Page 6 of Whiskey Kisses

I’ve never been interested in the corporate side of things, but my father knows that. He just doesn’t care.

“I have a job,” I remind him.A job that appreciates me. But it’s pointless because we’ve had this argument countless times before. “I’m not going to quit just because you need more help at the distillery, especially when you’ve already got Maribelle.” My older sister started working for Daddy the second she graduated college. She’s smart as a whip and just as cutthroat as he is.

“Maribelle has chosen to stay home and focus on her family for now, as she should.”

I swallow the retort burning at the back of my throat like bile. Maribelle is pregnant with kid number two, but I didn’t think staying athome was her jam. Then again, I barely speak to my sister. Maybe her fancy lawyer husband has decided to pull rank. “Ah, well. Good for her, I guess.”

He starts another rant, but the smell of fast food wafts through my open window, reminding me that I need to pick up dinner. Ignoring the golden arches, I get into the turning lane for the next grocery store. I can pick up a ready-made salad, maybe, and some soup. “I gotta go. Can we talk about this later, please?”

“Come by in the morning, before you go to work,” he says. “We’ll talk then.”

“I can’t.” I glance at the screen when I’m met by silence. He’s already ended the call.

Grimacing through another yawn,I let myself into the main house around six thirty the next morning. Daddy usually leaves for the distillery’s office early, and the housekeeper isn’t here yet, so the drapes are still closed. It’s so dark it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. But I lived in this house for almost eighteen years and know it like the back of my very own hand. I don’t need to be able to see to know where I’m going.

The apathetic, collective gaze of my dead ancestors, immortalized in a line of pasty-faced portraits, follows me as I pass the sitting room off the foyer. As a kid I examined those faces closely, looking for some semblance of myself in their pale, drawn expressions. I have mixed feelings about this house. Some of my happiest memories live here, but so do my worst.

I moved into the carriage house loft upon graduating from Agnes Scott a little over a year ago. After four years of glorious independence in Atlanta, the thought of moving back to my childhood bedroom sucked. Savannah, I missed. But not living with my father, especially without Mama or Maribelle as buffers. When Daddy realized I was waffling, he had the moldering little carriage house completely redone. I was thrilled. I could stay in my cherished estate, the place where I’d grown up, and still have my own space.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that my father’s intentionswere more self-serving than altruistic. He just wanted me to be close by so he could retain some control over my life. Like today’s “meeting.”

I stride down the hallway toward the kitchen, my heels clacking over the hardwood flooring. Daddy’s sitting in the breakfast nook in a soft wash of sunlight, sipping coffee as he reads his paper. I knew I’d find him this way. It’s how he starts every day.

“Morning,” I murmur, making a beeline for the coffeemaker. Normally I’d make my own at the cottage, but he buys the good stuff from a roaster off Bay Street.

“Why do you look so tired?” he asks, setting his paper down with a crinkle. “Your mother never left the house without her face on, you know.”

I do know. I’m tempted to tell him that expectations like that are one of the many reasons my mama left him, but instead, I focus on pouring myself an extra-large cup. “I was up late updating sales records. We’ve added a lot of new accounts lately.” I’m damn good at being a sales rep, even if I did fall into it by accident.

“Hm,” Daddy says noncommittally. “At least you’re putting that business major to use. Good practice for when you take on the distillery’s bookkeeping.”

It doesn’t matter how hard I’ve worked to build a life away from our family's business—my father always insists on trying to draw me back in. “You know numbers aren't my specialty.” I add a splash of cream to my coffee and turn, leaning against the counter. “You have bookkeepers, Daddy. You have a whole team?—”

“We have a lot of deadweight, is what we have,” he says, taking off his readers. “We need to tighten up.”

Try as I might to avoid both Daddy and Doyle Whiskey’s affairs, I know that there have been financial issues lately. This house, for example. It’s been in our family for generations, and its age requires regular upkeep. But there are signs of neglect if you know where to look. Mama’s beloved garden, too, once meticulously tended to but now wild and untamed.

Daddy doesn’t go out as much as he used to, either. He says he’s too busy with work, but I have to wonder if the rumors of him owing money are the real reason. Savannah might not be a small city size-wise,but sometimes it can feel like one. Everybody knows everybody. People talk.

I glance at my watch as he rambles on, calculating whether I have enough time to grab breakfast before heading to Manning Distributors.

“Are you listening?” His voice is a whip, startling me from my thoughts.

“I am,” I lie. “I?—”

“You will make time to learn the ropes at the distillery—this week. I’ll have Clancy set aside time to train you.”

“I work every day this week.” I squash the tremble rising in my voice. “From eight to five.”

“Then take time off,” he says. “Or come during your lunch break.”

The lunch breaks I usually take on the road between appointments? “Daddy, please. We’ve been having the same conversation ever since I got back from college?—”

“College that I paid for,” he reminds me, pointing his glasses my way as if a degree wasn’t something he insisted on anyway. As if I’m not grateful, even if he did make me major in business management instead of plant science.Botany is a waste of time, he’d said. “I sent you to that fancy school so you could contribute. Make something of yourself.”

“I thought that’s what I was doing,” I mutter, gulping my coffee down.

“Don’t you talk back to me, girl.” His voice goes deadly quiet, sending a chill over me. It’s the same voice that preceded spankings when Maribelle and I were little. She was his favorite, though, so I got more than my fair share. “Everything you have—your education, that goddamn house you live in—everything is because I have made it so. I’ve allowed you to screw around long enough, Evelyn. It’s time to take your place at the distillery.”

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