“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” she says.
I can’t place her, but there’s a familiarity in her eyes. Her smile. Her chin. Her lips.
Don’t look at her lips. That’s weird.
“Eileen told me that I could find you down here,” she says and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
Her nose.
Caroline’s mom.
“Stuck here for hours, I’m afraid.” I stand and walk toward her.
She opens her folder and pulls out several sheets of paper. “I just need your signature.”
“You’re Beverly Stratton?” I swallow thickly. “Caroline’s mom.”
She straightens her suit jacket. “Yes, I am.”
I take the pen from her hand and mull over the documents. With a few strokes and flips of the pages I’m done.
“And how are you enjoying your time here?”
“I like the work and everyone’s been really nice.”
“I’m glad to hear that. We’re glad to have you here.”
“Thank you, Mister Cardwell. I’ll let you get back to your . . .” She pauses. “Whatever you’re doing.”
I laugh. “Well, I’m not so sure that what I’m doing is working.”
Caroline’s mom steps further inside the room and her eyes roam over the desk. “Funny, my mother had a sideboard buffet table that looks like this desk. The carvings of the wood are the same, I’m sure of it.”
“Maybe your mom and my great-granddad shopped at old town IKEA,” I joke.
She laughs and it’s uncanny how much it sounds like Caroline’s. “Maybe so. There’s a secret compartment in the piece I have. Maybe yours has one too.”
My gaze swings back to the desk. “It would be cool if it had some secret magic. That’s what I really need right now.”
“Couldn’t we all?” She reaches over and pats my shoulder. “Whatever you’re working on, you’ll get there. Sometimes you just need to take a step back or a deep breath.”
“That’s good advice. Thanks.”
She stops at the door. “Brantley.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I’ll expect you and Caroline at my supper table soon. Make sure that happens, okay?”
I smile. “I think I can make that happen.”
I feel my mood lift and the something shifts inside me.
Around me.
My fingers move under the desk and I feel each piece of the wood, every corner, line, and angle. Exploring. Feeling. Letting go.
No secret compartment.
I stand up and stretch my arms over my head. All my joints pop. It feels good. I roll my neck and shoulders and as I’m stretching, I see a piece of paper peeking out from the back of the bookcase.
It’s wedged in, so I pull on it being careful not to rip the weathered edges. Not working, it’s caught on something from the front. My arms band around the front and the back as I try to figure out which book.
Or better yet, I just remove all the books and files. There’s a small leather-bound journal hidden behind the files.
The initials REC.
REC?
My fingers pulled the piece of paper from the journal and then once I read the contents there was no mistaking who REC is.
Rosemary Ellen Cardwell.
And if what the letter says is true, the entire Cardwell Bourbon business is built on a complete lie.
Hours drift by and the sun moves across the grounds of the distillery. A mixture of sadness, betrayal, and anger funnels through me. And the not so surprising emotion—guilt.
I swivel back and forth in my chair, my fingers drumming against the armrests while I stare out the window.
Royston’s text messages inform me that he’s caught in thick traffic outside Lexington. Pop’s on the golf course with Mom. But I urge him to come in.
“Brant, do you have what I need?” Laura asks from outside my door.
My chair swivels to face her. “No, I do not. We’ve got much bigger problems.”
Her hands grip the back of the chair in front of my desk as she looks at me quizzically.
Yeah, I’m not going to elaborate.
“Okay, so, what does that mean for the holiday season?”
“Christmas is cancelled.” The calm in my voice betrays every emotion thrashing through my veins.
“Care to explain that one to me?”
Royston appears in the doorway with his legs braced and arms hanging from the top of the doorframe.
“No, Laura, not yet,” I tell her. “Go on home.”
Her lips fall into a grim line and there’s no mistaking the confusion on her face. She turns on her heel and walks briskly to the door.
Royston treks across the carpet and takes a seat in front of my desk.
“You want to tell me what’s so urgent that we have to have a meeting on a Friday night?”
“We’re waiting for Pop.”
He glares at me. I know all about his argument style—rippling jaw and defensive tone. He lets his scowl do the talking. Annoyance swirls inside me.
