The Distiller's Darling

by Rebecca Norinne

His brother’s eyes flashed with surprise, and he cast a quick glance toward their father. Cathal Brennan, however, never flinched.

  “If you don’t, I’ll be forced to fire you. I’ve let you have your fun with a paid sabbatical, but all that ends with a single word from you.”

  “This hasn’t been a sabbatical!” Iain responded hotly. “I’ve been working my goddamn ass off out here, turning up business for the company. How can you not see that?”

  His father’s jaw ticked. “A handful of restaurants mixing up cocktails with our whiskey doesn’t constitute significant business, and you know that as well as anyone.”

  “Did you even look at the information I sent over?” Iain breathed through his anger. A handful of restaurants, his ass.

  With the purchase orders he’d procured for Whitman’s, Maeve’s whiskey would add another million dollars of profit to their bottom line this year alone. A million fucking dollars. And he’d done that. So what if most of those orders would find his sister’s whiskey going into signature cocktails of some sort? It was a start on the path to success. And a fucking good one, at that.

  Sure, they could have launched in Ireland, but the market was already saturated. In America, they were unknown, but they had history on their side. They were a novelty that people would want. When the time came for Whitman’s Revival to stand on its own, Iain knew it would.

  “Why are you fighting this?” Braden’s tone was the same as it always was. Faintly exasperated, and deeply patronizing.

  Iain flicked his gaze from his father to his brother. “Why am I fighting this? I’m fighting it because we’re lagging behind our competitors, and no one is willing to acknowledge that. Everyone but us has introduced an offshoot to market recently, to both critical and financial acclaim. Has no one in the marketing department shown you the figures for Roe and Co or Method and Madness? Oh wait, they have. Multiple times.” He knew this, of course, because he was the head of marketing.

  “That’s an entirely different strategy,” his father said, bringing Iain’s gaze back to him.

  “I know that,” he answered. “I’m not an idiot—even though you seem to think I am.”

  His dad ran a hand through his hair, a sure sign of his obvious frustration with his youngest son. “No one thinks you’re an idiot. Impulsive, maybe, but not stupid.”

  “Then stop treating me like I am.” He leaned forward so his face was nearer to the screen. He didn’t know why he did it, except he had a feeling that if he was somehow closer to them, they might actually listen. “In case you’ve forgotten, my last impulsive idea was named Dublin’s top tourist attraction last year.”

  “That was a good idea,” his dad conceded, “but this one isn’t. At least not in its current form. Come home, Iain, and we’ll figure out how to launch your sister’s whiskey the right way. The Brennan way. This was never going to be something real, son. We never intended to expand in the direction you want.”

  The words hit Iain like physical blows. It was never going to be real. Come home. He stared at his dad and brother for several long seconds, the ultimatum hanging heavy between them. There it was. They’d never intended to support him. Either Iain abandon his work here and return to Dublin, or he could forget about any help from his family. Dammit. He knew he was on to something here, but he didn’t know how successful he could be without the financial backing of the Brennan coffers. Going it alone was a scary proposition. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t know how his sister felt about this news.

  “Have you discussed this with Maeve?”

  His brother shook his head in the negative, while his dad said, “She’s our next meeting. I wanted to speak with you first, since I know Whitman’s was your idea. Your sister would never have done something like this one her own.” He nodded firmly, his complacence folding around him like an invisible shroud.

  Iain bit back a sarcastic laugh. That comment alone showed just how little their father actually knew his only daughter. The idea to launch Whitman’s in America with a man-on-the-street guerilla-style marketing campaign had been all Iain’s doing, but it had been Maeve who had approached him about spinning off from Brennan’s in the first place. She was just as tired of the condescending treatment from their family as he was. In Iain’s case, it was because he was the youngest son; hers, because she’d had the audacity to be born female, but still a brilliant distiller.

  Iain rubbed the back of his neck, the stirrings of a plan forming at the back of his mind. “When do you need my decision on this?”

