Risky Whiskey

by Lucy Lakestone

  The book then suffered a worse fate, as the Cavapoo I shared with my aunt—a mildly demented sweetheart of a dog named Astra—apparently liked the scent of gin so much, she chewed the spine and corners off before I found her with it.

  This time, I picked up a paperback so I would be out less money when it met with the next disaster. Cocktail books tended not to remain pristine for long.

  I peered around the end of the row of bookcases and glanced at Neil. The line had dwindled to a half-dozen chatty enthusiasts, who were gathered around him talking. Mr. Mixy was still there.

  Neil had about fifteen more minutes anyway, so I meandered, finding myself in the childhood classics. What was it Dash had said about devouring books like these as a kid? C.S. Forester was one of the names he mentioned. I found one and pulled it out. Ship of the Line. Seafaring adventures. I loved the idea, even if boating made me resemble one of those science-project volcanoes that overflow when kids mix vinegar with baking soda. It wasn’t pretty.

  Not a good image when one has a waning hangover.

  I put the volume back and looked further. Howard Pyle—that was another one Dash had mentioned. Ooo, they had a pretty purple and gold edition of The Story of King Arthur and His Knights. I’d read this during my first swords and sorcery phase. I fanned through the pages, admiring the illustrations, wondering who would be considered a knight in today’s world. Arthur was a tough act to follow. Neil? Could his Excalibur be a cocktail spoon?

  Ah, and Pyle’s The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood—opening it gave me a flashback to going to the library as a girl and getting this book. The language was a little thick for a kid, but that was part of the appeal. It talked about “a whole host of knights, priests, nobles, burghers, yeomen, pages, ladies, lasses, landlords, beggars, peddlers, and what not, all living the merriest of merry lives, and all bound by nothing but a few odd strands of certain old ballads … which draw these jocund fellows here and there, singing as they go.”

  They could have been bartenders.

  I pushed my glasses up on my forehead so I could look closely at the beautiful illustrations. I was so enraptured that I screamed a little when a hand clasped my shoulder. I spun around.

  “Neil!”

  “Yeah,” he said slowly. “That’s me.” He smiled. “I’m done. You ready to run our errands?”

  I took a deep breath. “OK.”

  “So those aren’t reading glasses?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah.” I pulled the glasses back down in front my eyes. “Actually …”

  “What?”

  “They aren’t really for anything. They’re not corrective. I just like the way they look. Plus, they keep juice out of my eyes.”

  Neil barked out a laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I shook my head and bit my lip.

  His gaze went there. His nostrils flared, and then he caught my eye—my eyes, which were widening behind my fake glasses at the lightning bolt that leapt between us.

  “We’d better go.” My voice was husky. What the hell was that about? On an impulse, I hung on to Robin Hood. I could use a merry man. Serious guys made for too much angst. “I’ve got to check out.”

  “So did you sell many books?” I asked as Neil drove us to our next destination, a big restaurant supply store with all the fruit and herbs we needed for tonight. Still a little freaked by that moment with him in the bookstore, I hugged my messenger bag, which was now nice and fat with my two purchases.

  “They tell me it was a respectable number for a signing,” he said. “About twenty.”

  “That’s awesome!”

  “It’s kind of cool to think that someone is using it in their bar. Mr. Mixy even bought one.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What?”

  “What what?”

  “Your tone,” Neil said. “What about Mr. Mixy?”

  “Formerly known as Stephan Sully. He used to live in Bohemia.”

  “Oh? I never ran into him there.”

  “Worked with me briefly.” I shot Neil a glance that said a lot more than my words.

  He chuckled. “Did you mix it up with Mr. Mixy?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I was young and stupid. At least I’m smarter now.”

  “But you’re not an Instagram celebrity.”

  “He’s still a loser. Now he’s just a famous loser.”

  Neil looked pleased at this remark. “I saw you got Craddock’s book?”

