are you proposing?” Wes asked saucily as she reached for a blue and green blindfold, and if he’d proposed a threesome, Grace was pretty sure Wes would say yes on the spot.
Vacation is for food and orgasms . And they’d already eaten food. Her pulse sped up, preparing to take flight.
Bryan looked down at the bandanas as though surprised by their hesitation. “ Taste test,” he said, like the obtuse male specimen that he was.
“It’s not haggis, is it?” Wes asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Different kinds of cheese straws?” Grace asked, daring to be hopeful.
“Neither,” he beamed. “ It’s whisky.”
Wes and Grace exchanged uncertain glances.
“I’m game,” Wes said. “ But why the blindfolds? We don’t know anything about Scotch anyway.”
“The color can alter your… perception of the flavor,” he said, offering the other bandana to Grace . “ And it’s more fun.”
She didn’t really want to taste more whisky. Wasn’t it all the same? But she had an inkling of what he was trying to do for Wes , and it was unbearably kind. He was making it damned hard for her to dislike him.
So she took the plaid and tied it around her eyes.
“If you prefer not to s-s-swallow”— Grace’s face burned beneath her bandana. Was she the only one hearing innuendo in every other word? Bryan went on without missing a beat—“ I’ll forgive you for using this mug,” he said, putting Grace’s hand on a ceramic handle, and she felt a tiny bit better, if rattled by the slight frisson running up her arm to her flushed cheeks.
She listened carefully as he uncorked a bottle and poured two splashes before placing one gently in her hands, tickling her palm ever so slightly as he pulled away. The glass wasn’t a straight-sided tumbler, but rounder and tapered, and her tingling hand almost knocked it over.
“The Glencairn glass,” he rumbled softly in that deep Scottish burr, as he covered her hand to help steady it, “is designed to let you give the dram a nice whirl, opening the nose. What do you smell?”
Grace leaned down to give it a sniff. At first, she was hit by the strong scent of alcohol, but then she realized there was a whole rich tapestry behind it.
“Barbecue smoke?” Wes asked.
“Aye, that’ll be the peat.”
“And something sweet. Sort of a peppery chocolate. Do you smell that, Gray ?”
“I smell Band - Aids in the ocean,” Grace said, feeling like she was letting them both down.
“Well done,” Bryan laughed. “ Now taste it. Hold it on your tongue and roll it for a moment.”
When Grace swallowed, it burned all the way down, allowing her to trace its path to her stomach by the warmth it left behind.
“Bacon,” Wes gasped. “ Sweet , smoky bacon!”
“It really does taste like a campfire,” Grace agreed, trying not to cough. “ But also… cinnamon?”
“Yes! Cinnamon vanilla toffee,” Wes agreed.
“Is it a little bit fruity? Is there fruit in whisky?” Grace asked.
“Or like… olive brine?” Wesley suggested. “ What is this? It’s like a symphony on my tongue.”
“It’s not what I expected, for sure,” Grace agreed.
“Very good. Is this really your first time?” Bryan asked, and Grace burned at the innuendo, intentional or not. “?’ Tis called Ardbeg Rionnagach , from the Isle of Islay , renowned for its sssmoky, peated drams.”
“I’ve never tasted anything like it,” Wes said with wonder.
Grace thought maybe she had, the other night when she and Bryan had shared a drink on the back patio, but if so, she hadn’t fully appreciated it, and she didn’t want to embarrass herself by asking in case it was a different whisky entirely. Across the bar, she could almost feel him puffing up with pride, and she thought maybe she understood a little better why he wanted to open a distillery.
“If you like, here’s some chocolate to bring out different notes,” he said, handing Grace a quarter-sized foil-wrapped candy. “ And your water’s just there.”
“Wow, just wow,” Wes said. “ Oh , that’s good chocolate too.”
“Toast for a cleanser,” he offered.
“There’s more?” Wes asked like an awe-struck little kid at Christmas .
