Page 42 of The Distiller's Darling

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“Slow down. What do you mean?” Naomi cradled the phone between her head and shoulder as she tilted her neck at an uncomfortable angle. Her fingers held a tiny chisel, dangling loosely over her sculpture. She tightened her grip on the tool as she frowned. Iain’s call had come at an unexpected time. She was elbow deep in clay, nearing the final turn on her race to finish the piece. Hands covered in dust and grime, she’d managed to answer the phone with her nose and pick it up with her wrists to get it near her ear. It was a move she’d perfected ages ago.

“I mean it’s over, Naomi. They never had any intention of producing this blend full-time; just as a bit of a lark. My father says they were indulging me. He called what I’ve been doing out here a goddamn sabbatical.”

“That’s insane. You’ve been working your ass off.” She scowled. Iain’s father sounded like a dick.

“That’s what I said. Not that they listened.” His voice was garbled by pure rage, a sensation she knew well when it came to dealing with family.

“What are you going to do?”

He sighed. “They gave me a choice. Either come home or get fired.”

She felt her stomach drop, and barely rescued the chisel as it started to fall from her suddenly nerveless grasp. She placed the tool carefully on the workbench before she said anything. “Those seem like … tough options. I don’t understand. I thought you’d met your quota.”

“I did.”

“But isn’t that good? I saw some of those numbers. They were big orders.”

“They were.”

“I don’t understand,” she said again. Naomi knew she sounded less than eloquent, but this was the last bit of news she’d expected to receive, and it had her feeling a bit discombobulated—like she’d lived her whole life thinking the grass was green, only to suddenly learn it was actually orange. Her mind simply couldn’t wrap itself around this new bit of information.

“It all boils down to the fact that they want all of the Brennans under the family thumb. Specifically, my father’s thumb. My brothers have both bowed down, and I’m expected to do the same. So’s Maeve.”

“Wasn’t this blend her production anyway?” They’d talked about it once, and his pride in his brilliant sister had shone through in every word he’d spoken. She thought it was sweet. Her brother had certainly never admired anything she’d done nearly so much. Jacob had grudgingly visited her a few times, only to make a few critical comments about her house. And he mostly ignored her art. Which was, for her family, basically great praise. The Kleins took ’if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all’ as a challenge, not a guideline.

“Yes.” There was a muffled noise on the other end of the line, as though he were rifling through a stack of papers. “I need … I need to talk to her.”

“Have they spoken to her about this? From what you described of her, I can’t believe she’d agree to this.”

He grunted a negative. “Apparently, they wanted to break me down first. They think she’ll be easier, and just knuckle under, I expect.” He snorted.

“Do you have a plan?”

He was silent for a moment, and she pictured him running a frustrated hand through his hair. In her imagination, she reached out her own hand to smooth the tousled hair back down. “Not entirely. I need to talk to Maeve.”

She swallowed. “Guess those work trip booty calls are off the table now, huh?”

He grunted. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll be camped out on your doorstep sooner than you think.”

Now she was the silent one, struggling for words. Was he going to quit his job? Their relationship—if that’s what you could call it—was based entirely on the fact that they were two independent people with their own things going on. She had no intention of becoming a housewife, but she sure as hell didn’t want a house husband, either. His family was forcing him to make an impossible choice, and whatever the two of them had going might not survive the fallout.

She didn’t know what to say.

Apparently her silence dragged on too long, because his voice came back on the line, tentative and raw. “Naomi, I didn’t mean—” He sighed, and to Naomi’s ears it sounded sadly resigned. “I’m not going to show up at your door.”

“I know,” she said, then winced. “I mean, I don’t know. You could.”

“No, I couldn’t. It’s not like that between us.”

He was right. It wasn’t. She didn’t want it to be, and neither did he. They had an agreement. So why did her chest ache so badly? “Okay. So, when do you leave?”

“I …” He paused. “I’m still on my schedule. Staying for the rest of my allotted time.”

She felt her body thrum with anticipation, and maybe something else. “You’re staying?”

“Through the last two weeks. I have some stuff to finish up. People to see.”

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