Chapter 33
“DISTILLERY TOUR TIME!” Jack Daniel announced as he breezed into the office two mornings later.
Josephine didn’t look up from the ledger. “Mr. Daniel, I’m organizing next week’s orders, and I still have a stack of inquiries to respond to—”
“Which you’ll do better after the tour.” He motioned her up. “Dodge will be here any minute. I’ll walk with you awhile, then head to Tullahoma. I have an appointment in Nashville.”
“A lady friend?”
A waggle of his brow confirmed it.
“The same one as last time?”
Another waggle denied it.
“Mr. Daniel, your . . . love of the ladies, for lack of a better term, is going to get you in trouble one of these days.”
“I’m nearly fifty-six years old, Mrs. Dunham. If I haven’t earned the right to enjoy pleasant company, just put me in the grave. Women and whiskey are my greatest joys.” He made a grand gesture. “As Thoreau said—‘Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit!’”
“You’re quoting a man who embraced simplicity and reflection. I seriously doubt Henry David Thoreau meant whiskey. Or women.”
Mr. Daniel waved that away. “Had he conferred with me, he’d have understood life far better. So much for living alone in a cabin in the woods.”
Josephine worked to keep her smile in check. “The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well. Ralph Waldo Emerson.”
“Spoken like a man who never enjoyed himself.” Mr. Daniel peered out the window. “Dodge is coming. How vain it is to sit down to write when you haven’t stood up to live.”
She tossed her pen aside. “What is it with you and Thoreau?”
“I have a lot of time to read on trains.”
Dodge walked in. “Sorry I’m late. Ready?”
Mr. Daniel headed out, clearly pleased with himself. “Under mild coercion, but yes.”
Josephine slowly rose, her attention riveted. Dodge looked markedly different, and the change was . . . heady. “You trimmed your beard.”
“More like had to trim it.” He rubbed his jaw. “Bethie and I had a little food fight this morning over who got the last of the molasses. I think you could say I won?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Details, please.”
“She spooned the last of it from the jar when I challenged her. We went back and forth, and then . . .” He mimicked the flicking of a spoon. “She . . . finally let me have it.”
She laughed. “Right in your beard?”
“She got me good.” His grin deepened. “But I slathered her face pretty well too, so I guess we’re even. Ready to go?”
“As I’ll ever be, I guess.”
The ends of his hair were still damp, curling at the collar. But it was the intensity in his blue eyes that seemed to pull her in and tempt her to forget the wounds on her face. What she couldn’t forget was what he’d said about truth—that it was only a matter of time before it made itself known.
Tick tick tick.
He paused on the porch. “Between you and me, I can guess how excited you are about seeing how we make Old No. 7. So once Uncle Jack heads to Tullahoma, we’ll cut the tour short.”
“And you won’t tell him?”
He pretended to lock his lips and throw away the key. “Not a word.”
“So how’s Bethie’s calf?”
“So far, so good. She’s named her Honey. Because, as Bethie says, she’s sweet like Maple was.”
They joined Mr. Daniel and conversation came easily as they approached the first outbuilding.
Dodge slipped into what was clearly a well-rehearsed tour—buildings, uses, dates.
And while a distillery tour held no interest for Josephine, she enjoyed the chance to walk with him more than she should have.
“Our whiskey starts with a sour mash of corn and rye mixed with spring water from Cave Spring Hollow,” Dodge continued. “The limestone naturally filters out iron.”
“And that matters why?” she asked.
“Why?” Mr. Daniel threw her a look. “Because iron ruins whiskey. The flavor, the look—everything! That spring is one of our secrets.”
“And the others?” she teased.
“Nothing we’re discussing today,” Dodge said to Mr. Daniel’s delight.
“One thing Dodge won’t tell you”—Mr. Daniel’s eyes narrowed—“is that feeding the cattle the spent sour mash was his idea several years back. It tenderizes the meat something wonderful, and increases the value, to boot.”
Dodge shook his head. “I only got the notion because the cows started licking the slop off my shirt. After I read some of Doc Salmon’s books, it confirmed it.”
Josephine slowed. “Wait. The books at Miss Mary’s? In the library?”
“The very ones.” Dodge nodded. “Doc Salmon let me read anything I wanted. Opened the world to me.”
“So those notes in the margins . . . Those are yours?” Her disbelief slipped out before she could temper it.
Mr. Daniel chuckled. Dodge raised a brow as if to say he’d heard it, too.
Her face warmed. “I didn’t mean—”
“Dodge has left his mark on every shelf in that library, Mrs. Dunham. I’d come see Doc Salmon and find Dodge—young boy he was—soaking up knowledge.”
