“Mother,” he said urgently, “who was he? Who was my father?”

Little V.E. turned away from the house and refocused on the koi pond, her former clarity gone—and he worried it was never going to return.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Baldwine,” the nurse said as she came up and took Little V.E.’s thin arm. “I fell asleep. It’s unforgivable. Please, please don’t fire me—”

“It’s okay,” he said. “She’s fine. But let’s be more careful in the future.”

“I will be. I swear.”

As the nurse led his mother away, Lane stayed by the pond. It was hard not to see in Little V.E. a life wasted, all the best of every opportunity squandered at the foot of a family legacy she had been born into but never volunteered for.

A gilded cage, indeed.

God, he wished his Lizzie was home. Even though Gin, his mother, and Jeff were under Easterly’s great roof, the place felt totally empty without her.

THIRTY-ONE

The following morning, Lane got in his Porsche and headed out to the Old Site. The Bradford Bourbon Company’s headquarters might have been downtown, but its heart and soul were about thirty miles to the south and east, on a vast stretch of acreage on which his family had been making, storing, and selling its product for well over a century. It took him a good forty-five minutes to reach the tourist destination: The first ten miles were quick enough on the highway, but from then on, it was a series of smaller and smaller roads to get to the campus.

Funny, he always knew he was getting close when he started to see the six-and seven-story-tall rackhouses, where barrels and barrels of aging bourbon weathered climate changes undefended against Mother Nature’s whims. But that was the process. In those barn’y, rack-filled spaces, the seasons of warm, hot, cool, and cold, repeated over and over again, caused the nascent alcohol to penetrate and be expelled from the charred white oak of the barrel, the flavor of the bourbon coming alive over the passage of days, months, years.

After all, bourbon was a product, but it was also a labor of love. As one alcohol-producing maven once said, I don’t worry about my vodka supply. I can turn a spigot and give the market plenty of vodka. Bourbon, on the other hand, takes time. So much damned time . . .

Turning off onto what was little more than a chicken path, Lane went three miles farther and then took a left on a more properly finished road, beside which was a sign with an arrow indicating that the Old Site was up ahead. As always, the Bradford Bourbon Company signage was discreet, nothing but an ink drawing of Easterly and the BBC name—and likewise, the landscape was well-tended, but not overdone. After about another mile and a half, a massive parking lot unfurled itself, next to which was a modern-style visitors’ center that housed a conference hall for events and a small museum.

Even though it was early in the day, there were already people puttering around, groups of retirees, mostly. But on the holiday weekends, especially in the fall, there would be tour buses parked in all the far corners and the spaces for cars entirely full. The Old Site also hosted plenty of weddings, reunions, bourbon groups, Kentucky tourists, and all sorts of foreigners looking to experience an old American tradition.

In fact, the Bradford Bourbon Company’s Old Site was the oldest continually operating business location in not just the Commonwealth, but this part of the nation.

Bypassing the visitors’ center, he continued on to an Authorized Personnel Only road that took him to the main office where the master distiller, Edwin MacAllan, worked. Parking the Porsche under a tree, Lane got out and tried to focus.

He’d called Lizzie. Twice.

And gotten a text in return that she was going out to check the property and would phone him later.

Lane gave her space, but, man, it killed him—and reminded him that, among all the things vying for his attention, she was the anchor of the life he wanted to live. If he lost her? Nothing else mattered.

Walking along a little path, he tried to distract himself from the angst by looking over the familiar environs. All of the buildings, from where the stills were, to the storage facilities, to the packaging and distribution units and the half dozen original cabins, had windows and doors painted in red and wooden siding painted black. Paved walkways linked everything together, and tours were given on the hour, visitors guided by experts through every step of the bourbon making, aging, and bottling process, culminating in an opportunity for patrons to bottle some of their own.

With the carefully cultivated experience and pervasive vibe of early Americana, there was a Disneyland feel to it all, but in a good way: Everything was clean, orientated to families, and magical, what with the flower boxes that would soon be planted with petunias and geraniums, and the rolling lawns connecting the fifty or so buildings, and the cheerful uniformed guides, workers, and administrative staff who walked around and always took personal ownership of both the product produced on site and the property.

The master distiller’s office was in a modernized cabin, and as Lane walked into the rustic reception area, a nice-looking woman glanced up from the desk.

“Hey, Lane.”

“Beth, how’s our boy?”

“Mack’s as good as he can be given the situation. He’s in there with Jeff. I’m just printing out more Excel spreadsheets and then I’m joining you guys.”

“Good, thanks.”

Mack and Lane had known each other for nearly all their lives, as Mack was the son of the BBC’s previous master distiller. In turn, Beth Lewis was someone the man had hired to fill an office support vacancy—but evidently, it had turned out to be an eHarmony solution as well as one from Monster.com.

Love had a way of coming into people’s lives at the right time.

Okay, his heart hurt just thinking that.

As he entered the office, he was momentarily struck by all the labels on the walls. Instead of wallpaper, it had been the tradition of the company’s master distillers to paste labels of their era of products around them—and some went back a hundred years or more. Lane had heard that when it came time to pump some money and attention into modernizing this building, the preservation of this tradition had nearly given the architects, contractors, and designers a heart attack.

Across the way, Mack and Jeff glanced up from the conference table. And both looked like they wanted to be on a beach in Cabo.

With a beer.

Or a fruit punch made with rum.

Basically, anything other than bourbon, in a place anywhere other than Kentucky.

“How we doing?” Lane asked.

Jeff sat back. “Bad. Just bad. If one more bank comes in? We’re in Chapter Eleven. We don’t have the cash flow to cover these debts, no matter how I crunch it. I mean, I keep looking for a solution, but there isn’t one. We need a massive cash injection from somewhere.”

Lane clapped palms with Mack and sat down as Beth came in and passed around columns of numbers.

As all four of them focused on the financials, and Jeff started talking in technical terms about money, Lane tried to keep track of things—and just completely failed. He was waiting for Merrimack to call, praying Lizzie would talk to him soon, and wondering what in the hell to do about Edward—

“So what do you say, Lane?”

“Huh?” Looking up, he found the three of them staring at him. “I’m sorry?”

Mack sat back and crossed his arms over his thick chest. “I’ve got something that could save us. If you want to come meet her.”

“Her?”

Mack glanced at Beth. Looked back. “Yeah, come on.”

The four of them got up together and proceeded through the reception area. Out in the warm sunshine, Mack led them over to a modern building that had no windows and an air-locked door. Taking out his pass card, he swiped the thing and waited as the seal disengaged itself.

Before they went in, the guy stared into Lane’s eyes. “Just so you know, this is going to kill me.”

Oh, God, Lane thought. He’d never seen Mack look so grim.

And heaven knew they had been through all kinds of things together, from their shared high school days at Charlemont Country Day, to the later years in college all the way to when Mack had been earning his stripes here at the Old Site under his father and Lane had just been loafing around, doing nothing with his degree.