22. Tristan
“ E vie?” My mother repeats after a pause so long I was worried that our video call’s connection was bad. “You married little Evie Doyle? Really ?”
“I mean, she’s not so little anymore but yeah,” I say slowly, bracing for impact.
Her face shifts from confusion to concern before settling on something like wonder. “When?”
“About a month ago.”
“And you’re only now telling me?” She shakes her head. “Why?”
“Because I thought you’d kill me for eloping,” I say, which is partly true.
“Tempting, but I’ll let that go,” she quips. “You are, after all, the most impulsive of my children.”
“You’re not angry?” I run my hands anxiously through my hair. “I thought you’d be pissed at me for sure.”
“No, not really.” She takes a sip of coffee, brows furrowed thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’m relieved. I was starting to worry that you’d never settle down.”
Not the response I was expecting, but better than the alternatives. “I’m twenty-six! ”
“Exactly. You’ve had more girlfriends at twenty-six than your father had ever,” she says with a smirk.
“We can’t all fall in love with our high school sweetheart.”
“Oh, stop,” she chides, sweeping her dark, shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. “That’s no excuse for sleeping your way through Boston.”
“Ma, please,” I say with a grimace. “You make me sound like a slut.”
“Not a slut, just a serial monogamist.”
I’m thinking conversations like this are why people go to therapy. “Have you been talking to Maeve about me?”
She wrinkles her nose. “What?”
“Never mind.”
“But Evie Doyle. Goodness, I haven’t thought about her in years.” Leaning back in her chair, she crosses her arms over her chest. Her gaze seems to shift past the screen and toward some distant memory. “Such a sweetheart, always following you around when we visited the Doyles.”
Following me around? I don’t remember it that way. We all hung out together, a rowdy gang of kids going from one adventure to the next. But then again, Maribelle could see Evie’s crush on me, so maybe Mom did, too.
Suddenly her pale gray eyes take on a glossy sheen, and she claps her hands to her cheeks. Here come the waterworks . This, I expected. “I can’t believe you got married! Tell me you took pictures, at least, Tristan.”
Nodding, I pick up my phone and scroll through my photo album until I reach the day of the wedding. It’s weird to look at these photos now, when Evie and I were still so stiff around each other. I choose a couple of the best shots and text them to my mother.
She peeks down at her phone when the message chimes through, a pleased smile playing at her mouth. “I can’t believe it!” She practically sighs, looking at me for a split second before returning her moony gaze to the photos. “She is just beautiful, honey. When can we see you two? Tell me you’re not staying down there?” A look of slight horror crosses her face. “I’ve already lost Maeve to the West Coast.”
“We’ll come up once things are stable with the distillery,” I promise with a chuckle. “And Maeve isn’t lost. She’s just getting that shithead out of her system.”
Mom’s laugh peters out into a frustrated groan. “He really is a shithead, isn’t he? So selfish.” She’s always been neutral when it came to who we dated, but I guess her true feelings are showing now that said shithead has convinced her only daughter to relocate to the other side of the country. “Thank God you ended up with someone we know, someone you trust. Someone sweet and kind.”
“You haven’t seen her in years, Ma.” I cock an eyebrow. “How do you know she’s sweet and kind?”
“Because people don’t change that much,” she says. “Evie always reminded me of her mother, both in looks and temperament. Just good people, through and through.”
A little voice in my head urges me to tell my mother the full truth of why I got married, but I resist. If she’s happy with my choices, I’m not gonna bog down her mood with shitty details. Not now, when we can’t even talk face to face, and maybe not ever.
Because after the talk Evie and I had last night, all of that is starting to feel pretty damn irrelevant, anyway.
After breakfast, Alex and Malachi drive Evie and me over to the distillery’s offices to meet with management. I’m glad she’s with me, although getting her to agree to this wasn’t easy—she’d balked at the thought of coming with me at first.
“It’s your family’s legacy,” I’d said. “Even if my name’s attached to it now.”
“And I’m proud of that. But I’ve never had any interest in running Doyle Whiskey and you know it,” she protested when I first brought it up. “Why do you think Daddy had such a hard time getting me to come work for him?”