  “Yeah, my dog ate mine.”

  A bubble of laughter popped out of his mouth. “You have a dog?”

  “I have joint custody with my aunt. The truth is that Astra owns both of us.”

  “Astra? Like the dog in the The Thin Man?”

  “That’s Asta. This is Astra. My aunt named her. ”

  “Ah, Astra. So she’s the ‘star’ of the house.”

  “Ha ha! You have no idea.”

  “I’d like to meet her.” He smiled. “Hey, we have a little time. Do you want to stop by and see if your parents are home?”

  Talk about a change of subject. Talk about bad ideas. Dread filled me all the way to my eyebrows, but I didn’t want Neil to know just how chicken-shit I was.

  “Sure,” I said.

  I directed Neil to the Lakeview neighborhood. A lot had changed since the hurricane. There were nicer houses now, at least for those who rebuilt, but there were scars. All these years later, the roads were still buckled from being drowned when the levee broke and set the 17th Street Canal free. I felt like a time traveler, coming back here. A stranger.

  I even got us a little lost on my way to my parents’ place, partly because I didn’t recognize it when I got there. The old house, a weathered one-story wood-frame affair that my father had inherited, was gone. In its place was a two-story brick home. It wasn’t upscale, exactly, but it had a solid, prosperous look about it.

  “They’re doing OK, aren’t they?” Neil commented as he eased up to the curb and stopped.

  “So it would seem.” Neatly shaped bushes and bright flowers grew on either side of the few steps that led to the green front door. Windows flanked the entrance; there were three windows on the second floor and a steeply pitched roof.

  I didn’t move when Neil turned the car off.

  He sat and watched me. “Pepper?” he asked finally.

  “You might not want to come in.”

  “I want to come in,” he said without inflection. Then he got out, came around and opened my door for me.

  I couldn’t say no to that, could I?

  It occurred to me that I was bringing a man home to meet my parents. I mean, they didn’t know the deal between us. But that’s what it looked like. At least Neil was sharp in another one of his vest and skinny tie combos. I was starting to regret giving my girls so much air time today in my tight T and vest. But what the hell. It wasn’t like I could disappoint my folks any more.

  I surveyed the modest flower garden as I walked up the steps. It was punctuated with statuary, including a couple of cutesy bunnies, a little girl holding a watering can, and a praying garden gnome wearing an insipid expression. I wasn’t exactly sure where gnomes figured into my parents’ pantheon, but OK.

  I rang the doorbell.

  The door opened to reveal a strange woman in a pants suit, tidy pinned-up hair dyed black, and meticulous makeup on her seasoned face.

  She looked me over with a mix of confusion and denial. “Kayanne?”

  24

  “Oh my—Mom?” It had been a few years since I’d seen her. Not forever. But she’d completed an evolution into someone as shiny and polished as a chrome bumper.

  “You should have called first.” Then she noticed Neil. “Hello, young man. Would you like to come in?”

  I bit my tongue to stop myself from asking if I was allowed in, too. “This is Neil. We work together.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Revelle,” was all Neil said, and I followed them into the house.

  We walked into the ruthlessly beige liv
ing room and stood. No offer to sit. Photos on the wall showed my parents in tropical places doing their thing—hugging children. Riding donkeys. A china cabinet was filled with a collection of holy manger snow globes. A carved wooden cross on the wall was big enough to crucify a large teddy bear.

  She noticed me looking. “Do you like it? We got it in El Salvador.”

  “When did you do all this? I mean the house. It’s new.”

  “It’s coming up on five years old. Have you really not been here?” my mother asked vaguely. “Oh, yes, the last couple of times we saw you, we went to dinner near your hotel.”

  That was because my aunt and I were never invited to the house.

  “And how is Celestine?” she asked. “It’s been a while since we talked. It’s so hard to keep track of my little sister.”

  “I think she feels the same way about you,” I said, “since you’re always on the move.”

