10. Evie
S unlight blazes through the naked windows of my bedroom. Alarmed at how bright it is, I fumble for my phone. It’s nearly nine o’clock, and I’m late for work.
“Shit!” Rolling out of bed, I grab my towel and rush for the second-nearest bathroom.
“Be right out,” Timmy calls out when I jiggle the knob.
“Never mind,” I call back. Stumbling over a bag of shoes in my bedroom, I try the bathroom adjoining my room to Tristan’s. I’d planned on avoiding it to prevent accidental flashing (from either of us), but it looks like I have no choice. Locking myself inside, I hurry through a shower, using a bar of decadent cedarwood soap. Oh, yum. No wonder that boy smells so good all the time.
Twenty minutes later, I’m flying down the road with minimal makeup and my wet hair pulled into a bun. I’m starving because I skipped dinner last night, but my belly will just have to wait because today is not the day to be late. Especially after the flaky week I just had. Careening into the parking lot of Manning Distributors, I park as close as I can to the front door and go inside.
Oliver, the secretary, frowns primly at me from the front desk. “You okay, Evie girl? You look like you had a rough night. ”
I did, but not for the reasons he’s insinuating. “Thanks, Oliver. I’m great.”
“Mm.” Pursing his lips, he nods toward the meeting room. “They’ve already gotten started.”
Smoothing my hair back, I creep into the monthly meeting, hoping I can grab a seat before being called out. My boss is generally easygoing about our hours as long as our numbers are good—and mine are—but he can be a stickler about lateness and taking too much time off.
Ms. Claudine catches my eye as I sit, giving me a small smile before returning her attention to the front of the room, where Phil Manning is giving his usual rah-rah speech. I glance around the table, envying everyone’s coffee, bagels, and croissants, hoping my growling stomach isn’t audible to anyone but me.
Nearly an hour later, the meeting wraps up. I’m grabbing the last croissant, my mouth watering as I take a bite, when someone clears their throat behind me. “Evie.”
I spin around, wiping crumbs from my mouth. “Hi, Phil. Sorry I was late today. Car trouble.”
“Things happen,” he says gently, patting my arm. “That’s actually why I wanted to talk to you.”
The croissant sticks in my throat. “About my car?” I ask, feeling horrible for lying.
“About what’s been going on,” he says, lowering his voice even though everyone has left the room. “Randy gave me a call this morning, said you’ve been having some sort of a crisis? Claudine mentioned you’d taken a few days off, but I never imagined it was something like this.”
My chest tightens. Because they work in adjacent fields, my father and Phil have known each other in a professional capacity for years. But I didn’t think they were chummy enough that Daddy would call him and feed him this bullshit. Shocked he would go this far, I shake my head. “I think there's been a misunderstanding. I'm not going through any kind of crisis. My father and I just had a disagreement, that’s all. I’m totally fine.”
“That’s not how it sounded to me, Evie, but your mental health is your business,” he says. “And it’s nothing to be ashamed of!”
What the hell did Daddy tell him? “Phil.”
“When Karen went through her dark period, it was, well … difficult to say the le ast. She had to take a step back. We all did.” He sighs, running a hand through his coiffed, dark hair. “Take all the time you need, Evie.”
I grit my teeth, feeling more like a little girl being sent to her room than an employee who won August’s salesperson of the month award. His assumption that I’m going through a “dark period” like his wife is mortifying. “I don’t need any more time off.”
“If it’s going to be affecting your job,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Then, yes. I think you do. Now, I’ve already asked Claudine to reassign your leads for the next month. Between the PTO you’ve accrued and your sick leave, you should be just fine. But if you do run into trouble, just let us know. We can always give you an advance.”
“Phil, please,” I plead, holding up my hands. “I don't need time off or reassigned leads. I'm perfectly capable of doing my job.”
“I’m sure you are, but I’d feel better if you took some time anyway. Let’s meet back in one month—reassess and see if you’re ready to jump back onboard, okay?” He gives my back a brisk rub. “Good talk, honey.”
Dazed and temporarily jobless, I drag myself to Callista’s to ponder the shitshow my life has become. My beloved patio out back is full, because of course it is, so I take a seat at the window bar in the front. I’m on my third Cuba libre when someone wearing Miss Dior wafts by.
It’s my sister’s signature scent, so it’s no shock when she slides into the seat beside me. “Well, this is a surprise,” says Maribelle, setting her purse down on the bar. She’s wearing a chic, lavender sheath that showcases her small baby bump,
I glance at her immaculate French manicure. “Is it?”
She smiles sweetly, motioning until a harried looking server comes over. “A club soda with lime, please. Thank you.”
I take a long, fortifying sip of my own drink, hoping it gives me the strength I need to deal with her. I don’t know how she found me here, or if the fates are just that cruel, but she is the last person I want to see right now. Well, maybe not the very last—that title goes to my father, and then maybe Cole. But Maribelle’s up there .
“It’s a little early to be drinking, isn’t it?” She gives her Cartier wristwatch a passing glance, like she doesn’t know exactly what time it is. “Everything okay, little sister?”
Rolling my eyes, I sit back and twist so I’m facing her. When I was little, I followed Maribelle around like she was the sun. She played with me then, dressing me up like I was one of her dolls, enlisting me in elaborate make-believe games. As we got older, though, something changed. She got colder, meaner. More beautiful as I got uglier, and she never let me forget it. By the time we were teenagers, we were like oil and water.
She didn’t like it when I finally got a backbone but then, she didn’t like me, period.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” I ask slowly, trying not to slur. I’ve had plenty to drink, and that stupid croissant was the only thing I ate today. “Unless you’ve been talking to Daddy.”