“Doesn’t matter how you feel. It’s yours now, and there are responsibilities that come with that.”
“You mean, it’s yours .”
“It’s ours. Isn’t that what you told your sister yesterday?” I’d reminded her. “I’m not asking you to decorate an office and put in the hours. I just want you to show your face and remind the management team that there are still Doyles involved with Doyle Whiskey—just not the one they’re used to.”
Evie seemed to mull that over .
“My family might own the distillery now, but like I said, you’re a part of that family. You’re in a unique position here, and your opinions matter.” When she seemed to soften, I went in for the kill. “This isn’t my forte either, you know. I’m used to winning in the ring, not the boardroom. But Dad and Lucky trusted me to acquire the distillery and oversee this transition, so that’s what I’m trying to do. It’d mean a lot to have you by my side.”
Now we’re sitting in the conference room, waiting for her father to arrive so he can introduce me to the team. I was pleasantly surprised when Randall accepted my request to join us for this, albeit reluctantly and with a great deal of resignation, but now he’s twenty minutes late and there’s been no word from him. When my latest call goes to voicemail, I get to my feet and call the meeting to order.
Lucky’s always been the businessman, not me, so I’m definitely feeling out of my depth here. With the exception of the general manager, Scott Hutchins, I don’t know anyone. In fact, I didn’t know him before yesterday either, when I looked him up in the staff directory and introduced myself. Once I explained the situation, he sent email invites to every manager reporting to him— sales, quality control, finance, and HR—and asked them to attend today’s meeting. Scott told me that it’s been business as usual at the distillery, which doesn’t surprise me. Randall Doyle would never want to admit that something was wrong, even if it meant putting his employees in a precarious position by keeping them clueless.
It is, however, astounding that unlike most businesses of this size, Doyle Whiskey has no acting board of directors. I mean, even Kelly Logistics has a board of directors. According to Evie, there was one comprised of family long ago, but Randall’s position as the only living child of his parents put him in control and kept him there. I’m starting to see why the distillery is where it is. There’s been no one to hold Randall accountable.
“I want to thank you for being here,” I begin, sliding my hands into the pockets of my slacks. “My name is Tristan Kelly, and I’m Doyle Whiskey’s new CEO.” I pause as a wave of surprise ripples across the room. “Mr. Randall Doyle has transferred ownership to myself and Evie Kelly, his daughter and my wife. I know this probably comes as a shock to you, seeing that this distillery has been in the Doyle family since its inception, but I assure you that we have nothing but its best interests at heart. Evie is on the new board of directors, and this is still a family business.”
Evie clears her throat. “Good morning, everyone. Daddy was no longer in a position to lead, regrettably, so we’ve taken over to ensure that the distillery continues to live up to its prestigious reputation. I’m sure y’all have a lot of questions, so don’t hesitate to email me or speak up at the end of this meeting.”
A somber, tense silence fills the space as the reality of the situation settles in. A few people nod, but most of the managers just stare blankly back at us. I don’t blame them. Scott told me yesterday that some of these men and women have been with Doyle Whiskey for decades. A sudden changeover like this is understandably shocking, although Scott did say that there have been issues over the past couple years.
I gesture to Scott, who’s sitting across from us. “I’ll be liaising closely with your GM over the next few months to make sure this transition is as smooth as possible.”
He nods, hands clasped on the table as his dark eyes scan the expectant faces turned his way. “I’m sure many of you are concerned about your job security,” Scott begins. “But our first priority is to stabilize the business, not make cuts. We’ll make necessary adjustments as they arise, but you know we’ve always been about loyalty and longevity around here. That hasn’t changed.”
“Thanks, Scott.” I return my attention to the group. “Over the next few weeks, we’ll have meetings with each department to discuss what’s been working so far and where improvements can be made. This is your distillery. It only works when we’re a team.”
It’s a little corny, and a couple people still look skeptical as we open the floor, but overall, there seems to be a sense of cautious optimism. And despite her initial hesitation, Evie proves to be a natural at connecting with the staff, confidently addressing their concerns alongside Scott. She just needed to be given a chance.
