Highland Dew Page 8

  She walked around to face him. “Yes. I’m sorry, but I overheard you talking to my dad. Can you tell me what it is you’re looking for?”

  “It’s nothing important, something your da’ and me was working on. I just thought it might be one of his good days when he recollects things.”

  “Well, don’t you think I might be interested if my father was involved?”

  “Really, nothing. I need to get back to cleaning the equipment…” He turned toward the malting shed.

  Nothing. I don’t believe that for a minute. She watched him walk away, then grabbed her basket and returned to the house. The truth was her dad did have lucid moments, but she never thought to try to engage him. Maybe she should. This would all be easier if she had someone to talk to. He didn’t even need to answer, simply nod his head. It was up to her now to make the hard decisions.

  He was watching TV when she came in. She knelt next to his chair and put a hand on his arm. He still had strong arms and legs from years of backbreaking work. Side by side with his father, they’d doubled the size of the distillery. It took years and strengthened the MacDougall family. There was much to take pride in.

  “Hi, Dad.” She kissed his cheek. “I love you so much.”

  He turned his head and smiled. Something flashed behind his eyes. It was a look of recognition and he teared up…and then it was gone. He touched her face gently.

  “Do you want me to make you a sandwich?”

  “Thank you, Mary.”

  She swallowed hard and patted his arm.

  Oh, Dad, where are you right now? Tears blurred her vision for a moment.

  Chapter Twelve

  The directions Kurt provided were surprisingly accurate. It was hard to miss the dramatic curve and signs. The wooded lane felt mysterious and primeval—a secret forest in the center of acres of fields. Visions of Alice and the White Rabbit teased her. Oddly, in her fantasy Alice looked a lot like Fiona. She replayed the phone message but thought Fiona sounded a little off. Worried or sad? She couldn’t tell. Better call her later.

  The large stone barn was whitewashed and highly visible. The driveway curved widely to the rear entrance. Smaller add-on buildings completed the complex. The office door was open and some lively Scottish pop lilted out into the spring afternoon. Fiddle, pipe, and drums never failed to make her smile.

  “Hello?” She looked around the small, neat office. It was sparsely furnished with older furnishings that were simple and utilitarian, and not like other businesses she’d visited.

  A bald head with an impressive beard popped up from under the desk.

  “Oh, good afternoon. You must be Bryce Andrews.” He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Just trying to hook up a new modem. We just got satellite coverage.” He shook her hand. “Please, have a seat.” He pointed to a sofa between two chairs and a coffee table.

  “Thanks. And you must be Kurt Morgan.” She sat and noticed the Whisky magazines carefully arranged in front of her.

  “At your service.” He took a seat on the other side of the coffee table.

  “Pardon me, but you don’t have much of an accent. In fact, I’d guess you were American.” Bryce set down her bag.

  “You’d be correct. Minnesota.” He laughed. “I got interested in distilling about twenty years ago. It was just a hobby, but I got pretty good at making some decent bourbon and whisky. When the kids were grown, the wife and I took a trip to Scotland. And the rest is history.”

  “What a great story. How long have you been here?” This was a nice story; it would help promotion.

  “About eight years. We started real small, but with some other locals who were interested, we formed kind of a co-op. We each contribute something to the process and share any profits.”

  That was a great idea. “Very unique. Where do you see yourself in five years?”

  “If we could get wider distribution, we could get a loan to expand, and then produce more.” He folded his hands and looked at her. “Can you tell me a little about your company?” He pointed to the new modem. “I haven’t had time to do any background.”

  She laughed, and pulled a brochure from her bag. “Of course.”

  He took it and slid down the glasses from their perch on top of his head.

  “Global Distillers and Distributors has been around for some time after starting in Glasgow. As you can see, we have several offices now.”

  “What would bring you out here looking for small batches?” He took off the glasses.