“Oh, aye, a whole tour. We’re leaving the Islands and on to the Highlands next.”
He poured again, and this time there was no smoke. It was sweeter, fruitier, creamier.
“Reminds me of Kentucky bourbon,” Wes said. “ But I like this more.”
“Glengoyne 10,” Bryan told them. “ A few drops of water can change the flavor, too.”
“Mary mixed her whisky with water in Downton Abbey ,” Grace murmured.
“That’s ’cause Michelle Dockery likes hers that way,” he said.
“Wait, what?” Grace asked.
“I was an extra a few times, it’s not important. May I add a drop of water to yours?” he asked, brushing her fingers as he came near with the water.
“Sure,” she managed, hiding her breathlessness in the tulip-shaped glass until he moved away. “ Now I taste almonds,” she observed.
“Oh, me too,” Wes agreed.
“You’re quite good at this game,” Bryan told them, and Grace thought she could bask in the glow of his praise forever, no matter if he was a braggy- Mac - I -met- Lady - Mary -when- I -was-an-extra -braggerson.
“Ready for the next?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” Wes said enthusiastically.
“How many are there?” Grace asked, trying not to feel alarmed by the warmth spreading through her belly and out her limbs. It was only a few sips of each, and they were taking their time, but she didn’t trust her own decision making after hard liquor.
“Thought we’d do five, one for each region.”
“Perfect,” Wes agreed.
Grace could actually feel her own smile freeze in place as panic welled up inside her. “ Are you trying to get us drunk, MacNeil ?”
“Use the mug if you like,” he said evenly.
“Don’t you dare spit out good booze, Gray ,” Wes chided. “ We’re on vacation!”
Beneath her blindfold, Grace rolled her eyes, but if he wanted to get her drunk, he wouldn’t have given her the mug. She took a breath and tried to relax.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, either,” Wes added.
“How did you?—”
“I could hear them!”
Bryan chuckled, and Grace shoved a bite of bread in her mouth to keep from saying something rude. Why was it the best bread she’d ever eaten?
“What’s next?” Wes asked.
“Macallan 12,” he said, unstoppering the bottle with a satisfying pop.
“What does the number mean?” Wes asked.
“Years aged. This is a Speyside , from the Spey River in the northeast. Might remind you of a Christmas pudding.”
Grace was hyperaware as he leaned forward to splash the Speyside in her glass, a wave of his own fresh sandalwood scent washing over her and leaving her heady. When his shadow backed away without taking his sandalwood with him, she inhaled deeply into her glass to settle her nerves. The dram did sort of smell like Christmas .
“Fruity,” Wes observed.
“Aye. You might catch a hint of ginger, as well.”
Grace tasted it, letting the spicy flavor roll around her tongue and burn its way down her throat. Either she was adjusting to the liquor, or this one was very smooth.
“I like it,” Wes declared. “ If that’s meant to remind me of Christmas pudding, I’ll have to try one.”
“Aye? The winner, is it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I should probably go back and sample them all again.”
Bryan didn’t reply, just pushed the bread and chocolates closer to them.
“You’re smiling,” Wes told him. “ I can hear it in your breath, but I’m not kidding. I only ever mixed Jack with Coke to get drunk at parties, aside from my grandma’s mint juleps.”
“Ah, the infamous mint julep,” Bryan replied, and now Grace could hear his amused smile too.
“Have you ever tried one?” Wesley asked.
“Afraid not.”
“It’s gross,” Grace said, and then felt them both turn towards her. “ What ? Steeplechase was like the highlight of my mom’s whole year.”
“She has an unsophisticated palate,” Wes told Bryan .
“Clearly,” he agreed.
“I… don’t hate these!”
Bryan barked out a laugh that warmed her almost as much as the whisky. She liked the way his laughs seemed to burst out of him like he was so unaccustomed to it they even caught him by surprise. She also liked being at least partially responsible for it. Laughter looked—and sounded—good on him.