“But first I had to learn to read,” Dodge said, winking.
Mr. Daniel motioned. “Let’s get moving. I’ve got a train to catch.”
Even before stepping into the stillhouse, Josephine smelled the warm sourness of yeast—earthy and tangy, not altogether unpleasant. But once inside, the scent thickened and burned the back of her throat. She coughed much as she had when she mistakenly drank Calla’s tea.
Dodge’s eyes glimmered. “That’s the fermented grain and the char. But can you smell the vanilla? Maybe a bit of toffee?”
Wishing for water, she shook her head. “No vanilla. No toffee.”
Mr. Daniel waved her closer to a copper still. “You’ve seen one of these before?”
“In pictures,” she managed, clearing her throat.
Each still—six or seven feet tall—rested on a stone-and-brick furnace with a fire burning low and steady in its blackened hearth, smoke curling around the brickwork.
The massive bulbous copper pot narrowed as it rose, tapering into a swanlike neck before curving down into another copper vessel—round, cylindrical—with a nozzle protruding.
“We use copper stills.” Pride accented Mr. Daniel’s voice. “And we always age our whiskey in charred oak barrels, which gives Old No. 7 that distinctive, smooth finish.”
Soft light from the high windows made the hand-forged copper glow. And though she wouldn’t admit it, the riveted pots, though oddly shaped and made for sordid purpose, were beautiful in their worn patina.
Once outside again, Mr. Daniel turned. “I’d best be off.
But Dodge, be sure to show her the charcoal-leaching process.
That’s important. And give her a good view of the vats.
” A look flickered over his face. “Mrs. Dunham, though I respect your feelings toward whiskey, a better understanding on your part will prove useful in our upcoming visits with vendors.”
“Upcoming visits with vendors?” Josephine repeated, catching the gleam in his eyes.
“Oh yes. I’ve placed advertisements in all the major papers inviting potential vendors to come see Lynchburg and taste Old No.
7 where it’s made. We’ll do tours and tastings.
I’m contemplating hosting dinner parties at my home when they’re here.
A nice meal, perhaps some dancing.” He bowed. “Naturally, I’d want you there.”
She smiled. “And naturally, I will decline in advance.”
“No need to decide now, Mrs. Dunham.” With a Cheshire grin, he turned. “We’ll revisit this later.” He headed toward the office, then looked back. “Oh, and Dodge. If you get word from Washington, move forward as you see fit. Don’t delay. I’ll be back in a couple of days.”
“Will do, sir.”
Josephine watched him stride off in his knee-length black frock coat, vest, and wide-brimmed country squire hat. “That man never stops thinking about whiskey, does he?”
“No, he does not.” He gestured toward the next building. “Ready for the charcoal-leaching process? Then I’ll let you slip out the side door.”
“Is the charcoal leaching what makes the whiskey taste so horrid?”
He laughed. “It’s what makes it taste so good. It mellows it. You’ve seen the men burning piles of sugar maple three times a week?”
“The first time I smelled it, I thought a building was on fire.”
As they walked to the building, he described the mellowing process, then opened the door. She stepped inside and the sharp mix of charcoal and whiskey stung her nose and throat, same as in the stillhouse. Dodge seemed unbothered.
The building appeared empty but for the two of them, and an almost reverent drip, drip, drip filled the silence.
Sunlight slipped through slats in the wooden walls, illuminating dust motes that rose like mist in the hollow.
Eight or ten large round wooden vats—each at least four feet across—sat in holes in the floor.
She moved closer and peered down through the side opening. The vat continued below the floor for some distance. “How tall are these things?”
“Twelve feet deep and five feet wide, filled with sugar maple charcoal and raw whiskey. Every drop spends from three to five days in one of these vats.”
“Then where does it go?” She lifted a hand. “Not that I’m interested. I’m only asking so I can answer questions when the vendors come.”
He nodded, but she could tell he didn’t believe her.
“Near the bottom of each vat is a metal spigot. Several times a day the men draw off what’s passed through. The whiskey comes out clear as pure water, then gets poured into the charred white oak barrels.”
“And that charring really makes a difference?”
“If we’re doing it, it’s at Uncle Jack’s bidding, and it’s because it makes a difference.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” She could still taste the burn of Calla’s tea on her throat. Nothing mellow about it, in her opinion.
She’d seen Calla since, but hadn’t spoken of it. More truthfully, she hadn’t taken the chance. It was Calla’s business. And she wasn’t about to tell Miss Mary. She simply cared about her friend . . . and wondered what pain had driven Calla to drink.
“And that concludes our tour,” Dodge said a little too loudly.