There was a pause. Oh, right. You forgot Mr. Grumpy from the flight and leaver of the evening.
Okay, so no “Hello, great to hear from you, I was thinking of you.” He couldn’t help but grin.
Sorry. Urgent family business came up. I didn’t leave deliberately. And only Mr. Grumpy because you’re a thief.
Better a thief than a liar, she replied.
I tried Dyer’s Medallion.
Emojis of hands clapping filled his screen. And, what did you think of it?
It’s good. Really good. You deserved the Best in Class.
He regretted not being there in person when it had been announced, but he’d been delighted for her when he’d seen the announcement on social media. The best in all of the white spirits was a massive accomplishment.
Thanks, Connor. I’ll pass your comment on to my brother. He’s the genius. I just get the stuff made.
It was interesting how she was happy to assume the behind-the-scenes role. She’d said as much in her speech, suggesting that as a family of three, she was the third pick for being there.
Well, I think you’re being humble. Running a distillery is probably challenging. There was a beat where the conversation could diverge. If it went toward details of the company, he’d be happy. If it focused on her, he would be happy. It was a win-win for him, his preferred kind of outcome.
So, Ironman, huh?
Wait. What? Okay, so unexpected response. But that meant she’d checked him out. That shouldn’t make him feel as good as he did. You looked me up online?
I did. I was going to send you a message to say thank you for the champagne. Your athletic feats popped up before your business profile.
Damn. For a minute, he thought it was because she was interested. I get bored if I sit still for too long.
He waited for her response.
There’s a lot of gray between sitting still being bored and throwing yourself off the bow of a boat. Ever considered squash?
Connor laughed. I happen to be good at squash. And tennis. And golf.
Color me surprised, she replied. I prefer to do quality over quantity. A three-miler run well, rather than twenty-six miles run feeling as though I were dying. She followed it with crying laughter emojis.
Quality over quantity. The second time she’d mentioned it. And while he fully understood she was just joking, he wondered for a moment if she felt that way about his company. The gin they distributed was very drinkable, reasonable quality for its price point, but nowhere near the quality of Dyer’s. If that was how she felt, he’d completely understand it.
Before he thought of a response, another message appeared. I’m off to bed. Super early start tomorrow. Thanks for your kind words about the gin. I’m pleased you liked it.
No. He didn’t want their conversation to end. He wasn’t ready to be left alone with his thoughts.
Have dinner with me on Friday.
Nothing.
No answer.
Had she turned her phone off without waiting for a response from him? Was it a clear no? He watched the end of the game, brushed his teeth, did his evening meditation, and set his alarm.
With one last check to see if there were any messages, he turned his phone to silent.
And as he placed it on the side table, the screen lit up again.
I’d love to.
Chapter Three
“Constance isn’t getting up to temperature.”
Emerson looked at the copper pot still and then back to Jake. “What do you mean she’s not getting up to temperature?”
They named their stills. Constance, because she was most reliable. Patience, because she had an odd temperament that appreciated soft handling. And Melody, because of the assortment of whistles and hisses she’d make over the course of a run.
Jake shrugged and threw his arm around her, a grim smile on his lips. “You know what I mean, Em. You just don’t like the implications.”
Emerson pushed his arm off her shoulders and grabbed a hair tie from the pocket of her overalls. She pulled her hair up in a messy bun and stepped closer to study the dials on the panel next to the bright copper kettle. The vapor temperature dial had barely flickered away from room temperature. There was no heat in the still.
“Okay, smart-ass,” she replied, unable to resist a grin despite the dire situation. Her brother had always been able to make her smile. “Is anything getting through to the helmet and cooler?” She tilted her head back so she could look up the long column that rose out of the kettle.
Jake shook his head. “No. I’ve done everything I can think of. I didn’t even get enough to get the head off.”
Urgh. The head was the first part of the distillation, the gin that was all over the map with regards to concentration. Jake would often make a call to either add it back into the start of the distillation process or simply discard it.
Which meant this batch hadn’t even gotten started before the kettle had given up the ghost.
Emerson thought through the production schedule and momentarily cursed Jake’s style of distilling each botanical separately rather than together. It took so much time. They could produce so much more if they distilled everything at once.
But then…it was the reason Dyer’s Medallion was winning medals. The oils of the botanicals vaporized at different rates, with the citrus generally coming off first. Instead of hovering in the super dry end of gin that came from trying to get the best out of the orange while getting the worst out of the juniper due to distilling the lot together, Jake’s approach made sure the notes of all the botanicals were crisp and clear. The spirit became rounder, richer. The flavors, fresher. They rarely lost focus. It was the reason the brand had done so well. That, and Jake’s nose for botanicals. His latest additions, Vietnamese black peppercorns and Thai lemongrass, had been well worth the increased supply costs.
Interest in orders had increased since the Best in Class medal. There was no doubt in her mind that it was the volume they had been pushing hard for since the gin had hit the market that had killed their still. There was barely a moment to rest or service machines between batches. As a family-owned business, the distillery was operating more often than not on the weekends.
And while she knew everyone in the building was rooting for the volume, she needed to get more familiar with the financials of the company. Her father had held the purse strings ridiculously tight.
Emerson sighed. “I’ll go make a call to get a service engineer in, then I’ll take a better look at the financials. I started something on the plane the other day that I wanted to go over with you and Liv. Let me get to work.”
Jake glanced up at the mezzanine and their father’s office. Her office. “Good luck.”
Emerson walked through the distillery and looked toward the high, beamed roof as rain lashed against it. The old Denver millhouse was the perfect size and location, but boy, did it need renovation. It was the one thing she and her father had disagreed on. It needed investment. With the distillery as collateral, if needs be. They could invest in a more environmentally friendly production process by purchasing sustainable biomass boilers to power the distillations.
Perhaps now was the time to clean up her presentation for the bank. With a broken still and the threat of reduced production of a medal winner, perhaps the bank would help. Emerson sat down at her desk and opened her laptop.