  A smile crossed my mother’s face. “It’s the work. Your father was just arranging the next trip to Nicaragua. Kevin!” she called in the general direction of upstairs. “We have visitors!”

  Footsteps on the stairs signaled my father’s approach. When he entered the living room and saw me, a smile crinkled his eyes. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Kayanne. It’s so nice of you to come see us. We got your message about the dinner, but it just didn’t fit into our schedule.”

  At this point, I was pretty sure I’d have to grow wings and a halo to fit into their schedule. “It’s OK. This is Neil. He owns the bartender company that made drinks for the dinner. I’m working with the team.”

  My father shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “And you,” Neil said. So much for relying on Neil’s conversational skills to get me through this.

  My mother brightened. “Does that mean you quit working at the bar in Florida?” she asked.

  “No. I own half of it now.”

  She looked as if she’d swallowed a lemon garnish. “And have you found a nice church?”

  “It’s kind of informal,” I said. OK, so my idea of church was long Sunday morning walks on the beach.

  “Her Sazerac is a religious experience,” Neil said idly.

  My father chuckled, and I laughed out loud.

  My mother frowned. “Alcohol is forbidden in this house.”

  The subtext was that I might as well be forbidden, too.

  “Well, we have errands to run before a big event tonight,” I said with all the bravado I could muster. “I’m sorry we disturbed you.”

  “Not at all!” my father exclaimed. “Why don’t you stay for a cup of tea?”

  “They can’t,” my mother said. “We have to get to the church. The baptism.”

  “But—” My father’s protest was cut off by my mother’s steely glare. His look of hope melted like a wax candle, and then he gave me a brief hug and stepped back, letting Mom lead, as he always did.

  My mother patted my back as if I were a stray cat, angling me toward the door. “Thank you for stopping by. Please tell my sister I said hello.”

  “Sure.” Thanks for stopping by? “Uh, have fun at church.”

  “I will never know why you are so interested in fun,” my mother said, showing us to the door with her bland smile.

  When it closed behind us, I stood there for a second looking at the praying garden gnome, and then I stalked toward the car.

  Neil called after me. “Pepper?”

  “That was the dumbest idea of all dumb ideas.”

  Neil caught up with me halfway down the walk. “That’s my fault. I’m sorry if you’re upset,” he said as we got into the SUV.

  “Maybe I should be, but I know the deal by now.” I looked at the house one last time.

  Neil started the car and fiddled with the radio for an awkward moment.

  “I’ve never met missionaries before,” he finally said.

  A corner of my mouth lifted. “My parents are not typical. As a kid, I knew a lot of folks who do what my parents do. Friendly families who seemed to have fun together, traveled together, whereas my folks left me with friends or my aunt when they did their long summer trips. Honestly, I was jealous. Maybe if our family had been more like the others—but it couldn’t be.”

  “Why? What do you mean?” He settled on a jazz station and looked at me.

  “Nothing.”

  “You can’t pull the ‘nothing’ card with me,” Neil declared. “Because then I’ll ask about it every five minutes until you tell me the truth or make something up.”

  I snorted a laugh. I needed that. “OK. I overheard my parents talking once—my mom never told me this herself, but she apparently gave up a baby when she was a teen. That’s when she turned to religion. And I think she always hoped that baby would come back to her in some way. When she married my dad and then had me after a bunch of miscarriages, I was her second chance. Last chance, I guess. When I turned out bad, my parents didn’t have any backups. My mom treated me as if my wicked ways might be contagious.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re not wicked.” Neil put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. “So you have a sibling out there somewhere?”

  “I suppose I do. I used to imagine a brother or sister tracking my mother down and knocking on our door. They’d have to be fifteen years older than I am, but I always wanted a sibling.”

  “Yeah.” Neil’s voice was rough, and I remembered that he’d lost a brother.