  Frankly, he already knew what he’d decided, but he needed to talk to Maeve before he showed his hand. If he could just buy some time, he might be able to put together a new plan for Whitman’s—one that would take both his family and the industry by storm.

  There was also the not insignificant matter of leaving Naomi behind before he was ready to. They might have started out as casual, but these last few weeks had felt anything but. Neither one of them was willing to put a label on it, but he’d grown to care for her, and he knew she felt the same way about him. She’d even said he could stay at her house when he came back! That was not nothing, especially for Naomi. The scariest part was that when she’d extended the offer, he’d been ready to say a whole hell of a lot more than “yes” and “thank you.” A part of him had been tempted to tell her just how much it meant to him.

  He’d thought he had the next two weeks to show her instead.

  His family was not going to steal that away from him. They might try to stifle his vision where the business was concerned, but there was no fucking way he was going to let them stifle a relationship with the first woman he’d ever cared to use that word with.

  His father was frowning, but Iain plunged ahead. “Because if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to take the rest of my allotted time out here. You probably wouldn’t understand, but I’ve made important contacts here, and friendships I’m not going to just walk away from because daddy wants me back at home.” He crossed his arms over his chest, daring either of them to challenge him.

  His father visibly bristled at Iain’s tone, and he opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it. Turning away, he said, “Two weeks, then” and stabbed his finger onto the key that would end their call.

  17

  “Slow down. What do you mean?” Naomi cradled the phone between her head and shoulder as she tilted her neck at an uncomfortable angle. Her fingers held a tiny chisel, dangling loosely over her sculpture. She tightened her grip on the tool as she frowned. Iain’s call had come at an unexpected time. She was elbow deep in clay, nearing the final turn on her race to finish the piece. Hands covered in dust and grime, she’d managed to answer the phone with her nose and pick it up with her wrists to get it near her ear. It was a move she’d perfected ages ago.

  “I mean it’s over, Naomi. They never had any intention of producing this blend full-time; just as a bit of a lark. My father says they were indulging me. He called what I’ve been doing out here a goddamn sabbatical.”

  “That’s insane. You’ve been working your ass off.” She scowled. Iain’s father sounded like a dick.

  “That’s what I said. Not that they listened.” His voice was garbled by pure rage, a sensation she knew well when it came to dealing with family.

  “What are you going to do?”

  He sighed. “They gave me a choice. Either come home or get fired.”

  She felt her stomach drop, and barely rescued the chisel as it started to fall from her suddenly nerveless grasp. She placed the tool carefully on the workbench before she said anything. “Those seem like … tough options. I don’t understand. I thought you’d met your quota.”

  “I did.”

  “But isn’t that good? I saw some of those numbers. They were big orders.”

  “They were.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said again. Naomi knew she sounded less than eloquent, but this was the last bit of news she’d expected to receive, and it had her feeling a
bit discombobulated—like she’d lived her whole life thinking the grass was green, only to suddenly learn it was actually orange. Her mind simply couldn’t wrap itself around this new bit of information.

  “It all boils down to the fact that they want all of the Brennans under the family thumb. Specifically, my father’s thumb. My brothers have both bowed down, and I’m expected to do the same. So’s Maeve.”

  “Wasn’t this blend her production anyway?” They’d talked about it once, and his pride in his brilliant sister had shone through in every word he’d spoken. She thought it was sweet. Her brother had certainly never admired anything she’d done nearly so much. Jacob had grudgingly visited her a few times, only to make a few critical comments about her house. And he mostly ignored her art. Which was, for her family, basically great praise. The Kleins took ’if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all’ as a challenge, not a guideline.

  “Yes.” There was a muffled noise on the other end of the line, as though he were rifling through a stack of papers. “I need … I need to talk to her.”

  “Have they spoken to her about this? From what you described of her, I can’t believe she’d agree to this.”