I can relate.
“That went better than I thought it would,” Evie admits as we climb into the back of Alex’s Suburban. “I was afraid they’d think we were …”
“Usurpers?”
She clicks her seatbelt with a little smile. “Something like that.”
I squeeze her thigh. She’s got on a gray, pinstriped pencil skirt, white silk blouse and heels that make me want to bend her over the first couch I see. “You were incredible, by the way. I brought you along for support and you ended up stealing the show. I’m glad I made you come.”
“You didn’t make me do anything,” she says, threading her fingers through mine. “I wanted to be there for you.”
“But it wasn’t just for me, you know that, right?” I rub my thumb over hers. “Doyle Whiskey is a big deal around here. It’ll be mutually beneficial for you to take some ownership, however that looks.”
“You know what Scott told me? Just now, when we were talking in the break room?”
“What?”
“He said he was relieved,” she says quietly. “It’s been stressful for them, Tristan. Daddy had gotten in the habit of holing up in his office, neglecting a lot of the distillery’s day-to-day operations. Scott said it got to the point where a lot of the more critical decisions were left to him and management team, and it was starting to affect morale.”
I nod, thinking about the faces of the people I just met. “I bet. How are they supposed to focus on their jobs when they’re handling high-level shit?”
“Scott said that when he first started at Doyle Whiskey, Daddy was always on the floor. Talking to people, checking on things. They’d have company meetings twice a month, Christmas parties, stuff like that. And then, over the years, all that just kinda stopped. He said Daddy’s been withdrawing over the past few years.”
“That’s probably when he started drowning in debt.” I squeeze her hand. “Look, I’m no shrink—you’d have to talk to my sister-in-law for that—but I’ve been impulsive my whole life, so I know it when I see it. Your dad’s reckless as fuck, and honestly, he acts like an addict. He makes decisions without considering the consequences, which I can relate to, but it’s different when you’re running a company. When you have a family … people depending on you. ”
“He is an addict,” Evie says, looking out the window. “He’s addicted to gambling, in every sense of the word.”
She falls quiet, and I pull my phone out, trying Randall’s number again. The call rings and rings, eventually going to voicemail. I’m guessing his phone is on, but he’s choosing not to answer. Which I’d have expected before, but then why agree to today’s meeting and then stand us up? Guess this was his final fuck you .
“Still nothing?” Evie asks, watching as I set my phone aside. She seems troubled.
I shake my head, drumming my fingers on the seat’s leather.
“Do you mind if we stop by my old apartment?” she says suddenly. “I want to see if my manga collection is still in the closet.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, I still have my key,” she says, digging around her purse. “Daddy never asked for it back.”
“I guess.” It’s not like we have anywhere else to be. Leaning forward, I give Alex the address to plug into his navigation.
Fifteen minutes later we pull up to the Doyle mansion. The grounds seem even shabbier since the last time we were here, like Randall let it all go after Evie left. Or maybe she was the only one keeping it up to begin with, and now that she’s gone no one cares.
“Be right back,” I tell the guys as we slide out of the back seat. “Call me if you see anything.”
Evie pushes open the iron gate, its rusty hinges squealing in protest. Brushing flecks of chipped black paint from her hands, she steps inside and looks around. I follow, closing the gate so it doesn’t look suspect from the street. I’d prefer to be as inconspicuous as possible while we’re here. Last thing I need is a trespassing citation.
The outside world always seems to fade away here. Street noises like passing cars or passersby disappear, giving way to an oddly quiet hush. “Have you ever felt like this place was haunted?” I ask as we crunch over dead leaves on our way to the carriage house.
“What?” She looks back at me, lips quirked in amusement. “No.”
I check the gardens, my gaze falling on the driveway where Randall Doyle usually parks his car. It’s empty, as is the garage.
Upstairs, in her old apartment, Evie checks every nook and cranny but there’s nothing left. Not even trash. Looks like her dad had the place completely emptied.