“Well, yes.” Her club soda arrives, and she takes a tiny sip. “He did update me on the latest.”
Of course, he did. I used to be Mama’s favorite, but Maribelle has always been Daddy’s. She’s just like him, with her angelic face and silver-tongued charm … manipulative and two-faced. She’d barely graduated college when she took on a full-time position at Doyle Whiskey, in what I presume was practice for when she took over.
When I don’t offer up any info, she sighs. “If you’re expecting me to congratulate you on your shotgun wedding, I won’t. You’ve really fucked up, Evie.”
“I’d prefer elopement,” I say breezily. “Shotgun wedding would suggest I’m pregnant, when I’m not. That’s your thing.”
“Whatever.” She glances disdainfully at my ring finger, which is now sporting a simple gold band along with the flowery engagement ring. “I don’t think you appreciate the mess we’re in.”
“Who’s we?” I ask, looking at her askance.
“Our family.” She lifts her chin. “You know the distillery is teetering on financial ruin.”
“Actually, I did not know that until quite recently,” I remind her, stirring my straw around the dregs of my drink. “The distillery has always been your and Daddy’s domain.”
“Regardless, if we don’t figure things out, we’re going to lose it altogether.” She frowns at me. “You could at least pretend to care. This is our legacy—our inheritance!”
“Hate to break it to you, but it sounds like we’re already losing it,” I say evenly.
Sunlight gleams through Maribelle’s auburn hair as she leans forward. “Yes, because it’s being taken from us!”
I raise an eyebrow. She’s not all wrong, but damn if I don’t feel like playing devil’s advocate. “Or because Daddy bit off more than he could chew.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t change the fact that the Kellys are trying to yank it from beneath our feet like the uncouth gangsters they are,” she rants. “Really, you think you know someone!”
“Yeah, it’s a little aggressive,” I allow, parsing my next words. “But Daddy does owe them a ton of money. Did he expect them to just be cool with it forever? They’ve given him plenty of time to?—"”
“Ugh, Evie, come on!” she cries, disgust marring her features. “How could you marry someone like that? You can’t possibly think?—”
“Someone like that?” I snort indelicately. “You mean Tristan, who you panted after for years?”
The mask of sisterly concern she’s been wearing falls away in an instant, revealing the cruel bitch I know so well. Her true self. “ I panted after Tristan?” She laughs a bit, leaning even closer so that her gaze drills into mine. “Tristan was panting after me , you little twat. You were the one with the unrequited crush, pathetic and pining like a pre-adolescent stalker. Did you think no one knew? You were so obvious, Evie. My God.”
I might be well acquainted with the bite of Maribelle’s fangs, but I’m not immune, and her venom shoots right to my heart. I know she’s only saying all of this because she lashes out when she’s stressed, but her words have me questioning both my relationship with Tristan and what I thought I knew about the nature of theirs.
But I must be a little too good at feigning indifference because she goes on, eager to draw blood.
“You know how many times we fucked around when everyone else had gone to sleep?” She wrinkles her nose. “He’s hot, I’ll give you that, and he’s got a nice dick, but think about it—why would he tie himself to you ? Isn’t it a little too convenient? ”
Tristan slept with Maribelle?
My stomach sours, bitterness and jealousy sloshing around with those Cuba libres, but I finish my drink and level her with a cool look. “Are you done? You sound like a jilted prom queen.”
A smug smile curves her full lips. “Or maybe I’m hitting a little too close to home.”
“To answer your question,” I say loudly. “We got married so I wouldn’t have to marry Cole.” I watch her closely, looking for any signs she might’ve known about Daddy’s plans.
But she recoils, disgust flashing across her face. “Why the fuck would you marry Cole?”
“Because Daddy made a deal with the Deschamps,” I say. “They agreed to pay off all his debts if we got married.”
“Sounds medieval. I doubt Cole would have gone through with that,” she says skeptically. I’m guessing she doesn’t know that Cole has been trying to rekindle our situationship ever since it ended in high school.
“He’s pretty self-serving, as you know,” I say pointedly. And she should know—they’re cut from the same opportunistic cloth. I finally broke things off with Cole because, after months of overt mutual flirting with Maribelle, he fucked her at a party. I found out later she hadn’t been the only one, but she’d certainly been the worst. Too bad I couldn’t dump her, too. “Our marriage would grant the Deschamps a major stake in the distillery’s operations.”
“Would you listen to yourself? How is that any different from your marriage to Tristan granting the Kellys a stake?” she snaps.
“Because Tristan gave me a choice,” I hiss. “And you know what? At least the Kellys know how to run a business. Unlike our father.”
“Like you know anything about that.” Scoffing, she pulls her wallet from her purse and slaps a five onto the table. “You have never once shown any interest in business, Evie.”
“That’s not true. I had ideas, but Daddy always shut them down,” I protest. Eventually I just stopped trying.
“Because they weren’t commercially viable,” she says. “We didn’t need a line of psychedelic whiskies or whatever.”
I rest my head in my hand, exhausted by this conversation. Clearly, I’m going to need another drink. “Look, I know you’re upset, but Daddy’s the one who dragged me into all of this. If you don’t like how he’s handling things, then talk to him.”
“Fine. And Evie?”
I toss her a wary glance, wishing she’d just go already.
“If your new hubby does manage to take control of the distillery, you’d better honor my inheritance.” Her dark eyes glitter maliciously. “Because if you don’t, I promise you—there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Of course, we’d honor it, Maribelle,” I say irritably. “Jeez.”
“If you say so.” And just like that, her master facade of cool, calm, and collected returns. Sliding her purse over her arm, she steps away from the bar. “Good luck with Tristan. You’re going to need it.”