OLIVIA
Ethan’s father’spick-up truck sped across the narrow road that cut through fields that looked like they’d been corn last season. It was unseasonably warm. There’d be no chance of a white Christmas this year, although I’d been told those were rare here. Plus, no one knew how to handle snow. A light dusting, Ethan said, and the town hunkered down like it was the apocalypse.
During the twenty-minute drive, I tried to remain on the defensive from him. He was being much too cocky about all this.
The road was tiny and his dad’s truck was huge, so each time a car passed going the opposite direction, I instinctively leaned away, sure we were going to sideswipe them. But it thankfully didn’t happen.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
We’d turned off the highway a while ago and seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.
“There,” he said, pointing to a group of buildings off in the distance. It looked like in might be some sort of farm, but there weren’t any fields or silos or barns. Just rows of tall, black warehouses.
I didn’t understand until we drove past a gate and under an elegant arched sign that readDaviess County Reserve. “Is this a bourbon distillery?”
“Yeah. Have you been to one before?”
I shook my head and peered out the window, looking at the identical buildings that were five stories tall with perfectcolumns of windows running along their length. Only one building looked different. I assumed that was where they housed the stills and offices.
Ethan parked in the empty lot in front of it, and when we got out of the truck, I raised my eyebrows at the distinct but not unpleasant smell.
“That’s the angel’s share,” he said. “Some bourbon evaporates from the barrel while it’s being aged.” He gestured to the front doors. “Come on. Brent’s waiting for us.”
“Brent?”
“He’s a friend from high school.” He said the wordhighfunny, thehilong and drawn-out.
“Highschool?” I repeated. “What’s with your voice?”
He straightened, a scowl threatening his expression. “Sometimes that happens when I come back here.”
“Holy shit, a southern accent,” I said, thrilled. Sexy.
Brent met us in the lobby, which was upscale and masculine. Bourbon barrels had been reworked into tables with dark leather chairs seated around them. A large bar for tastings was on one side of the space and the gift shop on the other, featuring glass cases containing their most exclusive bottles.
Brent was stocky, with a bushy beard and thick eyebrows. He looked pleased to see his friend, and once introductions were done, he gestured for us to follow him. He wasn’t just the distillery manager, but the head tour guide.
He took us into the back, showing us the distillation process as we gazed at vats of mash and large copper stills. He explained how the interior of the oak barrels were charred, and this was what gave bourbon its smoky flavor and caramel color. Then we were led outside, across the lawn, and into one of the rickhouses where the barrels were stored.
Even though there was no heating system, the temperature was pleasant inside, and the ‘angel’s share’ smell was stronger too. Rows upon rows of barrels were stacked in wooden racks, stretching up to the dark ceiling. The wood plank floor wassimple and unvarnished, the lighting sparse. It was nothing more than caged lightbulbs hanging overhead at the end of each rack.
The rickhouse felt old. Like a labyrinth that had been built in a cave.
Beside the door, there was a barrel standing on its end and a small high top table. On the tabletop, three tiny, bell-shaped glasses had been set out, plus plastic cups that contained what seemed to be a chocolate bon-bon.
Brent used a rod-looking tool to extract some bourbon from the barrel and filled the glasses with the amber colored liquor. Just a finger’s worth for tasting.
I didn’t care that it was only ten in morning, I was too excited to try it. The bourbon had a warm, oaky flavor, and I sipped it and nibbled on the chocolate while the men talked about what they’d been up to for the last eighteen years. Of course, Ethan’s version was mostly vague half-truths. Brent had no idea the guy he’d played high school ball with was a deadly CIA operative.
I smiled, glancing up at Ethan and tried to picture him as a gangly teenager in a basketball uniform. “Were you any good?”
“What he lacked in skill, he made up for in height,” Brent teased.
Ethan didn’t argue his friend’s assessment. He looked a little embarrassed, like he didn’t like my knowing he wasn’t great at everything he did. But that was real and just made me like him more.
When we finished our samples, Brent put away the whiskey thief, tossed the empty plastic dishes in the garbage, and gathered up the glasses.
“Okay, I’m going to let you two explore for a while.” There was a strange smile tilting his lips. “Just make sure you’re out of here before noon because I’ve got another tour. The door will lock behind you when you leave.” His smile widened intoa shit-eating grin as he glanced at Ethan. “Y’all have fun.”
