Page 71 of The Dravenhearst Brides
July 15, 1933
Dearest Pa,
I thought you should know
I know I wrote you only yesterday, but
I’ve decided to sign the marital addendum
—unfinished, from the desk of Margot Dravenhearst
Margotwasinthedining room, waiting for him. She’d been waiting all day, actually, but her husband had done a superb job of making himself scarce. Now it was suppertime—past suppertime, if the distant chime of the grandfather clock told her anything—and he had yet to appear.
Margot stood before the dining room windows, peering over the hill toward the distillery as dusk rapidly bled into night. She tapped her toe on the mahogany floor.
He was avoiding her.
They had things to discuss—bootleggers, celibacy, and inheritance law to start—andhe was hiding like a child.
Determined, Margot turned on her heel and strode from the room. Down the hall. Into the foyer. She yanked open the door and stalked into the night.
The lights were on in the farthest rickhouse, Beau curled up outside. The dog lifted his head when Margot arrived, perhaps sensing danger. Dutifully, the pup rose and shook himself, then trotted inside behind her.
It was hot as hell in the rickhouse, the bricks retaining heat from the fading summer day. Margot’s skin dampened with perspiration; her blood simmered in her veins.
Merrick stood at the far end of the aisle, his back turned. Five mason jars were lined up on a wooden beam, one that kept side-lying barrels in the rick. Two jars were empty, three held trace dregs of amber liquid. Bourbon.
Had he been down here drinking all this time?
She slowly closed the distance, watching Merrick work a cork stopper out of a barrel. He slipped a long copper tube inside the hole. His thumb moved atop the cylinder before withdrawing it from the barrel. Positioning the tube over an empty jar, he released his thumb, and a thimbleful of bourbon emptied into the glass.
Margot blinked, fascinated.
Merrick lifted the jar to his nose and sniffed delicately. He swirled twice, then turned the jar on its side without spilling a drop. Sniffed again.
Margot froze. There was something about watching him like this, his every move smooth and practiced. So focused he didn’t notice her presence.
He tipped the glass to his lips and took a small sip, eyes closed. His throat bobbed on the swallow. The tip of his tongue peeked out through his lips at the end.
It’s art,she realized,the way Merrick tastes bourbon.So reverent, it was near seductive.
She wondered, faintly, if his veins ran copper, blood tinted with bourbon. His eyes certainly did, those tawny butterscotch irises. When heturned those whiskey eyes her way, she was half convinced she’d summoned them.
“Margot?” He put the mason jar down, eyebrows raised. “What’re you doing down here?”
She blushed, suddenly feeling like a voyeur who’d interrupted something private. By watching him taste, she’d invaded a sacred space.
“It’s late,” she murmured, stepping closer. Did she dare reach for his arm? “Your supper has gone cold.”
“I’m sorry. It’s been a busy day. I’ve been working in the stillhouse, getting the fermentation tanks clean and ready to run. Alastair’s grain will be here by August, so I need to be ready to start making mash again.”
“Bourbon mash? But it’s still illegal.”
“Won’t be for long.” He offered her a heartened grin. “Illinois, Iowa, and Connecticut just voted for repeal. The California and West Virginia legislatures have called for a vote in two weeks. That’s fifteen states swinging from dry to wet. It’s finally happening, Margot!”
“But not Kentucky yet.” She hated to utter even a single word that would wipe the hope off his face, but she had to. Illegal was illegal. Had he learned nothing last night?
“Not yet,” he admitted. “But they will. I’ve got to begin production. Even starting now, I have no hope of meeting the initial demand. I’ve sold off almost all my inventory over the last thirteen years. This is the only rickhouse with bourbon still in the barrels. I’ve been tasting tonight and—”
