Chapter 17 #2
I wonder how much he really knows. Tommy has been around my entire life and long before it too. “She’s shared some of what that complication looks like,” I say leadingly. But he just listens and waits for me to say more. “I still don’t know how I feel about some of the things she’s told me.”
“Here,” he says, passing me the mallet and stopper.
The drill in his hand lets out a loud zipping noise as he tests its battery.
This is our routine. A lazy morning, followed by a weekend afternoon in the distillery for a few hours.
When he finished the renovations on my place, he had more time and spent it here with me.
Walking toward the barrels in the far side of the room, he adds, “Sometimes, sharing things with people makes you feel closer to them. Trusting them with details about the ways that life can be difficult is how we connect.”
How do I ask, Hey, any chance she told you about her passion project of “offing” men?
Or, is it possible that she killed my dad and your brother?
But I don’t ask either of those things; instead, I sit with the fact that there’s more here.
Layers of life that I’ve been so unaware of and closed off to long before I ever disappeared.
I settle on asking, “Did she tell you why she had a rough night?”
He gives his head a quick shake. “Didn’t have to.
We don’t work that way. Your mother doesn’t need to justify much to me.
I’m not built like that. You want to tell me shit to feel better?
I’ll listen. But it’s not necessary.” He works the drill through the top side of the barrel, and once that’s cut, I push the long end of the whiskey thief inside.
It works as a long tube to siphon out just enough of the whiskey in the barrel to taste.
“Explanations, details, excuses, whatever you want to call it—I made the choice a long time ago that when one of the Crowne girls needs something, I’ll be there. No need for any currency.”
The fact that he looked at that as a simple decision says enough about the kind of man he is, and I’ve been lucky enough to have him in my life. My dad wasn’t anything worth remembering, but his brother, my uncle, has always made me feel seen and loved, despite the craziness that swirls around us.
Mint coats my mouth, and on the tail end, I can taste the lime zest—tart and bitter, but it balances out the bite of whiskey that’s been sitting in this barrel.
It isn’t long enough for what I like, but it still qualifies being called a whiskey, and I want to play around with it.
I move toward the center bench to see if my idea might work.
“Not bad,” Tommy says, holding up the glass in the light. “I like the bite, but it’s intense.”
Setting aside the rest of the shot, thinking he’s right, I pull out the glass bottle of mineral water I stored in the mini fridge out here.
Shaking it and pressing the spout turned it into carbonated water.
It’s an old-school way to make Italian soda.
Something I watched Mickey Moonie do hundreds of times as a kid.
It isn’t anything original, but with the right flavors, it could be something new.
I pour equal parts of the carbonated water into the shot glass and pass it to Tommy. “Now what do you think?”
He takes a sip and smiles after he swallows. “Wouldn’t mind sipping on that at picnics.”
I nod proudly.
“How long have you been thinking about this one?”
I shrug, not wanting to answer him. Probably too long for something that’s a Sunday hobby.
I knew that on its own, these flavor profiles might not work, but the mint and citrus mixed with carbonated water turned it into a spritz.
I could see people drinking this. Or even businesses buying it as concentrate and making their own.
“It’s a creative take. I haven’t had anything like it,” he says honestly.
And the sense of pride that fills me as I hear it feels so much more meaningful than being commended for grants and research by colleagues.
“Alright, I need to head back to the B&B,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “You might want to take a look at those barrels over in the far corner. Your mom spent some time out here with that batch.”
My heart stutters, and I whip my head to look at where he nodded. “Why would she . . .”
But Tommy’s already halfway to the door. He shouts over his shoulder, “Like I said, kiddo. I don’t ask too many questions, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”
Looking up and outside, I lock my elbows straight and lean over my workspace.
A sense of calm washes over me as I take inventory of each part of this view—tall oaks and stout maples, plenty of river birch that lean along the riverbed.
In the ending dip of summer, only a few wildflowers still hold on, the pale yellows and creamy whites peppering the tall grass.
All of it is land that hasn’t been touched by anyone other than Crownes, simply because Birdie doesn’t allow it.
There’s a strategy to the way these buildings have been updated and laid out.
My father’s family owned what was on this side of the river, and my mother’s family owned, lived, and thrived on the other.
She used to say that they were the original Hatfield and McCoys, except most of my father’s family died, leaving Tommy to handle what was left, plus the bed-and-breakfast.
There’s been so much lore about my family over the years, it’s hard to determine what stems from truth and what’s wrapped in total bullshit, including the one about my mother being a black widow.
There have been plenty of rumors about what had really happened to my father.
I don’t miss him. My mother hated him and had plenty of bad things to say over the years, and I understood it.
One day, he was gone for good, and Birdie bought the whiskey distillery, allowing Tommy to stay and keep it up until she decided what she wanted to do with it.
The southwestern winds shake the three oversize garage doors, making them clang loudly, and I glance at my phone, noticing messages waiting for me.
JULIAN
Do you know how hard it was not to touch you, fuck you, fall asleep next to you?
My lips part as I read the message more than once, suddenly feeling hot all over. He didn’t gloss over anything, and I hate how much I like that about him.
WYN
I had a very nice view of how hard it was, yes.
JULIAN
Comments like that make things hard all over again.
WYN
Sounds like you might have a problem on your hands.
JULIAN
Tell me I can see you later.