Chapter 11
ALISTAIR
The Skeletons in the McKenzie Closet Are Surprisingly Well Dressed
I can’t get the image of Keira out of my head.
The light in her eyes as she watched our sheep, her expression caught somewhere between amused and softened.
The clear, bright sound of her laughter when I told her how Rosita had terrorized an entire group of Japanese tourists after escaping during a distillery tour.
The way she looked at me over the rim of her teacup—almost surprised that we could share a moment like that.
Something calm. Something normal. Between two people who aren’t supposed to like each other.
“You seem rather thoughtful this morning, sir,” Martha remarks as she sets a stack of documents on my desk.
I straighten, faintly embarrassed to have been caught drifting.
“Yesterday’s meeting with the investors ran long,” I deflect.
It’s not entirely untrue. The meeting did last an hour longer than expected—but it’s certainly not the reason for my distraction. Two days have passed since that impromptu picnic in the hills with Keira, and I haven’t managed to focus properly on my work since.
“Of course, sir,” Martha replies, with a knowing smile that makes me wonder just how transparent my lie is.
She’s been working for our company since I was eight. She likely knows me better than I know myself.
“Your father would like you to review these financial projections before tomorrow’s meeting,” she continues. “And your mother asked me to remind you about the family dinner this evening. Apparently, your great-uncle Douglas has an important announcement to make.”
“Most likely a new theory about how the McGregors sabotaged the 1976 Whisky World Expo,” I mutter.
Martha wisely refrains from commenting, though the faint twitch at the corner of her lips betrays her amusement.
“Anything else, sir?”
I’m about to dismiss her when a thought crosses my mind.
“Actually—yes. Do you know if anyone’s been accessing the family archives lately?”
Martha pauses to think.
“Not to my knowledge. Your mother goes down occasionally for her historical research, but I believe she’s currently working on a project about sixteenth-century castles. Your great-uncle has been avoiding the stairs since his fall last year…”
“Perfect,” I cut in, a little too eagerly. “I’d like to spend a few hours there this afternoon. Could you move my appointments after two?”
She raises an eyebrow but nods.
“Of course, sir. A sudden interest in genealogy?”
“More in the region’s economic history,” I say vaguely. “Simple curiosity.”
“Of course,” she repeats, clearly unconvinced. “I’ll have the archives prepared and arrange additional lamps. The lighting is particularly poor since your father declined to invest in a new system last year.”
“Excellent initiative, Martha. What would I do without you?”
“Most likely wander into bureaucratic chaos and starve beneath a pile of unopened mail, sir,” she replies dryly before leaving my office.
I can’t help but smile. Martha is probably the only person who gets away with speaking to me like that.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of meetings and calls. I skim through financial projections, approve a new label design for our Christmas limited edition, and mediate a dispute between marketing and production over tour schedules for peak season.
As two o’clock approaches, a strange, almost childish excitement builds in me.
The McKenzie family archives are rarely visited—and even more rarely discussed.
Like any old Scottish family, we have our share of secrets, scandals, and stories better left buried.
My father believes the past belongs exactly where it is—and that only the future deserves our attention.
But after seeing Hamish and Rosita in their little sanctuary… after watching the way Keira looked at them… I can’t help but wonder—what if our rivalry with the McGregors isn’t as unchangeable as I’ve always been told?
The archives are located in the basement of the family manor, accessible by a worn stone staircase. The air grows cooler and damper as I descend, and the scent of old paper and settled dust fills my lungs.
Contrary to what films might suggest, the McKenzie archives are not some torch-lit medieval dungeon. They’re a series of rooms modernized in the 1980s, with metal shelving, humming dehumidifiers, and lighting that—just as Martha said—is truly inadequate.
I’m surprised to find not only extra lamps, but also a steaming teapot, a cup, and a plate of shortbread waiting on the central worktable. Martha really does think of everything.
I begin with the oldest business ledgers, dating back to the distillery’s founding in 1793.
The yellowed pages crackle beneath my fingers as I turn them carefully, deciphering the elaborate handwriting of my ancestor, Archibald McKenzie.
Early entries mostly record equipment purchases, barley transactions, and whisky sales to local merchants.
Nothing remarkable—until I reach an entry dated May 1794:
Productive meeting with H. McGregor regarding water supply.
His mill, being upstream from our distillery, has allowed us to agree upon a mutually beneficial arrangement regulating the river’s flow.
His expertise in hydraulics is invaluable, and his illicit whisky, though technically illegal, is remarkably refined.
There may be potential for a more formal collaboration in the future.
I read the passage three times.
A formal collaboration? Between a McKenzie and a McGregor? At the very beginning of the distillery’s history?
Intrigued, I pull out more ledgers and move forward through the years. Mentions of H. McGregor continue—brief, but consistently cordial.
Then, in 1806, the tone shifts abruptly:
Definitive break with H. McGregor following his stubborn refusal to adopt more modern distillation methods.
His attachment to outdated traditions threatens both the quality and reputation of our product.
Construction of our own mill will begin in spring, ending our hydraulic dependence on the McGregors.
