“This,” Buck said, gesturing vaguely at nothing and everything. “Make music. Tour. Be a rock star.”
“Are you high? Of course I still want to do this!”
“Then give me something to take to them. Anything.”
“I gave them something. They threw it back.”
“Then work with the songwriters.”
“What’s the alternative?” The question was dry and sour on his tongue.
“You tell them you want out.”
“Break my contract?”
Buck’s answer was a blank stare.
“I don’t want out.” His mouth was dry as he dug the keys from his pocket. “Tell them I’ll do it. I’ll give them exactly what they want.”
He stormed away.
“Where are you going?” Buck yelled.
“To find my fucking muse.”
CHAPTER THREE
The road to Homestead was long and winding, lined with farm fields, stone fences, and bad memories.
Everywhere Gretchen looked was Winthrop land, where generations of her family had lived and built an empire. As she pulled into the mile-long driveway that would take her to the corporate building, she passed the original house, the place where it all began when an Irish immigrant named Cornelius Donley sold his first batch of whiskey in a roadside stand. The farmhouse was now a tourist spot on the whiskey trail and had been expanded over the years into a tasting room. She imagined Uncle Jack inside, charming the ladies as he pushed the whiskey. On a whim, she whipped into the lot. She had fifteen minutes before her meeting with Evan, and a dose of Jack’s humor was just what she needed to prepare.
Gretchen’s high-heeled boots crunched on the white gravel of the parking lot until she reached the original cobblestone sidewalk to the porch. The tasting room was technically in the big red barn next to the farmhouse, but visitors had to enter through the front door of the house itself. In warmer months, tourists could sit in one of the many rocking chairs on the wide wraparound porch to wait for room at the bar, but in December, most people chose to wait inside.
The porch was now decorated for Christmas in a simple, old-fashioned style, as if welcoming visitors to step back in time. Swaths of fresh garland draped elegantly along the roof, and a large fresh wreath with a plain red bow hung from the peak of the gable. Each rocking chair was adorned with plaid blankets and pillows. Flanking the door were two potted evergreens decorated with nothing more than strings of fresh cranberries.
Inside, Gretchen was greeted by the soft murmur of tourists wandering the rooms of the first floor of the house, where sepia-toned photos of the family going back to Cornelius Donley himself lined the walls in mismatched black frames. In the back of the house, the old kitchen had been preserved and turned into an exhibit describing life in the 1870s. One of the most prized artifacts was one of the original barrels Cornelius used for his first batch, now protected within a climate-controlled glass case. A dozen tourists were gathered in the kitchen when Gretchen walked through, some silently reading the information placards as others tried to lean closer to read the faded inscription on the barrel.
“Why does it say Donley’s Dare?” a woman asked. The man next to her shrugged.
“Because that was the name of the original whiskey,” Gretchen said.
Everyone in the room turned to look at her. “I don’t think that’s true,” a man said. “Where did you hear that?”
“From my grandfather.”
“Did he used to work here?” a woman asked.
“You could say that.”
Anyone else from the family probably would have been recognized on sight as a member of the Winthrop clan. Gretchen was never recognized. Her photo appeared exactly once in the entire house and tasting room, and it was from when she was fifteen years old.
“I still don’t think that’s true,” the man said quietly as Gretchen walked on. She didn’t care to correct him.
Outside, a long, paved walkway took visitors from the house to the tasting room. It, too, had been decorated for Christmas. A collection of rustic antique lanterns lined the path. At night, the candles within would be lit, casting the whole place in a soft, warm glow for visitors as they approached the barn. A Google search of romantic spots in Nashville would include this very pathway near the top ten. At least once a day between now and the end of the holidays, someone would stop on this walkway and propose to their partner.
Inside the barn, the old-world ambiance continued with rough wooden floors and a large wrought iron chandelier, which was now draped with more fresh greenery and cranberries. A twelve-foot Christmas tree covered in white lights and red ribbon was the only other decoration in the tasting room.
Every tall table was filled with visitors, each sampling flights of the company’s various whiskey offerings. More tourists circled the barn. And that’s where she found Uncle Jack, right where she knew he’d be. Flirting with the line of women who flocked to him with interested smiles. He wore a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with the company logo. This was his domain. Gretchen’s father—Jack’s older brother—controlled the business side of the empire, but Jack was most at home here, surrounded by the craft itself.
She inched closer to the bar and elbowed her way through a group of women who had “fiftieth birthday party” written all over them.
“Hey, Uncle Jack.”
He looked up and grinned. “Well, this is a surprise.” He walked over to his left and lifted the hinged counter so he could come around. She walked into his embrace and breathed in the comforting scent of wood barrels and spice that always clung to him.
“What’re you doing here?” he asked, pulling back.
She grimaced. “I’ve been summoned to see Evan.”
“For what?”
“No idea. I was hoping you knew.”
Jack shook his head. “Not a clue.” He started patting her sides as if frisking her. “You got any weapons?”
“Just my killer wit.”
“That’s my girl,” he said with a final pat.
“That I am.”
He made the sad expression she’d come to know as Jack’s regret face, and not for the first time, she wished she knew why he’d never married and had children of his own. He would’ve been a great father. Instead, he showered all that love and attention on her.
She glanced around. “It’s crazy busy in here.”
“Christmas tourism.” He shrugged, then nodded to an open stool. “You got time to sit?”
Gretchen glanced at her watch. “Just a couple of minutes.”