Chapter 33 #2
Josephine looked up. “Really? We’re done?”
“No, but I sense you are.”
She returned his smile. “Why don’t you give me a condensed version of the rest. In case Mr. Daniel quizzes me.”
Dodge obliged, continuing with details she’d never remember.
“After the barrels are filled, they’re rolled into barrel houses to mature.
Summer heat expands the wood and whiskey seeps into the charred oak.
Winter cool contracts it and pushes it back.
That’s what ages and colors it. About four years, give or take. ”
“Four years?”
“Good whiskey can’t be hurried.”
That earned him a look. “So after four years, you bottle it?”
“Not exactly. Each barrel’s similar, and unique. We don’t depend only on time, but taste and color. Aroma and flavor, too. And not all of what goes in comes out.” Warmth lit his eyes. “Some evaporates. We call that the angel’s share.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The portion lost to the air.” He shrugged as if it were a simple fact. “A gift, as distillers like to say. Offered up to heaven.”
“I seriously doubt heaven wants that gift.”
“Probably not.” He laughed. “Uncle Jack tastes barrels nearly every day to know when they’re ready. Then we have a team of tasters who gather on Fridays.”
She paused. “And are you one of them?”
“If I say yes, will you think less of me?”
“Only if you say you enjoy it.”
He held her gaze. “Then I’ll pass on answering.” Humor layered his tone, then faded. “I know it likely pains you to see how the distillery is growing.”
“It does,” she admitted, and he didn’t push. “Because I’ve seen what alcohol does to families.” She offered a truce smile. “And don’t worry, I’m not giving you another speech. But I would like to ask you something.”
He nodded, patient.
“The other night you said suffrage ideas had cost you dearly. What did you mean?”
He hesitated as though weighing how much to share. “I’m a little surprised you haven’t already heard. This town’s rumor mill has a long memory, and seems to take pleasure in a person’s downfall.”
“Nothing I’d know about personally,” she said, looking up.
His gaze softened. “My sister Kathleen, Bethie’s mother, was younger than me.
When our parents were dying, I promised I’d keep watch over her.
I was seventeen. She was about Bethie’s age.
A spitfire. Wanted to see the world.” He looked away.
“When she was sixteen, a traveling salesman came through. Turned women’s heads—especially hers.
He fed her every line she wanted to hear.
I should’ve seen it coming.” His voice roughened.
“One morning I woke to find a note. She’d run off to marry him and see the world.
” A bitter laugh escaped. “He showed her the world all right.”
Josephine winced. “Did you know where they went?”
“No. And no one remembered him saying where he was from. I went to Tullahoma, talked to ticket clerks, porters, shop owners—anyone who might have seen them. It’s like they’d just disappeared.”
“How did you find her?”
“I didn’t.” His jaw went rigid. “She wrote me four months later. Said she was with child. He’d left her in Nashville a month earlier.
She’d lived on the streets until a widows-and-orphans home took her in.
” He swallowed. “She said she was too ashamed to come home. But she was scared. And she had nowhere else.”
“Oh, Dodge . . .” Her voice broke. “I’m so sorry.”
“So am I. Still.” He stared at the vat as if he could will the past into order.
“I was working sunup to sundown, trying to prove myself to Uncle Jack and anyone else looking. If I’d been paying attention, if my focus had been where it should’ve been, Kathleen wouldn’t have slipped away.
I would’ve stopped her.” He exhaled. “Don’t misunderstand me.
I would never wish Bethie away. I cannot imagine my world without her. ”
“No, of course not.” Josephine’s throat tightened. “You only wish you could’ve spared your sister that pain.”
He nodded, eyes lowered.
“But I still don’t understand what you meant about suffrage ideas costing you dearly.”
He looked back. “Ever heard of Lucy Stone and The Woman’s Journal?”
The bitterness in his tone made her flinch. “Of course. She’s a hero of the movement.”
“Kathleen read that journal almost like Scripture. I didn’t know what it was—I thought it was like Godey’s Lady’s Book.
But more and more, she talked about voting rights, education, labor, marriage reform.
Then along came a man who agreed with everything she said.
Told her everything she wanted to hear. In order to get everything he wanted. ” His voice went rough. “And he did.”
Josephine’s heart squeezed. “Which explains why you read everything Bethie reads.”
“And why I won’t let her young mind be filled with ideas that could cause her enormous heartache.
” He paused. “It’ll come as a surprise to you, Josephine, but I do agree with many of the suffrage ideals.
But the cost has to be weighed. And in my opinion, it’s too great a price to pay. At least for Bethie. For now.”
She wanted to challenge him. But from her own experience, she couldn’t. “I understand,” she said softly.
A faint murmur rose from beneath the floor.
Dodge pointed down. “They’re drawing whiskey. Want to see?”
“I think I’ve seen enough. You showed me the vats, so Mr. Daniel’s requirements are met—for the most part.”
A faint smile. “Not quite.” He tapped the rim of the vat. “Uncle Jack insists every guest gets a good whiff of Old No. 7 in the making.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m afraid not.” He gripped the edge of the lid. “You ready?”
“Should I hold my breath?”
“No, but maybe step back a little.”
She did. He lifted the lid and let it drop.
The smell punched her square in the chest. She staggered. “Again—how does anyone drink that?”
“In a glass, on a porch, with a friend,” he said, grinning. “That’s Uncle Jack’s wisdom.”
She shuddered playfully. “Give me sweet tea, the porch and a friend, and I’ll be happy.”
He nodded toward the door. “Your exit—and fresh air—awaits, madam.”
“Lead on, kind sir.”
“Words I never expected from a female suffragist.”
“Don’t push your luck.” She tossed him a stoic look, but he saw right through it.
Enjoying the time with him more than she should, she turned to follow him toward the door when her foot caught on something—and she pitched forward.
Strong hands caught her by the waist and hauled her upright.
“Whoa there,” he said, steadying her until she found her footing. “You all right?”
She faced him. Close enough to feel the strength in his arms, the solid breadth of his chest. His trimmed beard revealed the contours of his face—and mouth—and her gaze lowered, and lingered there, her thoughts causing her face to heat. She was just grateful he couldn’t read them.
Then she lifted her eyes to his, and realized—he could.