Page 101 of Whiskey Kisses

Cole is finally released from the hospital, where he spent weeks hooked up to a ventilator and IVs to prevent dehydration. Our source says he’s convalescing at home, taking anti-seizure meds and resting. They say he also suffers from retrograde amnesia, an interesting and convenient—for us—side effect of water hemlock poisoning. Whether he ever gets his memory back or not is up to the fate. Can’t say I feel toobad about any of it. In fact, I wish he was dead and I’m pretty sure Evie does, too.

With the distillery running smoothly and Deschamps leadership in limbo for the time being, life settles into an uneasy peace. My parents fly back to Boston with their crew, and then so does nearly everyone else. We’re back to the originals, my inner circle: Finn, Malachi and Timmy.

Evie and I visit the distillery occasionally, but it’s mostly just to check in with Scott. Things are stable now, with management and accounting all doing their jobs, so we’re not needed the way we once were. We spend this new glut of time fixing up the house and hosting dinners with Evie’s friends. We attend classes at Phoenix Rising and work out in the garage, where I’m teaching her to box on the punching bag. I like to lure her into “open mat” time in the bedroom, too, because that sparring usually leads to other stuff.

Evie and I spend Thanksgiving at Opal’s mama’s house. We bring whiskey and wine in lieu of a dish because no one cooks like the Sinclaire women. Timmy falls for Cousin Vianna—both the girl and her sweet potato pie—and is swiftly rejected when her girlfriend shows up. But then the three of them disappear to smoke after dinner and Tommy returns with hickies all over his neck.

“She gave me her number,” he announces on the way home. “They both did.”

Meanwhile, Evie and Maribelle are working with their lawyers to navigate the probate process, which, thanks to Evie, is as straightforward as it can get without a will. She doesn’t want anything, whereas Maribelle wants it all. “It’s what I deserve,” she said once, when I accompanied Evie to the first strained meeting. Dylan had been there too, working on his tablet the entire time. “Seeing that you two have the distillery.”

I wanted to tell her she could take what she deserved and shove it, but she’s Evie’s family and all of that was family shit, so I kept my mouth shut and didn’t attend any more meetings after that. They’re all but done now, wrapping up the final details. The estate’s been inventoried—what’s left of it, seeing as Randall had taken to selling the more expensive antiques to settle some of his debts—and the remaining debts and taxes have been paid off.

“I’m so glad all of this is almost over. I’m ready for the estranged-from-my-sister part,” Evie says one afternoon, pouring herself a tumbler of sweet tea. She and Timmy have just gotten back from another probate meeting in town. “Want some?” she asks him, holding up the glass pitcher.

“Yeah, with extra lemons,” Timmy says, scooting in across from me at the kitchen table with his weed rolling accoutrements.

She grins. “I’ve taught you well, Timothy.”

I look up from my laptop, where I’ve been drafting proposals for my parents concerning the direction we think Doyle Whiskey should take. For starters, we need to do market research to find the best way to handle the Golden Stag. I still can’t believe those special editions were right beneath our noses the whole time, and that they would’ve stayed buried had the coordinates not jogged Evie’s memory. They’re nearly ninety years old, miraculously preserved by sound bottling and the cellar’s darkness and natural temperature control.

But also, Evie has lots of ideas for experimental and botanically-infused whiskies. She’d shelved them because her father had never shown interest, but I like the thought of expanding Doyle Whiskey’s offerings. Along with the extremely aged Golden Stag, we’ll appeal to a whole new audience.

“Maribelle still being a pain in the ass?” I guess, stretching the kinks I’ve gotten from being hunched over.

“Of course, she is.” She huffs, setting Timmy’s glass down in front of him. “Is it horrible that I liked her better when she was grieving? She was certainly more agreeable.”

“What did she do now?”

Evie leans against the counter, sipping her sweet tea. “Would you believe she had the gall to accuse you of Daddy’s death?”

“What?” I screw up my face, leaning back in my chair. Timmy raises his eyebrows, nodding. “What the fuck is she on?”

“It was after the meeting. She followed me and Timmy to the car and started bitching that there was barely any money left and how she’s going to have to liquidate the family heirlooms,” she says. “I told her I was sorry about that, and she said ‘yeah, you should be, seeing that y’all are the reason Daddy’s dead.’ I told her she was crazy, and she said that if the Deschamps had been allowed to take over the distillery as previouslyplanned, then they could have settled Daddy’s debts before somebody offed him.”

I link my hands behind my head, as disturbed as I am amused. “She really has no idea, does she?”

“Well.” Evie shoots a sheepish look at Timmy, who shakes his head and sighs. “I told her that the only way that would’ve happened is if I’d married Cole, and she said ‘he’d never do that’ and I said ‘you don’t know Cole very well’ and she said ‘I know him better than you think!’ So, I said ‘if you knew him so well, you’d know that he’s been after me for yearsandthat his daddy killed our daddy’ and Tristan, she just about went purple. She said I’d lost my mind, and I told her she’d lost hers?—”

“And then I had to get between them because I didn’t want Evie slapping a pregnant lady,” Timmy says. “Even though she deserved it.”

“I told her I knew she’d been fucking Cole, and I asked her straight up if the baby was his.” Evie’s breathing hard now, all fired up.

“And that’s when Maribelle tried to slap Evie, but I shoved Evie into the car and told Maribelle that if she came near her again, I’d call the cops,” Timmy says with a snort. I’m not sure if he’s more amused at the almost-catfight or the thought of calling the cops.

Snickering at the ridiculousness of it all, I nod my chin at Evie. “Well, what’d she say?”

“She said,” she says, brows furrowed. “That is was none of my fucking business and that I should have a little more respect for someone who just lost their father and is barely clinging to life themselves.”

“Sounds like a yes to me,” I say.

“Yep,” agrees Timmy.

“She’s messy,” I lament, shaking my head. “You can’t make this stuff up.”

“I don’t think she ever considered that the Deschamps might be behind Daddy’s murder, though,” Evie says, sitting at the table. “I could see it in her eyes today—she was mad as hell, but she was freaked out, too.”

“Does she really not know what kind of guy Cole is? What he’s capable of?” I ask skeptically. “Maribelle’s not stupid.”

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