“Maybe that will be my distillery’s tagline. Finnbar . You won ’ t hate it. ”
“It’s not the worst slogan,” Grace said, a little sheepish. She didn’t hate it. In fact, she was enjoying herself more than she ought to be.
“Not the worst is exactly what I was going for. And for the record, these are far above to any bourbon. No offense.”
Wes snorted, but Grace found herself grinning for no reason.
“What is it you like so much about whisky?” she asked, emboldened by the alcohol and the blindfold. Somehow , despite making her feel more vulnerable, she also found it easier to talk to him.
His clothes rustled, and Grace could picture him shrugging his shoulders practically up to his ears.
“Where else can you find a whole industry known worldwide by a common name unless it comes from one country? There’s whisky, and then there’s Scotch .”
Grace tried to think of another example, but cheddar wasn’t quite the same.
“A million different ways to make it, and all of them ours. Every drop is infused with history and culture, tradition and innovation, perseverance and love. Maybe a little Celtic alchemy.”
“Wow,” Wes said. “ And Finnbar ?”
“Patron saint of the island.”
Grace nodded. Bryan’s passionate homage to his country’s national drink made her throat feel thick, and she took a long gulp of fizzy water.
“Ready for more?” he asked.
Whisky she could take or leave, but hearing him wax poetic in his low, growly burr? More of that, please. All day, every day.
He poured a lowland next. “ You mentioned bourbon. This Auchentoshan American Oak was aged in bourbon casks.”
“That’s where the sweetness comes from?” Wes asked. “ I swear I taste coconut cream.”
Grace was starting to think maybe they all just tasted the same, or maybe like whatever you were hungry for, but she enjoyed listening to the game enough to play along.
“Coconut, definitely,” she agreed.
They moved on to the final selection, a ten-year-old Campbeltown called Springbank , which Bryan said was a mix of a little of everything: bourbon casks and sherry casks, and light peat for a sweet, smoky finish.
It was pretty good, and not just because she was tipsy.
“Ohhh, I like this one,” Wes gushed. “ You saved the best for last.”
“Aye? A winner after all?”
“One hundred percent.”
“What about you?” he asked, handing Grace some more chocolate, brushing his fingers against hers once more in a way that made the heat in her stomach spread out like fireworks through her whole body.
“This one was nice. But I think the first was my favorite. Which is yours?”
“Mine?” he rasped, in a tone that sounded surprised.
Grace pushed the blindfold up and blinked at him in the sudden brightness.
“Surely one of them’s your favorite?”
“Ah,” he said, relaxing a little.
After being deprived of her vision for the past little while, everything about him just seemed so much more—more vibrant, more scruffy, more handsome, more hungry.
“Impossible to choose,” he said.
“Was it your favorite from each region?” Wes asked, still blindfolded and sniffing each empty glass again in turn.
“Aye.”
“What’s your favorite region?” she asked.
“Islay. But I may be… biased.”
Grace noticed his throat working hard to produce the word with barely a hitch.
“Biased?” Wes asked.
Bryan nodded, though she was still blindfolded and he was staring at Grace . “ I worked under a master distiller there the last ten years. The Rionnagach was mine.”
“Shut up!” Now Wes ripped off her blindfold as both she and Grace stared at him, dumbfounded, and his cheeks turned scarlet as heat swept down his throat and up to the tips of his ears.
“Yours?” Grace repeated. “ Like you made it?”
He nodded shyly.
“Let me taste it again,” Wes demanded, and he poured her another tiny dram.
She closed her eyes and savored it. “ I was wrong,” she finally said. “ The Campbeltown was exceptional, but this campfire shit is where it’s at. Final answer.”
Bryan rolled his eyes at her a little, but he was obviously bursting with pride.
“You saved the best for first,” Grace agreed. “ I don’t know how you even begin to create something like this.”
His blush deepened, and he studied the floor. “ You create whole worlds,” he mumbled. “ This is just ssscience.”