  “Yeah,” I echoed. I turned to him as we bumped along the flood-buckled roads of the neighborhood. “I’ve thought about this a lot. My mom was probably worried I’d get in trouble the way she did. But once I figured out who I was, that I loved people and the bon vivants and all the fun, glamorous craziness that is this city, when I started sneaking out to see the Mardi Gras parades and finding ways to skip church on Sunday, it was like my mom gave me up, too. Only I was still in the house. I was a bad girl, and they had no idea what to do with me.”

  “You can’t have been that bad.”

  “I didn’t think so until after the storm. When they sent me to my aunt, it seemed reasonable to have me evacuate. The effects of the storm were terrible, schools were closed for a long time, and we knew it would be very difficult to live here. But even then, I figured out what they were doing. I was being sent into exile.”

  He shook his head. “It’s really hard for me to imagine that. I guess I’m lucky.”

  “I am too. I know that now. I mean, I had to get over the whole rejection thing. But life with my aunt was fun. She was easygoing, and so was Bohemia Beach. I loved it. So when no invitation to come back materialized after New Orleans started to recover, I was almost relieved.”

  Neil made a small sound of what I thought was sympathy anyway. “What was the hurricane like?”

  Not my favorite memory, but it had gotten a little easier to tell it over the years. “We didn’t evacuate for the storm. The hurricane really wasn’t that horrible for us at first. The winds, I mean. But of course it was the levee breaks that screwed most of us. The water rose really fast. We didn’t have a second floor to go to, so we went into the attic. Dad punched a hole in the roof with an ax.”

  “Scary.”

  “It was. We climbed up there and were stuck there for hours, waiting for a rescue, listening to other people calling for help. And then it was dark except for the occasional helicopter searchlight. The car and house alarms were blaring, and when they stopped, all you could hear was the frogs. A boat came through in the middle of the night and got us to shelter.”

  I pointed outside the car. “See, look at this.” We were crossing over the canal. “When you grow up here, you don’t even think about the fact that this water is higher than most of the city around it. We just accepted that the walls would keep the water out. We lived under the guillotine for years and never even realized it.”

  We watched the neighborhoods glide by, dry for now. In a few minutes, we reached the market, went inside and grabbed a buggy. It had a
cup holder. Only in New Orleans.

  We spun through the aisles, grabbing what we needed, saving the produce section for last. A familiar figure was browsing the citrus, hair leaking out from under his hat. Making a decision, Alastair grabbed large bags of lemons and dropped them in his cart next to gargantuan bottles of honey. When he looked up and saw us, he turned white. Well, as white as an already pale Englishman can get.

  “Alastair,” Neil said by way of greeting. He gestured to the British bartender’s cart. “Bee’s Knees?”

  “You think you’re so bloody brilliant,” Alastair said.

  “Yes?” Neil replied in an innocent tone. It wasn’t exactly a question. I suppressed a laugh as Alastair fumed.

  “Why are you so insecure?” I asked him. “You’re making drinks for the distillery that won the big medal.”

  “That’s outrageous,” he said in that crisp accent. “I’m not insecure.”

  “Then why did you feel a need to taste Bohemia Distillery’s whiskey the other day when no one was around?” I asked.

  His jaw set and one eyelid twitched before he regained his composure. “Someone was around. That Barnard fellow. I was just being sociable. That’s what Cocktailia is all about, isn’t it? Tasting. Trying new things. Sharing. Learning. And I learned that your cocktails have to work bloody hard to hide the taste of that awful whiskey.”

  Anger gripped me in spite of myself, and I wanted to defend Dash, defend the Bohemia Bartenders’ work. But that would mean admitting to that bad batch—which Alastair might know about already. Maybe he was fishing.

  Maybe I’d go fishing, too. “Ever play around with bows and arrows, Alastair?” I asked him.

  He rolled his eyes. “What do you think I am, Robin Hood? They scare me witless. Almost got an arrow in my arse at a country weekend with Mark.”

  “Fairyland’s Mark?” Neil asked.