Page 40 of The Distiller's Darling

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Iain opened up his laptop and set it on the tiny coffee table in front of him. Launching his video chat app, he waited for the call to connect. He shouldn’t be nervous—not with the great news he had to share—but he’d woken up this morning with a pile of lead resting heavy in his belly, and he hadn’t been able to shake it.

Finally, his father’s face appeared on the screen. When his oldest brother Braden’s face moved into the frame next to their father’s, Iain stifled a groan. This can’t be good. He hoped his skepticism wasn’t immediately evident to both men. If they sensed any weakness, they’d pounce. They weren’t bad people; that was just the way it was between the men in his immediate family. Sometimes they reminded him of the pack of wolves he’d once watched a documentary about.

“Hey, man,” his brother said, turning this way and that to admire his reflection in the camera feed, and the newly-grown beard that lined his jaw. One would think Braden was the first man in the family to have gone this route. Iain had been sporting a beard for years, and all he’d ever gotten for it were un-funny hipster jokes.

“Hey, Dad. Hi, Braden.”

“Thanks for getting up so early to do this call,” his dad launched in. “I know the time zone differentials can be tricky.”

“No worries. I’ve actually been up for hours.” What Iain didn’t say was that he’d rolled out of Naomi’s bed at six o’clock this morning so that he could get back to his place, shower, and prep for this meeting. He’d had all his ducks in a row for a few days now—facts and figures at the ready—but he’d still wanted to make sure everything was airtight. This call could set the course of his life for the next several years. He needed to be at his best.

His dad nodded. “That’s good. Used to be getting you up before half-ten was an exercise in futility.”

“Used to be my job meant I was at the pub until they closed,” Iain reminded him. Before he’d taken on the task of setting up the distillery’s visitor center in Dublin, Iain had been responsible for the company’s community outreach program. It basically meant he’d traveled around Ireland making sure Brennan’s held pride of place in all the best bars, restaurants, and dance clubs. That meant late nights, and oftentimes, killer hangovers. Cozying up to the barbacks and pub owners had literally been in his job description, and still, he’d somehow caught flack for it.

But the past wasn’t what this conversation was about, even if his father felt the need to take every opportunity to bring it up. It was time to look to the future, and how Whitman’s could play a significant role in the expansion of the Brennan stable of whiskey offerings abroad.

Eschewing further small talk, Iain launched right into the results of the last few months spent on the west coast. “I’ve got great news for you,” he said, swiping his sweaty palms up and down his jean-clad thighs. “Not only have I hit my quota; I’ve surpassed it. All with two weeks left on the clock.” He smiled and waited for the praise to come.

When instead his dad and his brother glanced meaningfully between themselves, he felt his smile dimming. He knew that look. He’d been on the other end of it for practically his whole life.

“What?” he asked, trying to keep his tone from turning belligerent.

“Son,” his dad began, letting out a long, protracted sigh. A sigh that sounded an awful lot like the ones Iain had frequently heard as a kid.

But dammit, he wasn’t a kid anymore, and this was his livelihood. “Don’t ’son’ me,” he said, clenching his hands into fists at his side. “I’m not a child. I’m one of your employees, and a damn good one at that.” He cast a pointed glare at his brother.

No one in the family liked to mention it aloud, but sales of Brennan’s had been flat since Braden took over as CEO. Iain strongly believed it was because his brother lacked the vision needed to take the company where it should be.

It was an excellent time to be in the distilling business: sales of Irish whiskey were booming in the U.S., based largely on high-end premium offerings. Unfortunately, under Braden’s leadership, Brennan’s had been the last of the Irish distillers to offer a premium bottling, and their earnings reflected it. They were one of the oldest family-owned distilleries in Ireland. They ought to be at the top of every list, not scrambling to keep up.

Braden rolled his eyes and glanced away, muttering something about his youngest brother flying off the handle. Iain took a deep breath to calm his pulsing frustration. At the end of the day, as President of the company—and the person with the largest share of voting rights—only his father’s opinion really counted. His oldest brother might like to think he was in charge, but Iain owned exactly as much Brennan stock as Braden and Fionn did, and in terms of voting rights, the two had no more say than Iain did.

His father blew out a breath. “No, you’re not a child any longer, but your behavior these past few years has been childish. This is a family business, and you seem to keep forgetting that. This isn’t the Iain show, where you get to prove what a maverick you are by striking out on your own. There’s a way we do things here—a way we’ve always done things—and if you want to continue to be part of that, you need to learn to toe the party line. It’s what’s best for the brand, and what’s best for the family.”

A sickening feeling of dread settled low in Iain’s gut. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew what the next words out of his father’s mouth were going to be, but he asked for clarification all the same. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that this little experiment is over. You need to come home.”

Home.

To a place where he would always play third fiddle; where he was the punchline to a family joke; where a grown man was spoken to like a recalcitrant child. Nothing about that sounded appealing.

“And if I don’t?” he pressed, holding his breath. Never, in the history of ever, had Iain ignored a direct edict from the Brennan family patriarch. He might have bristled over the years at the heavy-handed way his father dictated to him, but until now, he’d never felt the need to push back—too hard.

His brother’s eyes flashed with surprise, and he cast a quick glance toward their father. Cathal Brennan, however, never flinched.

“If you don’t, I’ll be forced to fire you. I’ve let you have your fun with a paid sabbatical, but all that ends with a single word from you.”

“This hasn’t been a sabbatical!” Iain responded hotly. “I’ve been working my goddamn ass off out here, turning up business for the company. How can you not see that?”

His father’s jaw ticked. “A handful of restaurants mixing up cocktails with our whiskey doesn’t constitute significant business, and you know that as well as anyone.”

“Did you even look at the information I sent over?” Iain breathed through his anger. A handful of restaurants, his ass.

With the purchase orders he’d procured for Whitman’s, Maeve’s whiskey would add another million dollars of profit to their bottom line this year alone. A million fucking dollars. And he’d done that. So what if most of those orders would find his sister’s whiskey going into signature cocktails of some sort? It was a start on the path to success. And a fucking good one, at that.

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