“Oh, well,” she says, but I can tell she’s disappointed. “It was a slim chance, anyway.”
“It was worth a try,” I agree, peeking through the window to the ground below. Remnants of Evie’s vegetable garden lie withered in the dried-out soil, weeds having taken over the once neat rows. It was so vibrant the first time I visited her here, just a few months ago.
“It’s weird that he didn’t show up today, isn’t it?” she muses, fiddling with her keys.
“Not really. He’s probably out drinking his troubles away,” I say, giving her a gentle push toward the front door. “Or gambling, trying to make his fortune back.”
“Should we check the main house?” she asks.
I frown as she locks the door. “For your dad or the manga?”
“My dad.”
“His car isn’t here … you think something’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” She smooths her hand over her hair, which is pulled back into a low, sleek bun. “Missing the meeting seems off brand for him. I can see him ignoring your calls, but not mine. Even if he is upset with me.”
“He’s selfish and irresponsible.” I follow her down the steps, past flowerpots full of brittle, brown leaves. “Seems pretty on brand to me.”
“What I mean is, he still cares about Doyle Whiskey and what happens to it. He wouldn’t pass up the chance to put his two cents in one last time, even if it was to ceremonially hand over the reins to you.”
I have my doubts, but Evie knows her father better than I do.
“I’ll be really quick,” she says, undeterred. “You can wait in the car.”
“Nah, I’m going with you.” I catch up to her, resting my hand on her lower back. I’m not sure what Evie’s looking for or what she expects to find, but if she’s bent on this, we’ll go together. “But let’s make it quick. This place gives me the creeps.”
“Tristan Kelly? Creeped out?” she mocks.
I peek up at the cameras mounted on the corners of the house, half-hidden by ivy. “Do those cameras work?”
“Not for years.” Evie follows my gaze, shaking her head. “I think he just keeps them to deter people. ”
We climb the porch steps, where she fits her key into the lock of the front door. It swings open with a quiet creak into the foyer, which is dim but for the scant rays of autumn sun trickling in through the dusty windows. It’s chilly inside, the air still and stale.
I hesitate in the foyer, looking around as she ventures down the hall. A messy pile of unopened mail spills off an antique console table near the door. I join Evie in the kitchen, where takeout containers and dirty dishes litter the countertops. A newspaper lies open on the kitchen table. I remember what this house looked like in its prime, years ago when it brimmed with life. If ever there was a reason not to sacrifice your family on the altar of your ambitions, here it is.
“I never thought he’d let it get this bad,” whispers Evie, evidently thinking the same thing.
I wrinkle my nose. “It’s a fucking pigsty. Why doesn’t he have housekeeping?”
“He used to, but Tristan,” she says, turning back to me, “his entire life, his identity, revolved around the distillery. He probably sank into a depression when he lost it.”
I don’t know what she wants me to say. Every choice has a consequence, and this is one of Randall’s.
“I’ll check upstairs.” Leaving the kitchen, I head back to the staircase, unsure of what we’re looking for. Evidence of foul play? Signs he packed his bags and left town? “Which bedroom is his?”
“Second door on the left,” she calls back, her voice closer as she follows me.
Randall’s bedroom is messy, but not criminally so. His bed is unmade, and clothes lie across an armchair in the corner of the room. A half-full bottle of whiskey and coffee mug sit on the nightstand. “Does he keep an office at home?” I ask. I don’t love snooping, but we’re already here. I might as well make sure he doesn’t have anything pertaining to the distillery, like records or information about the silent distillery.
“There’s a study downstairs,” says Evie. “Next to the family room.”
After looking in on the other rooms upstairs, we return to the first floor and Evie leads me to the study. The small room smells faintly of tobacco, and it manages a similar feel to Randall’s grander office at the distillery. Tiffany lamps adorn the old, wooden desk and a bookshelf overflows with thick, leather-bound tomes. Framed accolades and news articles about the Doyles and their distillery compete for space on the cream, gold, and green striped wallpaper.
