2. Evie
S lowing a little, I ease my pickup through our rusted, wrought iron gates and park beneath the magnolia trees. They stopped blooming a couple months ago, but come spring, the air will be fragrant with them. “I’m home, Opal,” I murmur, interrupting my best friend’s diatribe about her work drama. “I’ll call you tonight, okay?”
“Come over to Mama’s after jiu jitsu,” she says. “She’s making a roast.”
I groan, my stomach grumbling louder than the thunder overhead. “As good as that sounds, I have a ton of work to catch up on.”
“You sure? I know how much you like those little red potatoes, especially with gravy.”
“Don’t torture me,” I plead, peering out at the mud made worse by this summer’s incessant rainstorms. Judging by the thunder and mass of thick, gray clouds overhead, we’re about to have another one. I live in the loft over the carriage house, separate from the main house but still close. Maybe I should just take off my heels and run inside barefoot.
“Tomorrow, then. I’ll have Mama save you plate,” Opal promises. “Have fun. Be careful.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Talk soon.”
Lightning flashes, followed by a boom. Sweeping my purse and laptop from the ripped passenger seat, I hurry out of my truck as drops start falling. Climbing the outdoor stairs, I let myself inside just as the rain transitions from a drizzle to a crashing downpour. Great. I have less than an hour before jiu jitsu starts, and the studio where I train, Phoenix Rising, is all the way across town. I’m already running behind, but now I’ll have to contend with rush hour and people driving stupid because of the weather.
Kicking off my heels, I toss my bag and laptop onto the couch. Poppy, my ginger tabby, meows plaintively from the windowsill. It’s her favorite place to watch the goings-on of the garden below, birds and butterflies especially. She used to knock over the plants I kept there, leaving a sorry mess of soil and broken leaves, so eventually I just moved my plants and gave her the sill.
“Hey, Pops,” I coo, rushing over for a quick hello. She pushes her velvety nose up into my hand, purring loudly as I bend to kiss her. She’s such a little love. “Where’s your sister?” I ask, glancing around. Juniper, my Russian Blue rescue, is the more aloof of the two. She’s probably lounging in my bed.
Tossing a few blueberries into a bowl of Greek yogurt, I browse the day’s text messages and emails as I eat. My job as a liquor sales rep consists of traipsing up and down the coast all day every day, connecting with bars and restaurants interested in our products, so I’m forever bringing home my work.
I take a quick shower to freshen up and yank on my gi. My phone rings as I’m pulling my long, red hair into a ponytail, but it’s Daddy. Again. I never feel like dealing with him, and I’ve got just twenty-five minutes to spare, so I ignore the call. Praying that the traffic gods are feeling generous, I grab my backpack and venture into the pouring rain.
Sunny goes for my sleeve, but I pull back instinctively, avoiding their grasp. Stepping quickly to the side, I wrap my arm around their waist, trying to establish control, but they’re just as quick, countering my attempt with a well-timed hip escape. Breaking free from my grip, they create distance between us, resetting their position with impressive agility. I take a moment to reassess, looking for an opening.
For the next few seconds we cycle through an exchange of grips, jockeying for position. Sunny has just slipped away again when I notice a slight opening in their defense. Launching into a forward sweep, I leverage the momentum to topple them to the mat.
As we hit the ground, I manage to trap their arm and get into a side control position. Sunny’s crazy strong and just as fast, so I guess it’s not surprising when they manage to fend off my attempt at an Americana hold. Heart pounding, mind racing, I transition into an armbar instead, easing back with a firm grip and applying pressure until they tap out.
I release the hold and we rise to our feet, panting. “Not bad, Evie,” they say with a grin, bumping their fist to mine.
“Thanks,” I say, allowing the pleasure of my win to wash over me. This is the first time I’ve ever gotten the mighty Sunny to submit.
“Not bad for kicking your ass, you mean,” an amused voice pipes up nearby. “That was first-class domination right there.”
I glance back at Eddie with a snort. Opal’s big brother is the reason I’m here at all. He invited me to Phoenix Rising years ago when I was a weak, insecure, high-school freshman always hanging around his mama’s house. Nowadays Eddie is one of their main instructors. He competes, too, traveling around every couple of months.
Sunny scoffs at Eddie, jerking their chin in challenge. “Let’s go, then.”
