Whiskey and Moonshine

by Elizabeth Noble

  Audrey and Gwendolyn were already sitting at the table on the deck. A warm breeze ruffled the trees surrounding the house and carried the aroma of freshly baked bread, bacon, cheese, and coffee to them. Mr. Grice was standing beside a cart with juices, hot water for tea, and a coffee urn. Colt recognized the two other people there as servers from Kensington’s Place.

  There was a round of “good morning” and “nice day” from the people already on the deck. Audrey and Gwendolyn gave Colt a warm welcome.

  Mr. Grice nodded to them before he took a glass of orange juice and strode briskly to the table. Sitting in front of a computer, he waved Colt forward and held out his hand. “Let’s start with your computer.” Colt handed it over, and Mr. Grice opened and booted it up. “Did you do anything on this?” His tone sounded almost accusatory.

  “I just read the email from Mal—Mr. Kensington,” Colt corrected himself softly when Mr. Grice raised his eyebrows and stared at Colt for a few seconds.

  After Mr. Grice made a few adjustments to the computer, he pointed to the keyboard. “Put a four-digit code in here. You’ll need to enter this whenever you sign on from here on in.” He fiddled a bit more and bent the screen backward until it was locked to the base. “You can turn this model into a tablet, and you can draw on the touch screen if you want to.”

  Colt smiled and entered four numbers. “That’s pretty sweet.”

  Mr. Grice turned the computer around and set it down on the table, returning it to laptop mode. “I set up a bank account for you. Your paychecks will be deposited in it.” He pulled an envelope from his briefcase. “You’ll need to sign these documents for the bank. Credit card, bank card, and a photo ID. Payment on the credit card, other than for business expenses, is your responsibility. Don’t forget to save receipts when you’re at an event. When tax time comes around, I’ll give you the names of a couple of accountants in the area many of us use.”

  “I understand,” Colt said.

  “Let’s see your phone.” Mr. Grice held out his hand once more, and Colt relinquished the device. He repeated the process with the password, then showed Colt how to load different apps onto the phone. “The little bit of a presence Mr. Kensington has online for personal use is separate from the distillery’s social media accounts, so don’t worry you’ll interfere with any of it, and never give people the impression you’re Malone Kensington.”

  Mal took the seat on Colt’s other side and rested his hand on Colt’s back for a few seconds until the servers began distributing plates. “Lighten up, Jeffery. I doubt Colt is planning on taking over our social media and spreading vile rumors about me.” Mal turned to face Colt completely. “You’re not, are you?”

  “Um… I don’t think I even know how to do something like that,” Colt confessed.

  “See, Jeffery, it’s fine,” Mal assured Mr. Grice.

  A tight band in Colt’s chest loosened and fell away. Having Mal’s trust was more important to him than he could put into words, and this proof gave Colt a much-needed boost of confidence. He’d been fluctuating between believing he could and couldn’t do this job the right way ever since his haircut. He wanted desperately to succeed, to make Mal happy and be a benefit to the distillery.

  Audrey and Gwendolyn were sitting across the table, watching the exchange. Audrey nudged Gwendolyn’s arm, and they glanced at each other, smiled, and continued eating.

  Mal frowned. “What are you two up to?”

  “These sticky buns are exceptional today,” Gwendolyn said to Audrey before stuffing one into her mouth.

  “We should go over the guest list for the party on Friday.” Audrey pulled a folder from the briefcase sitting at her feet.

  Colt peeked sideways at Mal, who didn’t look convinced but didn’t say anything either. “How much do I need to learn about these people?” Colt asked. He reached across the table and tapped the folder.

  “I’m so glad you asked,” Audrey said. She took a swallow of coffee and opened the folder. “You’ll need to memorize basic details about everyone in the files. There’ll likely be others there, but this will get you going and provide conversation starters. Feel free to talk and mingle. This isn’t a spy operation.”

  “The men and women in this folder are business acquaintances,” Mr. Grice said, “and trust me, they’ll have similar information. Names of children, spouses, hobbies, basics you learn about someone after exchanging emails and being part of an industry that’s generational.” He sounded as if he were lecturing a class.