I make a beeline for the file cabinet, pleased to find it unlocked. The top drawer is crammed with family medical records and insurance documents, so I close it and continue to the one beneath it. Doyle Whiskey. Bingo. The first few folders are filled with business reports and ledgers, their dates ranging from the early 1900s to now. Tax returns from years gone by, contracts with suppliers, even handwritten notes from meetings.
“You ever hear anything about a silent distillery?” I ask Evie, on the off chance it’s an open secret in their family.
“No, what’s that?”
“Never mind.” I continue thumbing through the files, coming upon a rubber-band-bound pack of musty, yellowing envelopes inscribed with dates and cryptic annotations.
“What are those?” Evie asks, watching intently as I snap the rubber band and riffle through the envelopes.
“I have no idea, but we’re taking them,” I reply, pulling several folders out of the cabinet. “Can you find something to put these in?”
“He’s going to lose his shit,” she warns, hesitating.
“Then you’d better hurry up so we can get going.”
Evie mumbles something in her sleep before turning over, burrowing deeper beneath the blankets. Yawning, I glance at my watch. It’s past midnight—I’ve been reading for hours. Just a little more . Dimming my reading lamp, I return to the letters that were in the old envelopes we found.
I’ve arranged them in order by date in an effort to piece together a narrative, which isn’t easy seeing I have only half of the story. There’s lots of pining and flirting between the writer, a woman who signs her letters A and the recipient, G, who must be a Doyle, seeing we found the letters in Evie’s family home. They seem to be planning something big, “the ultimate gesture of independence from the influence of our families,” but the language is vague and there’s no follow-up. I get the impression their relationship, or at least their plan, was secret.
Gotta hand it to Evie though, checking up on dear old dad today was a great idea. We may not have found him, but the paperwork we grabbed from his office is a treasure trove of trade secrets, recipes passed down through generations, batch experiments and plans for future endeavors. The type of stuff I’d hoped to find at the distillery’s main office and didn’t … because Randy was hiding it at home.
Setting the envelopes aside, I reach for a folder tabbed Legacy . The papers inside, which I have to pry apart due to mild water damage, seem random at first glance—a sepia-toned photo of a garden, minutes from a meeting dated in 1934, a list of sets of coordinates, and blueprints of the distillery from its earliest days, the paper so old that some of its edges are actually crumbling.
Yawning again, I return to the coordinates, tracing my finger over the numbers. I don’t know what they are, but they feel like clues to something important. My eyes start drifting shut on their own accord.
Except for the lamp’s warm, yellow glow, it’s still dark out when I open my eyes again. I must’ve fallen asleep. Disoriented, I reach over and pull the chain attached to the lamp, shutting it off. But then my phone, which I fell asleep on top of, begins humming rhythmically like I’m getting a call. It’s probably what woke me up to begin with. Rolling out of bed, I snatch it up and walk out into the hallway to answer it.
But I’m too late. I peer down at the screen, realizing there are actually two missed calls from an unknown caller. Rubbing my eyes, I poke at the voicemail button, wondering if whoever it was left a message, but no dice. I’m about to go back to bed when my phone vibrates yet again with a third incoming call. Irritated, I answer on the first ring.
“What?” I snap. Anyone inconsiderate to call at fucking four in the morning deserves an equally inconsiderate greeting.
“Tristan Kelly?” The deep, calm voice on the line wraps around my name with the same slow drawl everybody down here seems to have.
I stiffen. “Speaking.”
“This is Danny Deschamps.” There’s no need for any further introduction. That surname carries enough weight to turn anyone’s insides into lead.
So is the fact he’s gotten my private phone number. My heart thuds a little faster against my ribs as I force myself to respond evenly. “Mr. Deschamps, what can I do for you?”
“A meeting,” he says simply. “Neutral ground. Tomorrow evening.”
“I’d prefer afternoon, if you don’t mind,” I say slowly, my mind already racing to figure out how I can make this happen as safely as possible.
“I do mind,” he replies. “Tomorrow night at eight o’clock, Mr. Kelly. Johnson Square. Be on time.”
He hangs up before I can accept or refuse.