I leave them to it and look for another sparring partner. There are a few women today, but as usual, it’s mostly guys. I don’t mind, though. I’ve been training here for so long that a lot of them feel like family, and those that don’t, like newcomers, usually fall in line pretty quickly. It’s a safe space.
After a couple of rounds with a petite brunette that meets me move for move and leaves me exhausted, it’s time for open mat. Sometimes I stay for that, but not tonight. I wasn’t lying to Opal when I said I had lots of work to do.
The sun’s gone down, but it’s not fully dark yet when I climb into my truck. I ease out of the parking lot, windows down, enjoying the fresh breeze on my sweaty face. The wet road shines darkly, shimmering with the reflection of passing headlights and lit-up signs.
Daddy’s ringtone goes off yet again. It’s tempting to let it go to voicemail, but he’d probably just walk on over to the carriage house later for a talk and I definitely don’t want that. Bracing myself for what’s sure to be another difficult conversation, I connect the call. “Hi, Daddy.”
“Hello, Evelyn.” Thanks to thirty-five years of smoking cigars, his voice is like gravel. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“I had a busy day at work,” I say, which is true. “And then I went to my class. What’s going on? Everything all right?”
“It’s the distillery,” he grumbles. I sigh silently, waiting. Of course, it is. It's always the distillery. “The warehouse on West Saint Julian flooded during last night’s storm. Thousands of dollars’ worth of bourbon barrels ruined. We've got inspectors and insurance people crawling all over the place down there."
"Oh, no.” I give a sympathetic cluck, though we’ve known about the need for roof repairs at that location for nearly a year. Maybe if he’d acted on that, we wouldn’t be dealing with damaged property and lost revenue now. “What do you need me to do?”
“What I need you to do is take a more active role," he says. “There’s only so much of me to go around. It's time to start learning the day-to-day operations so you can do your part.”
My stomach sours. The thought of being trapped in the distillery’s office under Daddy’s thumb makes my skin crawl. I’ve always been proud of my family’s legacy, and I love the artistry of making whiskey and bourbon. But the ideas I used to have for new products and fresh ways of marketing were quashed so frequently that eventually I just stopped sharing.
I’ve never been interested in the corporate side of things, but my father knows that. He just doesn’t care.
“I have a job,” I remind him. A job that appreciates me . But it’s pointless because we’ve had this argument countless times before. “I’m not going to quit just because you need more help at the distillery, especially when you’ve already got Maribelle.” My older sister started working for Daddy the second she graduated college. She’s smart as a whip and just as cutthroat as he is.
“Maribelle has chosen to stay home and focus on her family for now, as she should.”
I swallow the retort burning at the back of my throat like bile. Maribelle is pregnant with kid number two, but I didn’t think staying at home was her jam. Then again, I barely speak to my sister. Maybe her fancy lawyer husband has decided to pull rank. “Ah, well. Good for her, I guess.”
He starts another rant, but the smell of fast food wafts through my open window, reminding me that I need to pick up dinner. Ignoring the golden arches, I get into the turning lane for the next grocery store. I can pick up a ready-made salad, maybe, and some soup. “I gotta go. Can we talk about this later, please?”
“Come by in the morning, before you go to work,” he says. “We’ll talk then.”
“I can’t.” I glance at the screen when I’m met by silence. He’s already ended the call.
Grimacing through another yawn, I let myself into the main house around six thirty the next morning. Daddy usually leaves for the distillery’s office early, and the housekeeper isn’t here yet, so the drapes are still closed. It’s so dark it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. But I lived in this house for almost eighteen years and know it like the back of my very own hand. I don’t need to be able to see to know where I’m going.
The apathetic, collective gaze of my dead ancestors, immortalized in a line of pasty-faced portraits, follows me as I pass the sitting room off the foyer. As a kid I examined those faces closely, looking for some semblance of myself in their pale, drawn expressions. I have mixed feelings about this house. Some of my happiest memories live here, but so do my worst.
