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“Here,” said Ethan, reaching into his backpack that had contained his share of the food. He withdrew a bottle of whiskey. “Try a bit of this in there to warm you up.”
She laughed and then raised her brow as she saw the bottle. She didn’t know that much about whiskey, but she recognized the top-shelf Glenfiddich label.
“I feel honored,” she said, holding her cup out to him. “Such champagne taste you have.”
Ethan laughed, a slight edge to it. “You can thank my dad for that one. His drink of choice.”
“Pour some of that champagne in this direction,” said Tom, holding out his own mug.
The words and the tone lingered in Kate’s mind while she watched Ethan pour a shot into Tom’s coffee. He rounded it off by doing the same for his own. They lifted their mugs to toast.
“To great taste,” said Tom, clinking his cup against the other two.
“Great taste and great company,” said Ethan, smiling at Kate.
“Hear, hear,” said Kate. She took a sip, felt the bite of the whiskey and the peaty taste among the broader bitterness of the coffee. She looked over at Ethan. “Your father introduced you to whiskey?”
Ethan gave a harsh laugh. “No. He introduced my brother to it. My brother was the one who obliged me. He was fifteen, I was eleven. Corrupting his baby brother and all that.”
“You have an older brother?” she asked. Had she known that? She didn’t think so.
“Had.”
The words took her by surprise, a surprise that was instantly replaced by a huge wave of compassion. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.”
“That’s shit, man,” said Tom.
The words between them were few enough, but it conveyed everything they shared and understood, a threesome who had some ideas of the ins and outs of grief.
“Was it an illness?” asked Kate, her voice low.
Ethan studied his cup, his jaw tight. “No. A boating accident.”
Kate felt the tightness in her chest. The vise-like grip that brought up all the emotion and pain of the last few weeks, stealing her breath, her voice. She reached out and gripped his hand. Tom had looked away, trying to get his own emotions under control, and for a moment all they could hear was Max’s soft snoring as he lay sprawled out next to Kate.
“The irony of it was that Cam didn’t even like whiskey. I was the one who liked it.” He shook his head, the memory coloring his blue eyes a deeper shade.
“Cam?” asked Kate. “Was that his name?”
Ethan grimaced. “Cambridge Hollis Peterson III, for fuck’s sake. That was his full name. But we called him Cam. Except Dad, of course. As if Cam could forget his lineage. Or that he was destined for great things.”
“You were close?” asked Tom. He glanced at Kate, and she saw his face was flushed with barely controlled emotion. This was hard for him, she knew, but she could see he understood Ethan’s need to say it.
Ethan leaned his head back against the side of the van. He sighed. “He was my older brother. My hero. I looked up to him.”
Kate nudged him. “Instructing you in all things bad?”
He gave a choked laugh. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Did he play an instrument?” asked Tom.
“Hell, no, he was tone deaf,” said Ethan with a snort. “Teddi and I used to joke about it. She played flute.”
“Teddi?” asked Tom.
“Dorothea. My sister. She’s five years younger than me.” He grimaced. “My parents wanted to spread us out. So that they had time for each of us.” The last phrase, Ethan held his fingers in quote marks.
“Did she play classical music?” said Kate.
