28. Tristan
Epilogue
“ H appy anniversary, T,” my brother says, lifting his glass. “May you and Evie live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live.”
I thank him with a smile as we clink our glasses. Lucky downs his whiskey like a shot, eyes flaring as the flavor registers. “Damn,” he says, picking up the bottle of Golden Stag. “You weren’t lying.”
“It’s nice, right?” I lick the sweet residue of vintage Doyle’s off my lips. It’s thick, almost syrupy like a liqueur or a dessert wine, with notes of toffee, tobacco and oak.
“So nice I’m having another one,” he quips, refilling his glass.
“You better savor that shit,” I tell him, but I polish mine off, too. “There are only a few bottles of it left in the world.”
After bringing all three hundred and forty-eight bottles of Doyle’s Golden Stag Limited Batch out of the cellar and storing them in a designated room at the distillery, Evie and I got serious with our research. We knew the stuff was valuable, but we needed to figure out just how valuable. Between the files from Randall’s office and Pax’s online sleuthing, we calculated that the special edition whiskies were over a hundred years old. They’d been aged in Ireland, in oak casks, for almost thirty years before being bottled and shipped to America, where they hung out in Myrtle’s cellar for another eight decades .
Extreme-aged whiskies like this are incredibly rare, especially when they’re this old. When news of Golden Stag first went public, Doyle became a household name in the luxury beverage universe. Evie and I gave interviews and made appearances at galas and collector’s events. As of today, about a third of the bottles have been sold to collectors around the world. We’ve auctioned off a few for charity and donated one to Savannah’s historical society to display at a museum. We held a private tasting for the employees of Doyle’s distillery over the summer, and Evie later gave a bottle to Maribelle. That impressed me, because while they’re civil to each other these days, they’ll never be close.
“And to think, you wanted Mom to invest in a brewery ,” Lucky says with a smirk. “Feel free to gift me a bottle of this for my anniversary, okay?”
“Like you even have to ask.”
“Your tournament is on Tuesday the fifth, right?” He grabs his phone. “At four?”
“Yeah, at the Boston Convention Center,” I reply. “You bringing Liam?”
Nodding, he types something into his phone. “He’s been talking about it since the last one.”
I was cleared to compete three months ago, but I’m easing into it, sticking to local exhibitions and BJJ tournaments. I miss the rush of MMA fights, and I train in the ring every day, but I’m still rusty. I find myself holding back when I shouldn’t be, not quite trusting my instincts, and that’s no good when there’s a fist or a foot flying at my face.
I’m not worried about it, though. I can see the progress I’ve made, and I know I’ll get back to where I used to be. For now, it’s enough to be back at Callaghan’s, training and teaching classes, and competing in jiu jitsu tournies like the one next month. I’ve tried to get Evie to give competing a shot, but she’s happy rolling at Callaghan’s or Phoenix Rising in Savannah.
Dad, Donovan and Uncle Keegan walk by on their way out to the garden, heads bent, voices low. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve seen that trio plotting and planning, I’d be a zillionaire. “Tristan,” Dad calls suddenly, his eyes finding mine. “Evie’s looking for you.”
Pouring myself another finger of whiskey, to sip this time, I clap Lucky’s shoulder and wander off to find my wife. We’re at my parents’ country house in Winchester for a month or two so Evie can enjoy what she calls “for real autumn.”
We’re also celebrating one year of marriage with an “intimate” cocktail party thrown by my mother, who’s channeled all of her pent-up feelings at missing our wedding into an over-the-top Sloane Kelly production. The patio and garden are full of round tables dressed in white linen and flowers. There’s a catered buffet as well as charcuterie boards around every corner, because apparently, it’s not a party if there isn’t cheese everywhere. The wine is flowing, the jazz band is jazzing, and there’s a fancy cupcake tower that I’ve seen Liam visit at least four times.
