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I stood.“Same time tomorrow?”
I waited for his answer. Just when I thought he wouldn’t reply, he said,“Aye. And stop flirting with Ewan, it’s not fair on the lad.”
“What?” A laugh tore its way from my throat.
He folded his arms on the tabletop.“He doesn’t understand you actors, he might think it means something.”You actors?What the hell did that mean?
Deciding I didn’t care to find out, I flashed him my flirtiest grin, brushing a finger down the grain of the wood only a hairbreadth from his hand.“When I’m flirting,boss,you’ll know about it.” I held his gaze until he swallowed.“Now… if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go and take a very long bubble bath.”
9
APRIL
SNAP – Rosa Linn
“How’s it going at the distillery?” Heather asked the moment I settled with my coffee at Brown’s the following weekend. I’d been touched when she had texted to invite me, I hadn’t at all expected to be brought back into the fold quite so quickly after years away. It reminded me of what I’d always loved about this little community… they opened their arms to one another.
I shrugged, looking between June and Heather at their equally eager faces.“I’ve been hanging around all week—helping out.”When Malcolm lets me.
“Yeah, Mal mentioned something about that, but I meantwithMal. Specifically.”
“Oh, you know, he hates me.” Any improvements I’d foolishly assumed we’d made that first day were quickly lost. If anything, he’d grown even surlier, grunting any time Ewan or I so much as spoke. It was even worse on the days Ewan didn’t work. Under Malcolm’s silent, stoic supervision, I’d turned the barley twice a day and painted dates on casks in the dunnage. All along, I sent sneaking looks at him rotating casks using a small forklift, a process that helped reduce the amount of liquid lost through evaporation, or so he’d told me when I asked. When he caught me watching, he’d told me, like a scolding father, that I wasn’t (under any circumstance) to use, touch, or sit on the forklift… which of course in my brain translated to“April, you must use the forklift.”
Lastly, Malcolm had taught me about the fermentation process. While mashing the barley, yeast was added to a sugary liquid called wort—yes, every part of this process sounded revolting—then transferred into a large container called a washback—disgusting—to ferment. After about fifty hours, when the top began to look a bit like porridge—again,disgusting—it was ready to be distilled.
The demonstration had taken thirty minutes with him pulling out little vials of liquid displaying the variations of alcohol content and showing me the shining copper still that he cleaned religiously every morning, whether or not it was used. He’d gotten me to sniff the wort, explaining how a trained nose would be able to properly pick out the level of fermentation. I’d quickly realised the only time Mal enjoyed talking was when he was talking about whisky, and though I’d only retained about ninety percent of the information, he was a wonderful teacher. He spoke slowly and thoroughly. When I asked questions, he didn’t scorn them but answered thoughtfully. I was becoming so addicted to asking questions I made little notes during the evening of things to ask the next day. Pathetic, but I’d long ago accepted my insatiable need to be liked.
Oh, and outside of the distillery, there was the time he’d caught me climbing back up the steep path after a morning walk on the beach, Dudley’s damp body tucked into his sling.“You really shouldn’t go down there, you’ll hurt yourself on the rocks,” he’d barked at me.
“He said that?” Heather asked.
“Okay… so it wasn’t exactly a put-down, but it was more about the way he said it, how he looked at me.”
“How did he look at you?”
“Like he couldn’t believe he’d stopped to talk to someone who’s so clearly an imbecile.” And after I finished relaying the exact depth of his scowl—a seven on the Malcolm’s Scowls chart I was putting together—June and Heather looked at each other.
Then June gave me a sympathetic smile while Heather clapped her hands together.“This is amazing,” she crowed, laughing.
I looked to Juniper, certain I must have missed something. June just shook her head.“Ohhh no. I know what you’re thinking, Heather. April just got here, you can’t start that crap.”
“Start what?” I asked.
“She’s trying to set the two of you up.”
I laughed so loudly I knew I was drawing attention. A real, rasping laugh that tore from the pits of my stomach. Until Heather said,“I’m not trying to set them up—I don’t need to, my idiot big brother is clearly into you.”
I pressed my cheeks into my hands, staring at her.“What’s really scary is that I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“It’s obvious.”
“How?”
“My brother hardly talks to anyone, even his family.”
I met June’s eye again. She looked as dumbfounded as I surely did.“And?”
“And—” She dragged the word out.“He talks to you, you said so yourself. He wouldn’t have warned you to be careful if he didn’t care,” she finished pointedly.
