Chapter 6
six
OWEN
My first tour of the day stood in an awkward little clump, looking somewhat terrified of me. Was it my height or the fact that I wore a kilt? I swore my knees being visible made some people baulk.
Tours varied greatly. Sometimes fellow Scots, sometimes English, who have popped up for a visit. Very often, people from much further afield. Rarely was there a dull day.
I ran through the usual spiel as the group followed me through the distillery like a lost sheep.
A warm welcome, then a short safety spiel and a neat version of the family history.
Sanitised to sound idyllic. Mum had always told Isla and me that we are selling a dream, and whisky, not the ins and outs of our lives.
The pipes ticked, gleaming copper and radiating heat. A sweet, grainy aroma enveloped us, and several members of the group visibly relaxed, soft smiles spreading over their faces.
Laughter broke out at the same jokes I told morning after morning as I led them through the tour accessible section of the distillery. From mash to the stills, right through to bottling.
I knew my spiel by rote, well enough to let my mind wander to a pretty redhead wearing my jumper. The dusting of freckles that had plagued me since the moment I’d seen them.
You can’t fall for a tourist. She’ll leave you.
Finally, we arrived at the tasting room, everyone’s favourite part of the tour. I set out three pours: a five, a twenty, and a fifty-year aged whisky. It was often the only way people would experience the most expensive of our whiskies—just a tiny nip of the finest amber you can buy.
Someone asked if it was true that we had a guard cat.
‘We do indeed, but he’s more of a mouser than a guard. And isn’t keen on an audience.’
Right on cue, Inspector Meowrse appeared in the doorway and stared at the group for a few moments before turning tail.
When the glasses were empty, I pointed everyone to the gift shop, cleverly situated in front of the exit. When the door swung shut, I relaxed against one of the barrels that acted as a table top. The peace was soon broken when Isla barged through the service door, eyes glittering with trouble.
‘You didn’t answer your phone,’ she said.
‘Tours,’ I gathered up the whisky glasses and moved them through to the kitchen area for cleaning. Isla bounced along behind me, clearly desperate to chat. ‘What’s up with you?’
‘The rumour mill is going ten to the dozen.’ She hopped up onto one of the counters and stared at me.
‘I’ve heard three versions of the same story since nine o’clock, and all of them involve you and a red-headed English woman in a huge jumper.
Please tell me that I’m finally getting a sister-in-law? ’
The glasses chinked as I positioned them in the dishwasher. ‘It was raining. She needed shelter. I just did what anyone would have done.’
‘Anyone else would not have ironed her clothes before eight in the morning.’ Isla gave me a knowing grin.
‘Before you deny it, Eilidh says you were in buying a muffin in the morning and that’s practically a sign worthy event for you.
Not to mention Morag claims Alastair gave the girl a nod. A nod. From Alistair.’
‘Morag is an old gossip. She thinks she knows far more than she does. And I always iron my washing. Would you rather I left her sobbing in the barrel store?’
‘Well, no. Obviously not. But I also heard that Claire, it’s Claire, right? I heard that she said she likes the way you roll the R in her name.’ Isla lifted her eyebrow as though she’d stumbled upon some grand secret.
I couldn’t fight the flicker of heat in my stomach. Claire said that? In public? Damn. I’d have to find the most R-filled sentence I could the next time I saw her. Still, Isla didn’t need to know that.
‘I was just being neighbourly,’ I said.
Isla studied me. ‘Is that all?’
‘Yes.’
Isla’s grin softened. ‘I’m glad you helped her.’
‘Now.’ She sat up straight, rolling off the rumour mill and straight into business. ‘We need to talk about the Autumn fair. There are whispers about a couple of food and drink influencers descending, as well as a photographer from Cosy Country magazine. We need to nail it.’
‘What can we do other than the usual tastings?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s not my job to figure that out. I’m on logistics. You need to figure out some marketing. Something new and fun that will make our whisky seem less ancient.’
‘It is ancient. That’s the whole selling point.’
‘Listen, I know you’ll bristle, but I heard that this Claire woman is some PR city slicker. Maybe she knows more about marketing?’ Isla leant back and studied me.
‘I’m not asking her to work. She’s on holiday.’ Not to mention clearly going through some shit.
‘I could ask.’
‘Isla. No. Just leave her be. It’s bad enough half of the village is gossiping about her.’
It wasn’t my place to wrap her in cotton wool, but the temptation itched at me. Albeit, after I’d got to bed, I imagined wrapping her in rope, not cotton wool.
‘For what it’s worth,’ Isla said, slipping off the counter, ‘she seemed open. A bit startled by how fast we say hello here. But open. That’s a good start.’
‘I’m not—’
‘—going to do anything about it, I know. Just saying.’ Isla left me with a shrug.
I found Dad attempting to sneak into the barrel store’s forklift soon after.
‘You’re meant to be retired,’ I said, leaning in and grabbing the keys.
‘Retired means doing what I like without your permission,’ he muttered.
‘It’s not like you haven’t always done what you liked.’
‘True, so why stop now?’ He snorted and sat back against the truck’s seat. ‘Saw your stray in the coffee shop.’
‘Mmm.’ Why was she my stray? And why did I kind of love the sound of that?
‘Morag had her cornered. She seemed all right. Even answered one of the crossword clues. Correctly.’
All right was practically a seal of approval from my father. May as well have rubber-stamped Claire right on the forehead.
Dad looked like he wanted to say more, but sighed instead. ‘Your mother says if I so much as look at a barrel, she won’t make me pudding for a whole month.’
‘She’s right,’ I said. ‘I’ve got this. I learned from the best.’
‘You learned from an old man. You don’t need to keep everything the same forever here, you know? You could get on the tick clocks and whatever it is the young folk are on these days.’ My dad patted me on the back until Meowrse jumped up and took root in his lap.
‘I’ll figure it out, Dad.’
My phone buzzed. An unknown number.
Thank you for the map. And…everything. Maybe it’s not so bad here when the sun’s out. —Claire.
I looked at Meowrse, who pretended he wasn’t interested.
My finger hovered over the reply button for a couple of heartbeats before I hit the off button and pushed it back into my sporran.