Minutes tick by and we sit in silence. Royston spends the time checking his phone and pacing around my office.
Finally, Pop strolls in and I toss the journal onto my desk.
“We’ve got a problem.”
Royston clears his throat and his shoulders bunch. Pop looks at the journal and then back to me.
“I’ve never seen that before,” Pop says.
Royston pries open the journal and scans the contents. “Where did you find this?” he snarls as he tosses it onto my desk.
His defensive tone has my suspicions on high alert.
“Find it?” I repeat. “Read the bookmarked pages, I think they’re quite fascinating.”
Pop lifts the journal off my desk while I stand and spear a hand through my hair.
Pop’s voice shakes as he reads out loud. “In your final days I plead with you to make amends with Clarence. I know that the recipe is in our secret place. Clear your conscience before you meet your maker. Do what’s right for the sake of our children.”
“None of this means anything,” Royston grumbles. “This could be a fake letter.”
“Maybe so, but we need to find out. If great-granddad stole the original recipe for our bourbon from Clarence Stratton, then we’re all fucked.”
Royston stands and shakes his head. “This journal, this note, it’s all meaningless. If it happened, it happened decades ago. Hell, last century.”
“I don’t care,” I say. “If it did happen, I want to know. We have to do right by our family and the Strattons.”
My dad’s gaze swings in my direction as he places the journal down. “Son, what do you want to do?”
“We need to find that original recipe and, in the meantime, find out if this journal is legit.” I hold up the journal and shake it.
“You want to risk our legacy, our brand, and all this based on some piece of paper written a hundred years ago?” he asks with a flippant wave. “What does it matter?”
“It matters to me,” I shoot back. “Doing things right matters to me.”
“We don’t know if any of this holds water. If this gets out, we could be ruined,” Royston says.
“Now hold on, Roy.” Pop waves a hand in the air. “These rumors have been circulating for years and it’s never hurt us. Look at what’s happening now, people are flocking down here because Brant and Caroline are dating.” Pop cocks a brow. “You are dating her, correct?”
“Yeah, for a while now.”
Royston rolls his eyes. “So, really all this comes down to your girlfriend,” he asserts.
My jaw tightens and my fists curl at my sides. “If Samuel stole the original recipe, then that means all this belongs to the Stratton family, not us. And it has nothing to do with my personal relationship with Caroline.”
“Right, like we’re supposed to believe that. Think about what all this would mean for the future. You want to blow up Cardwell Bou
rbon for a piece of ass.”
Irritation and anger boils inside my veins. I charge at Royston and my hands grip his collar. “You will never talk about her like that ever again.”
Pop is at my side. “Okay, okay, son. Don’t do this.”
I release my grip. “You’re right, he isn’t worth it.”
“Roy.” Pop exhales a long sigh. “Brant has the right to do this. He’s the CEO of the company and the CEO sets the vision for the future. We can either sit here and squabble or we can work together.”
“How in the fuck do we go about finding out if this journal is legit?” Royston asks. “The original recipe is in the glass case in the library, I mean, how do we even . . .”
Pop urges Royston to take seat.
“This is something that will take time,” I say.
“I want a plan in place,” Pop says to me. “We need to get legal on this ASAP.”
“I agree.”
“This will be a PR nightmare. Mark my words,” Royston threatens. “If this turns out to be true . . . what do you plan to do, Brantley?”
I hold his gaze. “Like I said, I plan to do what’s right. We’ll pay the Strattons for the recipe. And then based on what legal suggests—back pay for years of sales and all their legal fees . . . more if necessary.”
My mind swims. I stare down at my desk and blow out a heavy breath. Royston is on his feet, red-faced. His fists shake in the air.
“You’ll bankrupt us,” Royston shouts.
I slam my fist to the desk. “We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it.”
Royston moves to stand in front of my desk. “You’re willing to wreck this company for a woman. Same ole Brantley, thinking with your cock instead of your head.”