  He grunted a negative. “Apparently, they wanted to break me down first. They think she’ll be easier, and just knuckle under, I expect.” He snorted.

  “Do you have a plan?”

  He was silent for a moment, and she pictured him running a frustrated hand through his hair. In her imagination, she reached out her own hand to smooth the tousled hair back down. “Not entirely. I need to talk to Maeve.”

  She swallowed. “Guess those work trip booty calls are off the table now, huh?”

  He grunted. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll be camped out on your doorstep sooner than you think.”

  Now she was the silent one, struggling for words. Was he going to quit his job? Their relationship—if that’s what you could call it—was based entirely on the fact that they were two independent people with their own things going on. She had no intention of becoming a housewife, but she sure as hell didn’t want a house husband, either. His family was forcing him to make an impossible choice, and whatever the two of them had going might not survive the fallout.

  She didn’t know what to say.

  Apparently her silence dragged on too long, because his voice came back on the line, tentative and raw. “Naomi, I didn’t mean—” He sighed, and to Naomi’s ears it sounded sadly resigned. “I’m not going to show up at your door.”

  “I know,” she said, then winced. “I mean, I don’t know. You could.”

  “No, I couldn’t. It’s not like that between us.”

  He was right. It wasn’t. She didn’t want it to be, and neither did he. They had an agreement. So why did her chest ache so badly? “Okay. So, when do you leave?”

  “I …” He paused. “I’m still on my schedule. Staying for the rest of my allotted time.”

  She felt her body thrum with anticipation, and maybe something else. “You’re staying?”

  “Through the last two weeks. I have some stuff to finish up. People to see.”

  Like her? God, she hoped so. The thought of him hopping on a plane back to Ireland tomorrow made her nauseated. They would still have their last few days together. After that … well. She shut down the thoughts she’d been letting creep through, little moments spent imagining them together later. Just as well. Getting attached was not part of the plan.

  “Sounds good. I—” She was interrupted by the completely unexpected sound of her doorbell. “Iain! You’re not here, are you?” She was halfway to the door, a delighted smile on her face when he answered.

  “No. Why?”

  Her smile died as she opened the door. “I, um, I’m going to have to call you back.” Without another word, she hung up the phone and stared blankly at her visitor.

  “Hello, darling,” said her mother. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? It’s rude to leave your mother on the doorstep.”

  Naomi shoved her phone into her pocket, not sure which of the whirlwind of feelings blowing through her she should give in to. “Mom. Now isn’t really a good time.”

  Judith Klein raised one elegant eyebrow and looked her daughter up and down. “Then why did you answer the door? You appear fully clothed, and it’s the middle of the day, so I assume you’re not up to anything inappropriate.”

  “Mother!”

  “For heaven’s sake, Naomi, you’re in your thirties. If you haven’t done anything inappropriate yet, you really should. Now let me in.” Her mother stepped forward, and Naomi moved backwards without thinking.

  “But—”

  Her mother closed the door and held out her purse. “Where shall I put this? I assume you don’t have a dedicated space in this … charming bungalow.”

  “There’s a table right there.” Naomi got the words out through gritted teeth. She knew exactly what her mother meant by ’charming. It was the real estate definition, and it wasn’t flattering. She took the purse and resisted the urge to fling it roughly onto the table that rested against the stairs. Unfortunately, that would only break the bowl that sat there, a gorgeous piece she’d bought from a glass artist who lived down the road. Instead, she set the expensively logoed bag down gently and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before she turned back to her mother.

  “What brings you here?”

  Her mother examined her surroundings. “Do you have a place to sit down?”

  Naomi sighed. “Come on in. The living room is this way.” The dining room had been converted to her office, but she’d furnished the cozy living room with a comfortable couch and a chair or two. She mostly used the space for watching ridiculous movies when she was feeling burnt out. Although she and Iain had done a few other things in there several days ago. Probably not something she should be thinking about as she watched her mother sit carefully down in the exact spot Iain had—never mind.

