It’s been sixteen months to be exact. My first three batches were basically lethal. A lot of research, fine tuning, and learning on the fly went into perfecting the process I use now.
Pop’s brow looks like an angry caterpillar. “A year? And this is the first I’m hearing about it? You know it’s illegal to distill without permits, don’t you?”
I scratch my eyebrow, cringing a little on the inside. “I have state and federal permits, Pop.”
The look he gives me? It’s about as lethal as my first batch of vodka.
If I would’ve talked about my plans and what I hoped to do back then, Pop would’ve told me I was wasting my time. Wasting my money. Losing my focus. Sailing along with my head in the clouds.
In other words, he would have given oxygen to the fire of my doubts, and my doubts were flickering pretty good on their own.
Hell, they still are.
If Griffin hadn’t opened his mouth, I seriously might have waited until Olivier’s Organic Farm-to-Bottle Sweet Potato Vodka was on grocery store shelves before I told Pop.
But I’d die before admitting that.
“It’s… early days, Pop.”
This does nothing to erase his scowl.
“I didn’t see a damn distillery the last time I was in the east store shed.”
Where the fuck is Griffin? What the hell is he doing? The bastard can’t just drop this truth bomb and disappear on me.
I swallow. I can’t remember the last time Pop set foot in any of the outbuildings. He’s too unsteady to walk down our gravel paths, and he hasn’t driven in about a year.
I’m saved from having to remind him of that when my brother strides in, wearing a huge ass smile, clutching the three remaining labeled bottles we didn’t sell yesterday. He sets them on the table with a thunk and stands back, beaming. Hell, he might as well be crowing: Ta-da!
“Olivier’s Organic Farm-to-Bottle Sweet Potato Vodka,” Pop reads aloud, sounding like he’s waiting for the punchline.
“We almost sold out at Moncus Park yesterday,” Griffin says, preening.
Uncle Paul’s brows lower. “How much did you profit?”
Griffin’s face blanks. He looks to me.
It’s not a fair question this early on. Of course, I haven’t even made back what I’ve put into creating my little distillery, so my current profit is in the negatives. But I’ve worked out projections. What could be. Even with production costs and expenses on things like advertising and distribution, I’m still hopeful for a thirty-five to forty percent profit.
“About $8 a bottle.”
“Not bad,” Paul says, but then adds. “But it’s not $350,000.”
“Of course not,” Griffin barks. “He’s just getting started.”
Paul nods slowly. “Yep. That’s exactly what I mean.” He waves a dismissive hand that belies his next words. “No offense, Beckett, but you have a five gallon still and an $8 profit. And how long did it take you to get there?”
I set my jaw. “It took time to get the outcome I wanted, but I’ve got it now.”
He huffs a laugh that sets my stomach on fire. “And you think you can scale it tenfold and just plug and play?”
It’s my turn to scoff. “Of course not. New equipment and bigger batches will require their own learning curve, but it sure as hell isn’t beyond me.”
Paul throws up his hands in defense. “Didn’t say that.” He chuckles like we’re just shooting the shit, casually bantering on a Sunday morning.
Not talking about dismantling my whole life.
“But what I am saying is this plan of yours is gonna take time. It’s gonna take money. And it’s gonna take a whole lotta luck.” Paul shakes his head. “And none of that adds up to three hundred and fifty large I could put in my bank account in three months.”
