Page 49 of The Distiller's Darling

His lips tipped into a half smile, and he inclined his head. “I’m a doctor, honey, I’m trained to be observant.”

“I just … didn’t want people assuming it was more. And if I’d been begging all my friends and relatives to help out a guy, you know perfectly well they’d have started sending out wedding invitations immediately.”

Her father pursed his lips. “I think perhaps you’re getting a little cynical.”

“In my old age?”

“Watch it, now.”

“Come on, Dad. Iain walked in the door and Mom was practically demanding to see his income statements and offering to take him ring shopping.”

“She wants to see you happy.”

“She has no idea what makes me happy.”

“I think she’s always assumed that what makes her happy are the same things that would do it for you. You’re a lot alike, you know.”

Naomi stared at her father. “Not. At. All.”

He smiled and pushed himself up out of his chair. “Tell you what. Let’s take the night to cool off. I’m going to take your mother to that cute restaurant in the town square Noah is always telling me about. Tomorrow, you and she can talk. Just the two of you, no pressure.”

She walked him to the door. “What are we suddenly supposed to be talking about?”

He paused in the doorway. “She’s here now, honey. Why don’t you show her what you do?” He glanced up, in the direction of the studio. She hadn’t realized her father even knew about her art, much less where the studio was. He’d always been too busy to acknowledge it. But somebody was keeping him informed, apparently.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

* * *

Naomi spent a lonely night tossing and turning in a bed that seemed unnaturally empty without Iain in it, alternately angry with herself, her family, and him. Why hadn’t he come back? Why hadn’t she swallowed her damned pride and helped him with more than just a good set of logos? Why had her family chosen now, of all possible times, to show up and ruin her life yet again?

Her father’s words kept ringing in her ears. You can be successful without being alone. He didn’t understand, though. He was the successful one, letting her mother spend her entire life supporting him. Raising children, throwing galas, making connections. Naomi shuddered. She couldn’t imagine spending her life that way. And she certainly couldn’t imagine Iain wanting her to. His pride in her work was evident every time he talked about the branding of Whitman’s Revival, and when he asked her curious questions about the sculpture that was nearly finished in her studio upstairs. He hadn’t seen it in several days, not since before her family and his had managed to drop bombs in both their lives.

Now maybe he wasn’t going to see it at all, because she’d driven him away. She scowled and punched a pillow into a less offending shape. He knew she didn’t want her family sniffing around them during the time they had left. His three months were near an end. And with his family dragging him back to Ireland, it wasn’t like they were ever going to see each other again anyway. Why was he so angry? He’d done his job. It hadn’t been a walk in the park, but he was a good marketer and he’d sold all the whiskey he’d intended to. What would have changed if she’d gotten him a contract with Luis? Judging by what he’d told her about the conversation with his father, his family still wouldn’t have had any intention of making the brand a permanent one. Man, that guy. What a piece of work. She shook her head. How anybody could treat a man like Iain that way was beyond her.

She sighed and threw off the covers. She wasn’t getting any more sleep. And Iain wasn’t coming back. Their time together had shrunk to nothing, thanks to her family. Might as well head upstairs and add some final touches to the sculpture, since it was the only thing in her life that seemed to be going right these days.

Predictably, she lost track of time. When her doorbell rang, she blinked out of her reverie and checked the clock. “Shit!” No time to change. She raced down the stairs and opened the door, wincing as her mother’s gazed travelled over her dust-covered shirt—Iain’s black button-up, as though she could somehow summon him back by wearing it—and loosely-tied hair. “Hi, Mom.” She stepped back and let her mother in.

They’d arranged to meet again today, as her father had suggested, but she hadn’t intended to look like this. She’d meant to be wearing something casual but nice, something that made her look like an adult woman who had a career, but also friends and an exciting, fulfilling life. Maybe those white linen capris. They screamed ’I’ve got it all, Mom, stop judging me.’ It was the gold buttons on the ankles that did it.

Instead, here she was, letting her impeccable mother into the house looking exactly as she had in high school when she’d first discovered real clay. She’d spent hours at the art studio at school, knowing better than to try to bring her work home. But she’d ruined plenty of clothes back then. Nobody had taught her about industrial laundry cleaners yet. That had come much later.

“Your father says you want to show me something,” her mother said as they crossed the hallway.

“I was hoping we could talk a little bit about what I do,” Naomi said tentatively. “You’ve never come to River Hill before, so I’ve never really been able to show you.” She’d practiced that speech last night, because the first five iterations of it had all included reminders that her parents had also never come to any of her gallery shows, or art openings, or even stopped to look at the sculptures she had on public display at the library, for God’s sake. She’d managed to narrow it down to this instead.

“I see.” Her mother drew in a breath. “I—”

The doorbell rang, and Naomi frowned. She looked at her mother, who was returning the expression. “Were you expecting anybody?”

Naomi shook her head, trying not to let hope slither in. “No.” Could it be Iain?

She went back out into the foyer and pulled open the door a little more hastily than she’d intended. She stared blankly at the man who waited on her doorstep.

“I’m here for my son,” he snapped.

Her eyes travelled over him as horrified realization began to dawn. He was older, stockier, and grayer, but the Brennan eyes were unmistakable. On Iain, the lines in his cheeks reflected laughter. On this man, they were something else entirely. “You’re—”

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