  “This soiree is taking place at the Hermitage Hotel in Nashville. I’ll have your outfits in individual garment and shoe bags, marked with when and what each is for,” Gwendolyn explained. “You’ll both look wonderful, I promise. I did lots of research.”

  Mal laughed. “I bet you did. I’m sure you were burning up the Pinterest boards.”

  An hour later, their breakfast was completed, and Mal’s driver, a stern-looking woman who didn’t say much, took Colt to the motel where he’d been staying. It didn’t take him long to pack up the few possessions he had there, pay his bill, and return to the car for the ride home. The car was a deep red Mercedes SUV. Colt knew it was one of several different types of vehicles Mal owned.

  Once back at the house, Colt went to his suite to start preparing for his first public appearance. He was about to dive in when his phone rang. It took a few seconds of fumbling around, but Colt managed to answer it before voicemail took over. That would have presented a whole new challenge he didn’t want to deal with right now.

  “Hello.” Colt was glad Mr. Grice had coached him in using the speaker and holding the device in front of him.

  “Hi, you.” Mal’s voice was soft and cheerful. “I’m in the rackhouse and thought you might like a tour.”

  “Would I ever!” That was one of the few parts of the working distillery Colt had never been allowed access to.

  “I’ll meet you outside the rackhouse in ten?” Mal asked.

  “On my way.” Colt made it in eight minutes. There were two rackhouses. The closer one reminded Colt of a ginormous brick shoe box, and he knew the main entrance was at one of the short ends of the box. Mal was waiting there and waved at Colt.

  “I thought this might be a good place for you to begin learning more about how this place runs.” Mal used a keypad to punch in a code, then pressed his hand to a screen. “I was a kid when updating and computerizing of this building began. We’re high-tech when it comes to records and tracking recipes and so on.” He opened the door and waved Colt inside. As they walked through, Mal talked. “I find it interesting many people think of the old-time ’shiners and brewers as simpleminded. The truth is there’s an incredible amount of planning and science that goes into creating any sort of alcoholic beverage.”

  Colt took in the rows of barrels and the unique odor that hung in the air. “What’s that smell?”

  Mal laughed. “That’s our whiskey aging. It’s called the Angels’ Share.” He walked to a row of barrels. They were stacked on racks, aisle after aisle of them. “Let’s start at the beginning. The barrels are made here, as you know, and are constructed from a few different types of oak. Wood is porous, and as the whiskey ages, some of the alcohol molecules will escape. Water molecules can enter the barrel, so these on the lowest level have a lower proof.”

  “Does that mean the barrels up at the top floors are higher proof?”

  “It does. The higher temps cause the water molecules to escape. After the mash recipe, the aging process is probably what interests people the most. Taste is affected by the mash, the distilling process, and the aging.” Mal held up one hand and used his other to count on his fingers. “Simply put, position in the rackhouse and the type of rackhouse, the wood, and aging time all combine to create different characteristics in the whiskey.”

  Colt walked down one aisle, gazing up, then turning in circles. “How much is here?”

  Mal laughed. “Lots and lots. Twenty-three thousand barrels that contain around
a million gallons in this warehouse alone. The second rackhouse is constructed from wood and tin and has about the same quantity. The type of building also affects the taste.”

  “Wow.”

  “The mash recipes are a secret. Barrel aging isn’t and is just as important to taste. So it’s a lot easier to discuss barrel and rackhouse techniques,” Mal pointed out. “When the whiskey is first barreled, it’s clear. The aging is what gives it color.”

  They spent some time walking through, and Colt enjoyed experiencing the temperature changes as they moved from floor to floor. Mal showed him the system for determining when each barrel had been filled and when the finished product would be bottled for distribution. Colt loved listening to Mal talk, he was so excited when he described how different elements were combined to produce his whiskey. As they walked through the rackhouse, Mal greeted the workers, stopping to chat with many of them. Colt learned a number of the people in the rackhouse had worked here for years, some were second or even third generation. He tried to remember all their names while not getting in the way.