  “Not too long ago, Leo Edelman, our CEO, took a couple of us to a trade show in Chicago. The American Craft Spirits Association. Some of the new artisanal whiskies were remarkable. Leo wanted to see if we could reach out to similar interests in Scotland, where we already have a network in place.”

  Kurt stood. “How about a wee dram while we talk?”

  “Sounds good. I’m anxious to see what you’ve got.” Bryce unbuttoned her jacket and pulled out the leather binder with her whisky notes.

  He returned from another room with a tray holding two glasses, two bottles, water and crackers. “When we’re finished, we can go back and taste some of the new batch.” He poured a small amount in both glasses and handed her the water pitcher. “This is the very first we made here. It’s the eight-year-old single malt. The majority of it’s now in wine barrels for a few more years.”

  She took her time, knowing it had more aging to go. Still, the nose was strong and the color pale. After a couple of sips, she said, “This is quite good and different.”

  He beamed. “I dried the malt a little different—something we talked about for a long time.”

  “You and the co-op members?”

  “Yup. The first thing I worked to get started was some gin. A bit of that grain got into the barley malt and made a difference in the taste. We liked it.”

  “That would be unique.”

  He opened the other bottle. “This was the last bottling before I left Minnesota. I left several barrels aging in sherry casks for a couple more years. I brought a few bottles with me just for pleasure.” He poured each of them a sample.

  This was much darker and smelled lush with fruit and vanilla. The taste added some smoke and fresh grass. “This is also quite good—a little sweeter.” She jotted notes. “Kurt, I think you have a good handle on what you want to do. Can you tell me a little more about how your co-op works? I mean, is the business run by committee?”

  “Okay. There are only four of us. One fella is a cooper who can do wonders with wood and makes our barrels. Our oldest is in farming, and can get the best barley around. The third is a lady from a long line of distillers. She knows her whisky and has been a big help teaching me the tricks of the trade.” He laughed loudly. “And it is she who must be obeyed.”

  “Is this full-time for them?”

  “No. We get together once a week to talk about stuff. When there’s something ready to bottle and sell, we each get some of the profit. But my name is on all the papers.”

  It was an unusual setup, but logical for someone starting out. She had a hunch Leo would like this guy. “Why don’t you give me a quick peek and I’ll get out of your hair.”

  He did a double take and snickered. “Yeah, good one. Right this way.”

  The cask room was small and utilitarian, but had the distinct musty whiskied-oak essence from what was lovingly called “the angels share.” Alcohol evaporation from the wooden barrels accounted for a small percent of loss.

  Kurt set two glasses on an upright barrel and removed a wooden plug.

  “That’s a beautiful whisky thief.” Bryce pointed to the two-foot long copper tube that looked like a large ballpoint pen.

  “Thanks. My dad bought this for me when I finished my first batch of decent whisky. I consider it good luck.” He slid the tube into the barrel in put his thumb over the hole on top. When extracted, the amount captured in the tube provided a sample for each glass.

  It was a lighter color with a very complex nose and t
aste. Strong, astringent, and citrus.

  “This is different,” Bryce said.

  “A new recipe. We’ll have to see how it ages.”

  The door opened and a woman stuck her head in. “Kurt, I don’t want to interrupt, but your shipper is here.”

  “Katie, this is Bryce Andrews, from Global. This is my lovely bride, Katie. Would you excuse me for just a minute?”

  “Sure. I should probably be going.”

  “No need to rush,” Katie said. “He won’t take long.”

  No mistaking this woman’s origin. Average height and looking every inch Scandinavian. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a long braid. Her pink cheeks and blue eyes shined in the dimly lit room.

  “I’ve just taken some cookies out of the oven. Won’t you come in and have some coffee?”

  Homemade cookies? “That sounds wonderful. A bit of home.”

  “Kurt was so excited to get your call. It’s kinda serendipitous since they were talking about finding new markets. This has been a dream of ours forever, and it’s thrilling to see it unfolding.” Katie pointed to the house and waved to Kurt, who was talking to the truck driver.

