Brant's Return

I picked up my cell phone on the table next to me and dialed my lawyer’s number. He answered on the second ring, sounding as if he’d been sleeping. “Hey Derek, what do you know about Caspian Skye?” I tried to keep the slight slur out of my voice but mostly failed.

There was a beat of silence on the phone. “The collector’s bourbon?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh, I know it’s a small batch bourbon that collectors cream their pants over. I know that lines form outside liquor stores each time a couple of bottles go on sale. Why? Do you want me to hunt one down for you?”

“No. My grandfather created that bourbon.”

“No shit? Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Long story. My father owns the formula and we’re . . . estranged.” I paused, running my hand through my hair. “Anyway, the old man is dying apparently.”

“Sorry, man. Does that mean that bourbon label is going to be yours?”

I sat up. “He doesn’t have anyone else to leave it to, so I don’t know, I guess. Derek, what if I was to make new batches of that bourbon and only serve it at my bars?”

Derek whistled. “That would be a hell of a selling point. But doesn’t it take years for bourbon to sit in a barrel before it’s ready?”

“Yeah, there’d be a wait, but I’ve got time. I’m doing great without it, but with it—”

“There’d be lines for days,” Derek finished. “Not that there aren’t already, you’re right about that. But, man . . . you’d be the bourbon king of New York City.”

The bourbon king of New York City . . . not a bad moniker. I said goodbye to Derek, telling him I’d keep him updated, and disconnected the call.

I didn’t want Graystone Hill, but maybe I did want those buildings, the equipment, the trade secrets of that bourbon recipe that collectors still salivated over, and the label itself. I could bring my mother’s family name back by way of a revitalization of the brand. I’d hire an advertising agency to work on a campaign, market it as a comeback kid, and serve it exclusively in all my bars as a top-shelf choice.

Excitement sputtered to life. I’d never considered any of that before. But there had never been a time when that old distillery wasn’t connected to my father. Now . . . well, now either it would get broken up and sold to someone else, or I could stake a rightful claim to it.

There wasn’t much about my heritage I was interested in, but that distillery . . . yeah, I wanted it, and from the sounds of it, it was going to be mine in just about six months’ time.

CHAPTER THREE

Isabelle

I dug a fork into the potato salad on my plate, the tart, creamy tastes mingling on my tongue as I chewed.

The smell of cooking meat rose in the air. One of the men standing around the grill laughed loudly at another man’s joke. The sun was warm on my back through the light sweater I was wearing over my sundress, but the air was getting cooler now that it was early September. This would be one of the last cookouts of the season.

“Scooch,” I heard next to me and looked up to see my friend Paige swinging a leg over the picnic bench where I was sitting, a glass of white wine in her hand.

I smiled, scooting down and making room for her. “This is the perfect day for a barbeque, Paige. Thank you for inviting me.”

She bumped her shoulder against mine, smiling. “I’m so glad you came. We haven’t seen enough of you lately.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve just been so busy at work. With Mr. Talbot sick now . . .” I cleared my throat. “We’re all taking up the extra slack so the stubborn old fool doesn’t have an excuse to keep working. I swear he’d work until the day he falls over if he could,” I mumbled. Despite my wry smile, a flash of pain radiated through me at the reminder that

the man I’d grown to respect so much wouldn’t be here much longer.

Paige put her hand on mine over the warm wood of the table, tapping it lightly. “I’m sorry, honey. I know you care about the old guy.”

I exhaled a long breath, using my fork to play with the food on my plate. “I do.” The truth was, he’d saved me. The detective and the medical personnel had rescued my body from the depths of hell three years ago. Harrison Talbot had rescued my soul. He’d given me a home at Graystone Hill. He’d given me purpose. And I’d found that having a meaning in life helped me cope with the suffering.

“Any idea what he’s going to do with the place? Is he looking to sell it?”

“I sort of assumed he would, but it turns out he has a son.” A rude asshole of a son, as a matter of fact, but a son nonetheless. An heir. For a moment the memory of Brant Talbot’s deep voice sent an unusual shiver down my spine, his picture from the article flashing in my mind.

“Oh. I don’t remember you mentioning that.”