I moved into the carriage house loft upon graduating from Agnes Scott a little over a year ago. After four years of glorious independence in Atlanta, the thought of moving back to my childhood bedroom sucked. Savannah, I missed. But not living with my father, especially without Mama or Maribelle as buffers. When Daddy realized I was waffling, he had the moldering little carriage house completely redone. I was thrilled. I could stay in my cherished estate, the place where I’d grown up, and still have my own space.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that my father’s intentions were more self-serving than altruistic. He just wanted me to be close by so he could retain some control over my life. Like today’s “meeting.”
I stride down the hallway toward the kitchen, my heels clacking over the hardwood flooring. Daddy’s sitting in the breakfast nook in a soft wash of sunlight, sipping coffee as he reads his paper. I knew I’d find him this way. It’s how he starts every day.
“Morning,” I murmur, making a beeline for the coffeemaker. Normally I’d make my own at the cottage, but he buys the good stuff from a roaster off Bay Street.
“Why do you look so tired?” he asks, setting his paper down with a crinkle. “Your mother never left the house without her face on, you know.”
I do know. I’m tempted to tell him that expectations like that are one of the many reasons my mama left him, but instead, I focus on pouring myself an extra-large cup. “I was up late updating sales records. We’ve added a lot of new accounts lately.” I’m damn good at being a sales rep, even if I did fall into it by accident.
“Hm,” Daddy says noncommittally. “At least you’re putting that business major to use. Good practice for when you take on the distillery’s bookkeeping.”
It doesn’t matter how hard I’ve worked to build a life away from our family's business—my father always insists on trying to draw me back in. “You know numbers aren't my specialty.” I add a splash of cream to my coffee and turn, leaning against the counter. “You have bookkeepers, Daddy. You have a whole team?—”
“We have a lot of deadweight, is what we have,” he says, taking off his readers. “We need to tighten up.”
Try as I might to avoid both Daddy and Doyle Whiskey’s affairs, I know that there have been financial issues lately. This house, for example. It’s been in our family for generations, and its age requires regular upkeep. But there are signs of neglect if you know where to look. Mama’s beloved garden, too, once meticulously tended to but now wild and untamed.
Daddy doesn’t go out as much as he used to, either. He says he’s too busy with work, but I have to wonder if the rumors of him owing money are the real reason. Savannah might not be a small city size-wise, but sometimes it can feel like one. Everybody knows everybody. People talk.
I glance at my watch as he rambles on, calculating whether I have enough time to grab breakfast before heading to Manning Distributors.
“Are you listening?” His voice is a whip, startling me from my thoughts.
“I am,” I lie. “I?—”
“You will make time to learn the ropes at the distillery—this week. I’ll have Clancy set aside time to train you.”
“I work every day this week.” I squash the tremble rising in my voice. “From eight to five.”
“Then take time off,” he says. “Or come during your lunch break.”
The lunch breaks I usually take on the road between appointments? “Daddy, please. We’ve been having the same conversation ever since I got back from college?—”
“College that I paid for,” he reminds me, pointing his glasses my way as if a degree wasn’t something he insisted on anyway. As if I’m not grateful, even if he did make me major in business management instead of plant science. Botany is a waste of time , he’d said. “I sent you to that fancy school so you could contribute. Make something of yourself.”
“I thought that’s what I was doing,” I mutter, gulping my coffee down.
“Don’t you talk back to me, girl.” His voice goes deadly quiet, sending a chill over me. It’s the same voice that preceded spankings when Maribelle and I were little. She was his favorite, though, so I got more than my fair share. “Everything you have—your education, that goddamn house you live in—everything is because I have made it so. I’ve allowed you to screw around long enough, Evelyn. It’s time to take your place at the distillery.”
My heart races so fast that my face throbs, as if the blood it’s pumping has nowhere else to go but up. I place my coffee cup in the sink and turn to go. But my hatred for the man behind me swells to such a pitch that I pause in the doorway. “I thought you said that only common folk take the Lord’s name in vain.”
His pale eyes go dark as he rises from his chair. There are few things he hates worse than feeling disrespected, even though he makes a regular practice of disrespecting everybody else. Sucking in a sharp breath, I spin around and march back down the hall. Doesn’t matter how old I get, I’ll always be a little girl and he’ll always be my father. And while I may be mouthier than I was when I was a kid, I know when to retreat.
There’s a bite to his voice when he calls my name, reinforcing my decision not to stick around. Yanking open the front door, I burst into the sunlight and stumble straight into a pair of strong, steady arms.