“It can’t be that bad that we have to drink to hear it,” her mother said as she entered with her grandfather. “You okay, darling?”

  “Despite what everyone says, I’m fine.” She smiled as she arranged the glasses and placed four bottles next to them. “Dad’s coming, right?”

  “He’s five minutes behind us,” her grandfather said. “He said he needed a shower, but I didn’t want to be late.”

  She shared a smile with her mother, knowing her grandfather was never going to change. Carter Cinclair was prompt and he expected it in others. “We need to narrow down the selection for next month from these three. Once we’re all in agreement, I’ll have the bottles prepared from the particular barrels. The blend is a no-brainer.”

  “How’d it go today?” Her father asked, kissing her mother on the lips, then kissing her and Gramps on the cheek.

  “It was okay except for one team who can’t work until they get an audience with you and kiss the ring.” She shook her head in her mother’s directions when she gave her a look. “Roger told them they’d get the chance tomorrow night.”

  “Did Roger not introduce you?” her grandfather asked, both his bushy white eyebrows raised. “The last name should’ve been a dead giveaway you might have something to do with the process and weren’t some vagrant who’d wandered in off the street.”

  “It was the first name that was the problem, Gramps. It’s not Dale.”

  Her dad chuckled. “Your mother wanted to do that to you.” He pointed at her mother and smiled. “She tried to convince me Dale Preston Cinclair, Jr., had a nice ring to it.”

  “Thanks for holding firm, Pop. School would’ve been murder.” She pulled a chair out for her mother, glad to end her day with her family. Her parents and grandparents had helped her heal her broken heart and find her stride again when her confidence had been rocked. “This tasting, though, will hopefully not be.”

  “Let’s start with the single barrels first before you tell me what’s in that pretty box.” Gramps sat and placed his cane on the end of the table.

  “It’s a surprise, so patience.” She was about to tease some more but glanced at the door when it opened.

  “Sorry, I know you didn’t want to be disturbed, but you have a visitor and she’s pretty persistent.” The receptionist appeared apologetic, so whoever she was announcing must’ve been fairly persuasive.

  “Who is it?” her mother asked.

  “Hayley Wyatt, and she needs five minutes with Preston.”

  “Preston doesn’t have five minutes to give her,” Preston said. “Have her go through Roger.”

  “Actually”—her mother said with her hand up—“have her join us. We might need a tiebreaker.”

  “Mom,” she said with a warning tone. Her father and grandfather didn’t know the whole story, but her mother did. “That’s not a good idea.”

  “You never know. Anything that might lead to answers is never a bad idea.”

  Hayley came into the room and stopped as if not expecting three other people. She’d changed out of the business suit into jeans and a V-neck sweater, sending Preston’s brain back to Tulane’s campus. If there was one thing Hayley Wyatt did well, it was fill out a pair of jeans. The thought was probably sexist, but it didn’t make it any less true, and the horndog in her sat up, panted, and took note.

  “I’m sorry,” Hayley said holding her hands pressed together. “I don’t want to interrupt, and I don’t mind waiting.”

  “Nonsense, Ms. Wyatt,” her mother said, waving Hayley closer. “You’re someone I’ve been wanting to meet.”

  “Mom,” Preston said in a low voice.

  “I’m Hayley Wyatt.” Hayley held a hand out and smiled. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Sienna Cinclair,” her mother said cordially. “This is my husband Dale, and his father Carter. I believe you already know Preston.”

  Hayley repeated her handshake with Preston’s father and grandfather, then said to Preston, “I really don’t mind waiting until you’re done.” Hayley dropped her hand when Preston didn’t take it.

  “Have a seat, Ms. Wyatt.” The last thing she needed was a scene or a lecture from her mother if she physically flung Hayley out the door. “It’s not every day you get to do a tasting with the guys who actually make the samples.”