  Two hours later, Bryce pointed her car north toward her hotel with a signed representation authorization and a bag of cookies. She wanted to call Reggie with the news, but hesitated for some reason. The recent lapse in communication raised some concern about the normally loquacious southern belle. Maybe she was busy…or maybe she’d had another night of drinking.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Reggie pulled in to the Station Bar Hotel in Alness and parked. The small village was nestled between the hills along the Cromarty Firth partway between Inverness and John O’Groats on the northernmost tip of the mainland. The Dalmore Distillery, one of her favorites, was very near.

  Her last visit netted a contract for representation, and Joe, the younger partner, insisted on buying her dinner and she had only twenty minutes to get changed. The suit and heels had to go. This was her second visit to the small distiller and Joe wanted her to talk with the banker holding a note. Happily, Leo was willing to make a quick call to the Glasgow office and approve a preliminary contract based on the one quarter of earnings the boys had posted. She ran up to her room and changed into jeans and a cashmere V-neck sweater. A spray of perfume and she hurried down to the lounge.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked. His curly silver hair and dark turtleneck gave him a nautical look.

  “I think I’ll have McEwan’s on tap.” Reggie offered her most authentic Charleston drawl and smile.

  His hardened face softened. “You must be one of the Southern ladies from the U.S. I’ve heard about.”

  She blushed. “Why yes, however did you know?”

  He placed the beer glass on a mat. “I guess it’s the delicate way you talk. Don’t sound like a Scot’s lass, t’all.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Are you from around here?” His deep guttural brogue required careful attention.

  “Up the coast toward Brora.”

  Joe walked in at that moment and pulled a seat closer to her. “Hope I’m not late.” He’d clearly changed and showered. His dark wavy hair glistened.

  “Not at all, I was just talking to…”

  “Murch—well, that’s what folks call me.”

  “Sure, we’re all familiar with the randy old sailor. I’ll have a beer as well.” Joe smiled.

  Reggie leaned back and watched the interaction. Joe had been flirting with her since they met and she used it to get the deal. Hopefully, dinner would be a fitting reward for his help. His brother wasn’t all that keen, but Joe convinced him to give it a try.

  Leo would be happy to pick up this tab. The small distillery had a long family history.

  ****

  Leo coughed. “I’m pleased with the success both you and Reggie have had. I’d rather have a few too many in case some don’t pan out.”

  “I feel the same way, although, I have been impressed by the earnest and enthusiastic attitude of these entrepreneurs.” Bryce propped her feet on the window seat and slouched down in the chair. She was tired from yesterday’s calls, but very encouraged.

  “Do you think there might be more in other regions?”

  When she considered her luck in just the Speyside region, she knew that the concentrated searches were more helpful. But, she dreaded the thought of more searching in new areas. She needed a break.

  “Not sure, I think we’ve figured out how to scout these small local areas more efficiently…”

  “I hear a ‘but’…”

  She let out the breath she was holding. “But, I’m really tired, Leo.”

  There was a pause and she heard keys tapping. “Let me see, looks like your last real vacation was over two years ago. How did we let that happen?”

  She closed her eyes. “Because we’ve been so busy with new offices…”

  “Bryce, I apologize for not paying more attention. You’re a valuable employee and I don’t want you to burn out.”

  I hope it’s not too late, she thought. “It’s my fault for not asking.”

  “What would you like to do to remedy this?”

  “I’m not sure. I’d like to wrap things up before I think about that.” The sun moved out from behind a tree and the river reflected the dancing beams of light. A wave of calm washed over her. “I might spend a few more days here.”

  “Just let me know. Before you wrap up, I’d like a conference call with you both at Ian’s office in Glasgow.”

  “We planned on it. Thanks, Leo.”

  “Take care.”