  All too soon Colt’s tour came to an end. “I have to go spend many hours in a phone conference about foreign licensing,” Mal sighed and glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m disappointed, but I should go complete the homework Audrey gave me.”

  “We’ll go over the moonshine process very soon, I promise.” Mal put one hand on Colt’s shoulder as they walked from the building.

  “I’ll hold you to that,” Colt told him. When Mal dropped his hand to his side, Colt grabbed it and squeezed before heading back to the house to learn facts and details about the people he’d be meeting in a few days.

  Colt quickly found a simple system that worked for him. It was similar to the tricks his father had once coached him on. He went into the clothing condo and stood in front of the big full-length mirrors. From the first sheet of paper in the folder, he read over the facts about that person. After a bit of experimentation with his phone, he discovered he could record his “conversation” with each person and play it back. He stood in front of the mirror and carried on a discussion with his reflection, repeating the personal facts about each person he’d likely encounter in Nashville.

  When his lunch arrived, Colt took a break and sat out on the balcony. The big deck was visible from there, but now it was deserted. Colt would’ve liked to have some company, but no one seemed to be around. He supposed they had work to do and were probably at the distillery offices. After the recent days surrounded by people, Colt was suddenly lonely. It wasn’t a feeling he was unaccustomed to; he’d spent much of his life alone in one way or another. But that wasn’t the case now. This little group of people had welcomed him and honestly seemed to like his company. Colt certainly enjoyed theirs, particularly Mal’s. While he worked, he thought more and more about when he’d see Mal next.

  By the time dinner arrived, Colt had a splitting headache. He’d planned to eat on the deck in hopes Mal would be there too. Instead he asked that his meal be brought to his suite. He ate and then piled his plates on the food cart in the front room so they could be picked up in the morning. One of the staff seemed annoyed when he tried to put his lunch dishes in the dishwasher earlier in the day. He was told in no uncertain terms they’d prefer to collect the carts and dishes. Causing a problem was the last thing Colt wanted to do.

  Following a quick hot shower, Colt crawled under the sheets and blankets, curled up, and fell asleep.

  Boots came at him. One, two, three kicks. The blunt end of a boot slammed into Colt’s ribs over and over. Covering his head, he tried to get away, but more hits came from behind him and smashed into his back. Counting the number of boots that assaulted him was impossible. It felt as if he were being trampled.

  Colt tried to cry out and tell them—beg them—to stop. The only sound to come from Colt’s mouth was a weak, pathetic whimper.

  Someone grabbed his arms and hauled him up.

  Out of sheer reflex, Colt yelled and struck out repeatedly.

  “Hey, whoa. Stop!”

  At first Colt didn’t take the time to acknowledge he recognized the voice. He continued to struggle, but within a few seconds, his assailant was behind him, and Colt was pinned to a solid body. His arms were crossed in front of him, and someone’s strong hands held his wrists against his chest. Focusing on the arms around him, he recognized them as well. He should—he’d been staring at them enough for the last few days. Wrapping his fingers around Mal’s arms, Colt hung on.

  At the same time, a voice barked in his ear, “Colt!”

  Dragging in deep breaths, Colt whispered. “I—I’m sorry. I’m okay.”

  Mal nodded. Their heads were close enough that the scratch of Mal’s five-o’clock shadow against his cheek caused his skin to tingle and provided a sense of security.

  Mal let go, then scooted back and off the bed. He stood looking down at Colt. “Are you all right? I didn’t mean to barge in. You’ve been cooped up in here all day, and I came to check on you, see if you wanted to take a walk and get some fresh air. I heard you yelling all the way out in the hall.”

  Colt stared beyond Mal and focused on the wall opposite the bed. “I’ve never had that happen. I’m sorry.” He pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them with both arms, gripping the sheet at the same time. “Embarrassing.”

  “No harm done.” Mal slipped his hands into his pockets. “And our secret.”

  “I got a really bad headache and decided to sleep it off,” Colt mumbled. “I usually don’t get headaches.”