  She set out another set of glasses along with the club soda they sipped between tastings. The first sample was the only one moved from the middle of their oldest rickhouse, while the other two had spent their entire five years undisturbed on the main floor of the fifteen-floor warehouse.

  “The first one started on seven for three years, then was moved to fifteen for the last two years,” she said, pouring an inch into each glass. She and her family each lifted a crystal glass, and they held them to light.

  “What does that mean?” Hayley asked, holding her glass up too, even though she probably had no idea why she had to or what she was looking for.

  “We store our products in insulated warehouses called rickhouses where the inside temperature stays a fairly consistent sixty-five degrees without air-conditioning. Even with those cool temps, heat rises, and the barrels at the top mature faster.” She held her glass up and smiled at the perfect amber color. “The char on the barrels accounts for the color, as well as acting as a natural filter that finishes the process of making good whiskey.”

  “Okay, thank you. I researched the steps, but this makes it clear.”

  She poured the next one, and to her experienced eye it was slightly darker. “This matured more slowly, never leaving the first floor.” They each took a sip and held it for a note before swallowing. To a Cinclair, spitting out whiskey, even during a tasting, was considered a sin. “One more, then we vote.”

  “What are you looking for exactly?” Hayley seemed genuinely interested, but Preston didn’t want her here, much less have to answer questions.

  “Overall, a good whiskey is first pleasing to the eye.” She held her glass up and studied the amber color. “Darker colors come from age and the quality of the barrel and the char.” She lowered the glass to her nose. “Like wine, every whiskey has an aroma. For the sake of time and so as not to bore you, the aroma should be nice.” She took a sip of the last one she’d poured before going back to the second one. “Lastly it should not only taste good, but consistently good.”

  “What’s that mean?” Hayley was full of questions, and Preston noticed her family’s silence and curious stares.

  She poured water in a glass with the blended whiskey and poured another glass straight. “The flavor has to please straight out of the bottle and stand up to a mix, as well. Its uniqueness has to shine through no matter how you enjoy it.”

  “Thank you,” Hayley said, trying the glass with water last.

  “What’s in the fancy box, kiddo?” Her grandfather was patient but only to a point.

  “I know what our market is, and the Cinclair label will always be the leader as a gentleman’s whiskey in a common man’s price range.” She placed her hands on the box, trying to ignore that Hayley was hanging on her words as intently as her family was.

  “If you messed with the tried and true, you better have knocked it out of the park,” Gramps said, and her father nodded. The tried and true was sacrosanct, and from her father’s and grandfather’s expressions, messing with it was akin to changing her name and becoming a teetotaler.

  “I messed with the formula a little, filtered it ten times with four different charcoals, and had Herman add pecan to the char as well as four slats to the barrels.” Her grandfather shook his head, and she could guess it was from his frustration with the change. Gramps wasn’t rigid about anything except when it came to the Cinclair formula.

  “Pecans are for waffles and cakes, kiddo,” her grandfather said, proving her right about her guess.

  “Too much and I agree. Sweet isn’t my thing either, but a little is transformative.” She opened the box and remove the bottle that was distinctly different from Cinclair’s iconic look.

  “Transformative how?” her father asked.

  “For one, it puts us in the hundred fifty range, and it opens new markets.” She glanced at Hayley, not wanting to admit this in front of her. “Especially with the right marketing campaign.”

  “What’s the transformative drink called?” her mother asked.

  She unlocked the cabinet against the wall and removed the glasses with the C etched in them. They were over two hundred years old and had been present at a lot of firsts. It wasn’t necessary to use them, but she wanted to emphasize the name she’d chosen for the new whiskey.

  “The Cinclair success comes from consistency—that’s the driving force behind what every generation believes and follows without question.”

  “What’s that, kid?” her grandfather asked.

  “Tradition, sir—tradition.” She poured everyone a drink and held up her own. “I give you Traditions by Cinclair.”