  “So? You’re sitting. In my house. Which you’ve never visited before, let alone showed up unannounced to. Why are you here, Mom?”

  “Oh, it isn’t just me, dear.” Her mother smiled at her beatifically. “Your father’s here, too. He’s just taking a little nap. You know how travel tires him.”

  “You live less than two hours from here.”

  “Yes, of course. It was certainly a drive. There were many interesting fields and farms.” Her mother’s tone conveyed her opinion about such things, and it wasn’t positive. “I left him at the cozy B&B we booked. So convenient that it had availability.”

  Oh, no. “You’re staying? At a B&B?”

  “Oh, yes. Even more charming than your little place here. I understand they’ve undergone some renovations recently.”

  “Mom, are you staying at the Oakwell Inn?”

  “Well of course, darling.”

  “But that’s Noah’s—”

  “Yes, I promised his mother a full report, of course.” Her own mother sniffed. “Angelica is a charming girl, although she seems quite busy.”

  That explained why nobody had thought to warn Naomi about this ambush. Angelica was due to leave to film another segment of her popular show in a day or two. Possibly even tomorrow—Naomi wasn’t sure of the exact schedule. But Noah and Angelica would have been far too busy cooing over each other to even register this particular emergency. They probably thought Naomi had invited her parents to come.

  “Why are you and Dad here? You never leave the city.”

  “Darling, you didn’t answer your phone. I assumed you were dead. We came to identify your body.”

  “You booked a B&B to identify my corpse?”

  “Well, we certainly weren’t going to stay at a Holiday Inn.”

  Naomi closed her eyes and sought patience. “You knew I wasn’t dead. What’s going on?”

  Her mother leaned toward her. “It’s an intervention, Naomi.”

  Naomi felt her jaw drop. “A what?”

  “An intervention. Jacob a
nd Tanya are on their way, too. We felt the whole family should be here.”

  Naomi’s shoulders hunched involuntarily. This felt far too much like the talk her family had given her during her sophomore year of high school, when she’d turned down a summer internship with a cousin’s medical practice, electing instead to attend an art camp at Berkeley. She’d had a hard time standing up to them then. Only the promise that she’d apply to the universities of their choice the following year had smoothed it over. And her mandatory attendance at several hospital charity events, as if her parents needed to show the world that their daughter was still meek, proper, and obedient even if she did have a bohemian streak.

  Was that what this was about? She straightened. “What kind of intervention, exactly? And for that matter, shouldn’t you have waited for everyone else? Are you getting started early?”

  “Well, I figured I’d get a jump start, since you and I are so close.”

  Naomi blinked. “Uh ...”

  Her mother leaned back in her seat, then straightened with a twist of her lips. “Really, Naomi, you couldn’t have gotten a firmer filling on these cushions?”

  Naomi grinned. “I bought it second hand.” She waited for the reaction. In three, two, one ...

  Like clockwork, her mother practically leaped out of the chair. “Naomi Anne Klein! You let me sit on used upholstery?” She looked around wildly. “God knows what kind of vermin you let into your house! Have I taught you nothing? Oh, how are there no hard surfaces in here?” Her eyes searched the room frantically, and finding none, she folded her arms in front of her and visibly pretended that she wasn’t itching all over. “I’ll just stand.”

  “Worth it,” Naomi whispered to herself, then raised her voice. “Relax, Mother, I bought it from a woman who never even used it. It sat in her living room covered in plastic until I took it off her hands. And I had it professionally sanitized.” Her mother had, in fact, taught her that little tip. Secondhand furniture is fine, but never upholstered. She’d itched a little bit herself the first few times she’d sat on it, but after paying for it to be cleaned three more times, she’d finally felt comfortable with it in her house. She probably could have bought something brand new for the cost of all that cleaning but conquering her mother’s voice in her head had been worth the price.