  Mal thumped the side of the bed with his knee. “I’m sure it’s these big flowers and pink sheets.”

  Colt pulled the sheets closer, wishing he’d worn those pajamas now. “They’re not so bad, and this mattress makes it all worth it.”

  “How’s your head? Do you need anything?” Mal’s expression was a combination of concern and uncertainty.

  “No. I feel a lot better, thanks.”

  Mal pulled one hand free, leaned down, and tapped Colt’s arm a few times. “Good. See you tomorrow?” Colt nodded and Mal smiled. “Sleep good.”

  “Thanks.” Colt would’ve liked Mal to stay but didn’t know how to ask. He remained in bed until he heard the door to his suite shut softly. Then he got up and hurried to the door, only then realizing he hadn’t locked it earlier. Shrugging, Colt left it unlocked and went back to bed. Mal probably had a key anyway.

  It didn’t take Colt long to drift back to sleep.

  THE remainder of Colt’s night’s sleep was undisturbed, and he was refreshed and up early the next morning. He dressed and worked his way through another two of the folders before breakfast. A gentle rap on his door was Colt’s signal his meal had arrived. He opened the door, expecting to see a cart with food and juice.

  Instead Mal stood in the hallway. He lifted one hand in a mock wave. “Better today?”

  Colt reached through the door and pulled Mal into the room. “Tell me what you think.”

  “Uh, sure.”

  Once Mal was inside, Colt shoved the door closed. He ran one hand through his hair, squared his shoulders, and held out one hand. “William, so nice to meet you. Colton Hale, representative for Kensington’s Distillery and Still House,” Colt said. “I thought my full name, Colton, sounded more professional.”

  “I like it!” Mal’s face split into a wide grin. “William Carry or William Rini?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Nope. I’m impressed,” Mal said.

  They stood there for a few seconds, hands still clasped before Colt let go and stepped away. “I spent yesterday talking to myself in the mirror and learning about those people in the files. I used the recorder on my phone to fact-check myself.”

  Mal raised his eyebrows. “You did all that in a day?”

  “Yeah. I’m thinking I shouldn’t have. That’s how I ended up with a splitting headache and my nightmare about being beaten up.”

  Mal opened his mo
uth, then shut it, took a deep breath, and finally said, “I had no idea that was about….” He turned away and waved in the direction of the closet. “Did Gwen buy you some workout clothes?”

  Colt nodded. “I think she called them ‘sportswear.’”

  “That would be it.” He took his phone from his pocket, read something quickly, and replaced it. “Seems our breakfast is here. It’s still pretty nice outside. Care to join me? We can go over the final plans for our trip to Nashville, and if you’d like, later, if you’re interested, you can come upstairs when I train. That way Gwen can organize your outfits without driving you nuts. Trust me, you want to clear out when she’s in work mode.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “See you downstairs,” Mal said and slipped out the door.

  Colt waited a few minutes and then wandered to the outdoor deck. The minute he walked outside, his stomach growled. He was hungry, and the food smelled wonderful. They ate in silence for a bit before Mal leaned back, dropped his napkin on the table, and sighed contentedly.

  “That was good,” Mal said.

  “Everything they make there is good,” Colt reminded him.

  “A few more hints for Friday. It’s a yearly thing hosted by a huge”—Mal spread his arms wide—“distributor. They sell whiskey, wine, champagne, beer, rotgut, you name it. There are always people there trying to get all the guests to try the different drinks. If you want to try something, fine, but do not get drunk. I can’t stress that enough. And never be impressed by a competitor’s booze. I usually get a glass of water or iced tea and ask for a lime or lemon wedge in it so it looks like a cocktail. Do you know what professional tasters are?”

  Colt shook his head. “No, but I did see a few in the files. I was going to ask Gwendolyn.”

  “If you walk through a liquor store, you’ll see bottles with ‘award winning,’ ‘number-one rated,’ things like that.” Mal stopped long enough to take a sip of coffee. “There are people with such sensitive taste buds they can pick out ingredients, in the case of whiskey types of storage barrels, all sorts of amazing things.”