I step out onto the patio, inhaling the scent of woodsmoke tinged with weed—I told Timmy to do that shit downwind, dammit—and peruse the crowd of well-wishers, looking for the redhead in white. I consider texting her, but then I see her. She’s with Opal and Bria by the archway in the garden, the corners of her lips turned up in a contented smile. She’s holding a cocktail as she sways to the music, as luminous as a beam of moonlight in that long, white dress. It’s a simple, sexy design with satiny fabric molding to her curves and delicate straps crisscrossing her back. Every time I look at her, I just want to touch her, to slip that dress right off and ruin her with my mouth.
She must feel the weight of my stare because she glances over and stares right back. Man, the anticipation of what I’m going to do to that woman later feels almost as good as the deed itself. A hearty guffaw from the nearest table pulls me from my porny musings. Grampa Con’s deep in storytelling mode, his accent ripening the tipsier he gets.
I take another sip of whiskey, letting its rich taste settle on my tongue before putting it down and making my way over to Evie. Her smile grows the closer I get, and she hands her glass to Opal before coming to meet me. “You called?” I ask, pulling her into my arms as the jazz band launches into Ella Fitzgerald’s “Let’s Do It.”
“I did,” she says with a laugh. “The photographer wanted to get a few pictures before the sun went down.”
“Of course, he did,” I say, resting my hands on the small of her back. She looks like a fairy queen with her glowing skin and her hair wavy and wild, just the way I like it. “I love you in this dress.”
Eyes sparkling, she presses her lips to mine .
“I’d love you even more out of it,” I whisper against her mouth.
“Guess what?” she whispers back.
I duck my head, running my nose along the fragrant column of her neck. “What?”
“I’m not wearing underwear.”
“Fuck.” I stiffen, everywhere, and my hands clamp down on her hips. I realize belatedly that the photographer’s found us, and he’s been snapping away for who knows how long. Hopefully we can Photoshop my erection out of the pictures. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Evie snickers. “I didn’t want a panty line.”
“We need to stop talking about your panties before I make a scene,” I tell her, head swimming deliciously with whiskey, the scent of her perfume, and arousal.
The photographer meets my eye with a hopeful nod. “Let’s head over to the garden. I’d like to get a few shots of you two by the fountain.”
I slip my hand into Evie’s as we leave my favorite tattoo parlor in South Boston, where I’ve had most of my ink done over the years. “How’re you feeling?” I ask, glancing down at the film of plastic covering part of her arm.
“Fine,” she says with a little shrug. “Kinda hungry, actually.”
“Hey, that’s my line.”
“You must be rubbing off on me.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “I’d love to rub off on you. Or on you, whatever.”
“You think about sex almost as much as you think about food,” she says, sticking her tongue out.
“You knew what you were getting into.” I yank her into my side, careful to avoid her fresh tattoo as I sling my arm over her shoulders. It’s a perfect fall day, the brisk October air scented with deliciousness from the ramen shop a few doors down. “How about noodles?”
“Perfect.” She wraps her arm around my waist. “How’s your tattoo feeling?”
“Not too bad,” I say. “Stings a little. ”
“Worth it, though.”
“Definitely.”
Evie’s always been obsessed with the origami I make for her, so when we found out that first anniversary gifts are traditionally paper, she suggested we get origami tattoos. Like paper, but permanent. Paper cranes symbolize longevity, hope and healing, so they seemed like a fitting choice. We had them done in the line art style, so they match with the rest of Evie’s art. Meanwhile, my paper crane looks like the newest cast member of a fever dream starring Aslan and a troop of Celtic-style horses.
The new tattoos are the most meaningful ones we share, but they’re not the first. We also got tiny tatts on our wrists one hot, sticky, special-brownie-infused night a few months ago on Tybee Island. Hers is a small red Q with a crown on top and a heart on the bottom, like a Queen of Hearts playing card. My design is nearly identical, with a K for the King of Hearts. I’d suggested getting them as kind of a joke, but Evie had actually loved the idea.
“Queen of my heart,” I tease now, tracing the tiny Q on her wrist with my thumb. She laughs and swats me away, but not before I catch the fondness in her eyes.
“King of mine.”
THE END
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Keep reading for a sneak peek of Maeve & Jaime’s story, shadow dance, coming November 2024…