The McKenzie distillery is nestled in a picturesque valley, surrounded by rolling green hills. The main building is stone, with a slate roof and a chimney releasing a thin plume of smoke.It’s charming in a deeply Scottish way, yet clearly modern and well maintained.
—It’s beautiful, I say. How long has it been here?
—The original distillery dates back to the 18th century, Alistair explains, guiding me toward the entrance. But I renovated everything five years ago to combine tradition with modern technology. Unlike some people, I don’t believe clinging to the past is the best way to honor a legacy.
I can’t help thinking that comment is aimed squarely at Callum.
Inside, the distillery is impressive. Massive copper stills gleam under natural light pouring through large windows, workers move with focused efficiency, and the air is rich with the scent of fermented grain and wood.
—This is where the magic happens, Alistair says, walking me through the different stages of production. We start with malting the barley, then…
I listen with genuine interest as he explains the whisky-making process. He’s passionate, his explanations clear and engaging. Despite my initial reservations, I relax and begin to enjoy the visit.
After touring the production area, Alistair leads me into an elegant tasting room where several glasses of whisky await.
—The most enjoyable part of the tour, he says, inviting me to sit. A tasting of our finest selections. Don’t worry, just samples. Enough to appreciate the nuances, not enough to impair your judgment.
Something about the way he phrases that unsettles me slightly, but I sit anyway. I came here to learn.
He explains how to properly taste whisky—observe the color, inhale the aromas, let it roll across the tongue to appreciate its complexity. I have to admit, it’s fascinating, and some of the whiskies are delicious, even to my inexperienced palate.
—So, Jane, he says after several tastings, how are you finding life as a Scottish lady of the manor? Quite different from Los Angeles, I imagine.
—It requires some adjustment, I reply cautiously. But I like the quiet, the beauty of the landscape.
—And the McGregor family? Isobel isn’t known for her warmth toward outsiders.
I can’t help laughing.
—That’s putting it mildly. But we’re making progress. Slowly.
—And Callum? Is he the attentive husband everyone hopes for, or does he remain the cold, calculating businessman even in private?
The question, asked with an affable smile but sharp eyes, catches me off guard with its intimacy.
—If you’re looking for gossip about my marriage, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed, I reply firmly. Callum is an excellent husband.
—Of course, of course, he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. Just curiosity. It’s just that… Callum McGregor married—it’s a difficult concept to grasp for those who’ve known him a long time.
—People change, I counter.
—Do they? he asks, his gaze sharpening. Do you know why Callum and Heather broke up?
My stomach tightens at the mention of Heather.
—I fail to see how that concerns me. Or you, for that matter.
—Perhaps it should concern you, he insists. Understanding a man’s past can shed light on his present—and likely his future.
—Mr. McKenzie, I say, setting my glass down, I’m beginning to think this invitation had a purpose other than simple Scottish hospitality.
His smile shifts—more calculated now.
—You’re perceptive, he says. I am curious about the dynamics of the McGregor marriage. It’s so… unexpected. Callum marrying an American actress he barely knows, just before the deadline set by his father for inheritance. Quite the coincidence, don’t you think?
My heart starts to race. How does he know about that condition?
—There is no coincidence, I say as steadily as I can. We met, we fell in love, we got married. It’s that simple.