  None of them bothered with color or aroma and immediately tasted it. It was everything she’d hope it’d be, and she wondered if the subsequent batches would be as good without the pain that had driven her to make it. Hanging on to the hurt now would make her feel foolish, considering Hayley appeared unscathed. It was time to let go.

  “Goddamn.” Her grandfather took another sip. “You’re a damn fine addition to the Cinclairs, kid, but tell me now if you have any more surprises for me. I’m an old man, and all this hoopla can be deadly.”

  “You’re still going to be giving me shit when I’m your age, Gramps, so cut the bull and tell me if you like it.”

  “I don’t like it, I love it, and if it meets the criteria, you should enter it. At least, I’m thinking that’s what you want to do by unveiling it today.” He poured himself a little more after giving her a bear hug.

  “I do want to enter it, but only with your blessing.”

  Her grandfather hugged her again. “That you have.”

  “Aside from the blend, which we enter every year”—she placed her hands on the second and third bottles—“which one?”

  “What’s your preference?” her mother asked.

  “The blend, the second bottle, and Traditions.”

  “It’s unanimous then,” her father said. “I’m damn proud of you, Preston. This is excellent, but don’t rest on your laurels. We expect more good things from you.”

  “Thanks, and you know me, I’ll never stop experimenting.” She capped the bottle of Traditions, placed it in the box she’d made herself, and handed it to her father. He had overseen Cinclair’s massive expansion overseas, so his experimentation in the distillery had been minor compared to hers. “I’ll see you guys later, but I’ve got some work tonight.”

  “You sure you’re okay, buddy?” her father asked.

  “A few more minutes, then I’ll head back to the office. I might stay downtown, so you guys don’t worry.” She kissed her mom and dad, liking the longer hugs they gave.

  “You’re a good kid and an even better distiller. Hell, you passed me up a long time ago. This really was spectacular,” her father said, holding the box like a treasure he wasn’t willing to part with.

  “Thanks, Pop, and let one of the guys drop you at home.”

  She saw them out before going back, washing the Cinclair glasses herself, and putting them away. Those she didn’t trust to anyone, and Hayley sat quietly until she was done.

  “Did you need something?” She turned and finished drying her hands. “You’ve met Dale, so you should be good to go. Though you should’ve asked him more questions if meeting him was the holdup to working on this project.”

  “Dale’s your father, right?” Hayley cocked her head slightly.

  “Yes, he is.” If Preston had to guess, the inference of Hayley’s question would be the first step in accusing her of lying when they’d met.

  “I thought you weren’t one of those Cinclairs?” Hayley asked.

  Preston sighed. Guessed it in one. “My omission,” she said, pointing at Hayley, “was probably for the same reason you didn’t mention Major Wyatt is your father. I wanted to be judged on my own merits, not what my future held.”

  “You’re right. Accusing you of anything would be hypocritical of me, and I’m sorry about Josie today.” Hayley pressed her hands together as if in prayer and held them close to her chest. She was acting like she didn’t know what to do with herself, and that was a real change from when they’d met. “She was way out of line.”

  “I’m sure she had her reasons, and if that’s the only reason you’re here, apology accepted. You didn’t need to drive out here to tell me that.” She turned and locked the cabinet with the glasses and wanted nothing more than to get out of there.

  “Do you think we can talk?” The hopeful expression on Hayley’s face was hard to ignore, but that’s exactly what she was planning to do. “Look, I realize you hate me because of what I did, and I’m eight years too late, but—”

  “I don’t hate you,” she said, needing to stop this before it devolved into the kind of scene she avoided like the plague. “Hate is as strong an emotion as love, and both require that you care.”

  “Ah, I see.” Hayley closed her eyes and sighed. “I’m sorry I bothered you, but thank you for letting me stay for the tasting. Your new product was wonderful.”

  Hayley walked out after her emotion-fueled apology and Preston was aggravated that she couldn’t dredge up the ability to shake it off as bullshit. There’d be no way to predict how much Hayley would affect her until she’d laid eyes on her again, and affect her she had. “Goddammit.”