I frown, flipping through pages in search of more details—but the entries revert to purely commercial matters. No more mention of the McGregors.
It’s only when I open a personal journal—stored in a cracked leather box—that I find something more revealing:
June 12, 1806 — The old fool refuses to see that the world is changing.
His artisanal methods may satisfy nostalgic connoisseurs, but the future belongs to those who embrace scientific progress.
Our discussion last night deteriorated regrettably.
Words were spoken that cannot be taken back—particularly after Elspeth took his side so vehemently.
I fear our friendship will not survive this betrayal…
I wonder whether our pact regarding the treasure will endure much longer.
Elspeth? And what treasure?
I flip through the journal, searching for more, but Archibald is frustratingly discreet. Months later, I find only a brief note:
Caught sight of E. at the Inverness market today. She wore McGregor colors without shame. Our eyes met briefly, but she turned away. So be it. I have hidden my share of the artifacts in the agreed location. The McGregors may do as they please.
As I dig deeper, a far more complex picture emerges.
What I’ve always been told was an unbreakable ancestral feud appears anything but simple.
Periods of open conflict alternate with moments of quiet cooperation—especially during the world wars, when limited resources seem to have forced both families to set aside their differences.
I find a letter from 1943, addressed to my grandfather by Fergus McGregor, proposing they pool their barley quotas during rationing. My grandfather’s reply isn’t preserved—but production records show a sudden increase that year.
In a faint marginal note, my grandfather wrote:
F.M. referenced the old treasure. Claims their half remains within their family. Do not pursue further. Some secrets are best left buried.
But it’s a photograph from the 1950s that truly leaves me speechless.
Faded, slightly blurred—it shows two men smiling, raising glasses in front of a stand displaying both McKenzie and McGregor insignias. On the back, in worn ink:
Edinburgh Festival 1952 — For the future of Highland whisky, with sincere friendship, R. McGregor.
The very festival my father always describes as the beginning of “our legacy being stolen by those McGregor thieves.”
I lean back in my chair, stunned.
All my life, I’ve been taught that the McGregors are our natural enemies—backward traditionalists opposed to progress, untrustworthy competitors to be watched at all times.
And yet… these documents tell a different story. One of collaboration. Of mutual respect. Of disagreements that, over time and generations, hardened into a vendetta whose original cause has been forgotten—or deliberately obscured.
I stare at the photograph, trying to imagine our grandfathers sharing a drink, speaking of the future. What happened after that? How did we get from there… to this?
Footsteps on the stairs pull me from my thoughts. I quickly tuck away the photo and the more revealing documents, leaving only neutral ledgers visible.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding.”
My mother stands in the doorway, an enigmatic smile on her lips.
“Martha told me you’ve developed a sudden interest in the family archives. I must admit, I was intrigued.”
I return her smile, aiming for casual.
“I’m looking into material for a marketing project. Historical authenticity sells well these days.”
She steps closer, glancing at the documents spread across the table.
“Indeed. History has always been an excellent marketing tool… provided one chooses carefully which parts to tell.”
Her gaze lingers briefly on the corner of a photograph I haven’t fully concealed. I hold my breath—but she simply smiles wider.
“You know,” she continues, taking a seat across from me, “your paternal grandmother—whom you never met—used to say that family feuds are like fine whisky. The older they get, the more we forget their origin… and the more attached we become to them.”
“Was she speaking specifically about the McGregors?” I ask, unable to hide my curiosity.
My mother laughs softly.
“Rhona was quite pragmatic. She used to say the McGregors were neither better nor worse than us—simply different in their approach. They look backward while we look forward, but we are all gazing at the same landscape, she would say.”
“Did Father share that view?”
“Your father inherited the legendary McKenzie stubbornness… along with a tendency to turn professional disagreements into personal vendettas.”
She rises gracefully, smoothing her skirt.
“I’ll leave you to your marketing research,” she says with a wink. “Oh—and don’t forget dinner tonight. If you’d like to bring your charming fiancée, she would be most welcome. Your great-uncle Douglas would be delighted to have a new audience.”
“I don’t think Keira is ready for another family confrontation just yet,” I reply carefully.
“As you wish. But you know… for someone who claims to be engaged, you’re spending an awful lot of time digging into our family’s past. Wouldn’t it be simpler to ask her directly what she thinks of our ancestral rivalry?”
With that, she leaves.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the documents.
This treasure mentioned across generations… what could it be? Artifacts? Something valuable? And why was it divided between the two families?
Finally, I pull out my phone and take photos of the old 1952 image, along with the most revealing journal entries—especially those mentioning the treasure and this Elspeth who seems to have played a role in the original fracture between our families.
For the first time, I begin to wonder if our temporary arrangement might have consequences far more lasting than we anticipated.
Not because of a contract.
Not because of our families.
Not even because of our competing business interests.
But because… maybe Hamish and Rosita understood long before we did that some barriers aren’t as unbreakable as they seem.
And that perhaps… a shared treasure is waiting to be found again.