  The cookie bag was calling her name. Resistance was futile. The cinnamon sugar pastry melted in her mouth. The cozy warm room felt even more comfortable, probably because she let go of the guilt about being tired. Two years? Hell, she deserved a vacation.

  She grabbed her phone and dialed. After all, since she was taking the day off… Voicemail. “Hi Fiona, it’s Bryce Andrews, I have the day off and wondered if you wanted to get an early supper? I’ll be doing a couple of errands, but I have my cell phone.”

  By four o’clock, she’d finished the nonessential time-wasting errands and was near Archiestown. She turned into the hotel lot where they had eaten before.

  “I could have a beer or walk around. It’s a nice village.” She leaned over to switch off the ignition and stopped. Instead she shifted to Drive and got back on the road west to upper Knockando.

  Bryce, you’re being ridiculous. If you want to see Fiona, go see her.

  She turned up the music and opened all the windows. Many of the fields were lush with a green carpet of new life. Others were newly tilled dark soil waiting for a new crop. Bryce smiled at the redolent smell of spring, as if she’d somehow never seen farm fields. “Hello. You grew up in the Midwest.”

  As she slowed for curves, she remembered a Christmas when her grandparents had visited from Pennsylvania. Her grandfather had retired from the ministry and then spent time as headmaster of a fancy girls’ school. He was an imperious-looking man with a thick shock of white hair, wiry black eyebrows, and rimless glasses. But, boy could he tell a story.

  The one that came suddenly to her mind described the arrival of her ancestors from Scotland in 1650. They split into two groups to find land to settle. When a suitable property was found, one man returned to Philadelphia for the rest of the group. When they returned to the new settlement, all they found were the remains of their kin.

  She slowed the car and pulled off to the shoulder. The stone cottages came into stark relief and with that, a strong sense of déjà vu. The stone fences, fields, and the hills. The endless hills. Did her own heritage lead back to this part of Scotland? Who knows. Had some farmer with her DNA actually worked these fields in the past, and now she had returned to the exact same spot?

  The irony wasn’t lost. She’d worked for almost fifteen years selling products from the country where a majority of her forebears had lived. No wonder it felt so fa
miliar. She started to laugh. The sound of wind seemed to be answering her.

  She opened the car door and got out. A steel field gate was open and perched on top was a shiny black Corbie. Was he following her? He bobbed his head as she passed him and walked into the wheat field. The sun ducked in and out of the clouds while she ambled through the narrow rows and raised her arms over her head. “This is where I want to be,” she said loudly to no one.

  A lorry loaded high with feed sacks rumbled by and she waved. The driver waved back and she grinned. Mind made up that she wanted to talk to Fiona, she hurried back to the car and continued her journey.

  The dangling, faded MacDougall & Son Distillers sign hung just as she’d last seen it. She navigated up the driveway and circled around the house looking for signs of life. The car was gone and she called out, “Anyone here?” She got out to look around. “Murray?”

  The office door was closed and so was the back door of the house. She listened for some sound and heard nothing. “Well, this is disappointing.”

  The various buildings once held dreams and promise. Now, the neglect made them empty vessels. Ghost ships, of sort.

  An old truck sat parked near a loading dock at the end of the row of buildings.

  It was eerily quiet, and she called out Fiona’s name as she approached the partially raised loading door. No answer. She ducked under and called out again. It was silent except for the sound of water dripping. Sunlight through dusty skylights partially illuminated an empty warehouse with stacks of wooden pallets.

  When her eyes adjusted to the dark dank space, she saw a dim light down a wide sloping corridor. That’s odd.

  “Fiona? Is anyone here?”

  What are you thinking? Get out of here you’re trespassing—again. You know this is the part of the movie where the audience screams “Don’t go down there!”

  But the faint smell of whisky was irresistible. Near the bottom she used the flashlight app on her phone to see past the narrow gap in the metal door. She opened the heavy door a little farther and stepped into a damp, cool room with rows of ghostly looking barrels.