  She finished her notes and locked the doors, using work like she always did, to forget all the stuff she wanted to wipe from her memory. It was dark outside, and her car was the only one left in the dimly lit lot, but she stopped and sighed when she heard something. The sound of crying stopped her, and she let her head drop.

  “Goddammit.”

  * * *

  “Goddammit to hell.” Hayley wiped her face, knowing this wasn’t the time and certainly not the place to render out eight years of suppressed emotions. If Percy and her father had somehow known what she’d be walking into, there’d be hell to pay.

  “Where’s your car?” Max asked, stopping fifteen feet from her as if she had the flu and was contagious.

  “I Ubered.” She grimaced at the smeared mascara and makeup on her fingertips. Her face must be a wreck. “It’s okay, I’ll be fine, and hopefully it’s okay to sit and wait.”

  “Have you called for a ride?”

  She stared at Max and wished there was more light. The years had been kind, and even though it seemed impossible, Max was even better looking than before. She had more muscle and her hair was shorter, giving her a more mature appearance. What would it be like to be held in Max’s arms now?

  “I will,” she said and wished Max would come closer. “I was enjoying the quiet and your beautiful landscaping. Please, I don’t want to hold you up.”

  “I’m headed back into the city if you’d like a ride.” The offer was made and Max didn’t wait for an answer, walking away and standing by her car.

  “You’ve upgraded from the Jeep, I see.” She was a tad out of breath from the jog to catch up. It would be at least twenty minutes into the city, and her only opportunity to get Max alone.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Piquant, and thank you.” There would be no small talk in her future, but that wasn’t much different than the Max she knew.

  They rode in silence along River Road, and from the direction they were headed, it seemed Max was going to take the winding route all the way into town. Twenty minutes just became forty. Maybe Max’s head was pissed at her, but her heart still remembered how good they were together. Like those times they’d ridden out here and picnicked along a secluded bayou.

  “You have to know how sorry I am.”

  “How exactly would I know that?” Max tightened her hands on the steering wheel but kept her eyes on the road. “I left your place one morning for an early shift at the bar, and that was it. You kissed me, said you loved me, and dropped off the planet.”

  “I was wrong, Max, but I thought leaving would be the easiest way for us to get on with our lives.” She wiped her face impatiently, not wanting Max to see how upset she was. “You never seemed like you could make a life anywhere but here, and my life was in New York. Maybe I couldn’t stand the thought of you choosing this over me.”

  “That’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard,” Max yelled, loud enough to make her lean away from her. “Stop lying to me, and more importantly, to yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You left because I didn’t fit into your world, Hayley. There was nothing in this world that would’ve prompted you to bring a bartender home to Daddy.” Max wasn’t yelling any longer, but the disgust in her voice was the kiss of death. “I was fun during college, but once it was over, you were done slumming.”

  “That wasn’t it and you know it.” Shit, Percy and Josie were right. She should’ve dealt with this way before now. “You better than anyone know what family expectations are about. To turn away from everything expected of you isn’t in your nature any more than it was mine.”

  Max stayed quiet for a long while before she sighed loudly. “You’re right about that, and nothing will be gained by dredging up all of this, so forget it. Concentrate on your job, and that’s all we both need to do.”

  “Do you want me to go? We can drop out of the process, or I can have my brother Percy take my place if you don’t want to work with me.”

  “We’re adults, Hayley.” Max quickly glanced at her, then back to the road. “Adults who knew each other once upon a time, but who can probably set all that aside and work together.”

  “I always wondered why you never took me home.” She spoke softly and Max laughed.

  “Probably for the same reason you never invited me along when your family came to visit.” They’d reached the city limits, and Max turned into Uptown. There was time but not much. “Let it go, Hayley. We’re different people now, and there’s no going back.”

 

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