Mustering as much calm as I can, I straighten. “Royston, I’m thinking as clear as day. This isn’t about my personal relationship with Caroline, it’s about investigating our family’s legacy and the foundation of the company.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Let me ask you this . . . would you be looking into this alleged journal if you weren’t dating Caroline?”
It’s just like Royston to question my morals and beliefs. Something isn’t sitting right with me. Royston seems on edge.
“Let me ask you this, Uncle—why are you so against doing the right thing?”
He sniffs and lets out a loud chuckle. “I’m not against doing the right thing as long as there is proof. Solid proof.”
“Do either of you know where this secret place could be?”
Pop shakes his head.
Royston stays silent fueling my suspicions.
I level my gaze to him. “If I find out that you had anything to do with this . . . if you knew and didn’t say anything, I’ll remove you from the company and run you out this town myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” he shoots back.
“Watch me.”
Royston huffs and stomps toward the door.
Pop swipes at his brow. “I hope you know what you’re doing, son.”
“You don’t think I’m doing the right thing?”
“You are,” he assures. “If we do have to pay up . . . I suggest you get the team working on new products and think long and hard about rebranding. Once the mountain crumbles, it’s gonna take years to build it back up.”
He leaves my office and I slump into my chair. “Please tell me you didn’t steal that recipe, Samuel.”
“As your lawyer, my only advice to you as of right now is to say nothing. Especially to the other party.”
Edward Hollis is the best damn lawyer in Kentucky.
“Any advice on the matter when a member of the other party happens to be your girlfriend?”
“Ah, I see,” his gravelly southern accent drawls out. “Well, Brantley—the way I see it, I’m sure the two of you can find more to talk about than the bourbon business.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, focus on the good. Push the other stuff out of your mind. Because nothing matters until the alleged stolen recipe is found.”
“You’re right. Thanks, Edward.”
After I end my call with Edward, it’s nearly seven o’clock. I’m supposed to meet Caroline at the game. Instead I find myself walking up to the tasting room where I order a bourbon.
I study the color and inhale deeply. All I can think about is the letter from Great-Grandma Rosemary. I swallow down half the glass. If I were to hide something on this property where would it be?
My fingers rub against my forehead and I blow out a deep breath.
Our secret place.
This could take months. Years.
And how am I supposed to keep this from Caroline? There’s no choice in the matter. It’s business. It’s as easy as keeping business and personal separate.
I stand and finish off the drink. I can do this.
Caroline
I’m a little surprised when I get a text from Brant telling me that he’s sorry he can’t make the game. But a heartbeat later he asks for a raincheck.
Since Brant isn’t coming tonight, I decide to head on home at the beginning of the third quarter.
When I get home, Julep is bouncing off the walls. I put her collar on her and we walk down by the river so she can do her business. This time she doesn’t take off for the woods.
When we get back inside, I’m pretty wired from the night. Instead of going to bed I get a start on my cleaning list and toss in some laundry. Then I pour a glass of wine and start binge watching the second season of Yellowstone.
The weekend crawls by and I don’t hear from Brant until Saturday just before dinner.
Brant: My brother is in town. Pop’s got tickets to the Elliston football game.
Brant: I’m sorry, I didn’t know he’d done that.
Me: That’s fine. We didn’t make any specific plans. Have fun!
He doesn’t write back.
I’m in the middle of looking through recipes thinking about doing some fall baking when I realize I need several ingredients from the store.
Spending Saturday night at the grocery store. Surely, I have more of a social life when my boyfriend isn’t around? The thought annoys me.
I’m working my way down the baking supplies aisle vacillating between apple or pumpkin when I hear someone roll their cart beside me.
“Pumpkin bread is a favorite of mine this time of year.”
I glance over my shoulder to see Iris Cardwell standing next to me. My heart feels like a drum beating inside my chest and up my throat.
Brant’s mom.
I’ve never met Iris Cardwell, but her picture frequently graces the society pages of the Mayfield Journal.
She’s more beautiful in person. And I realize where Brant’s dark features come from. However, where Brant is tall, his mother can’t be more than five foot four.
“Mine too.”
“You’re Caroline Stratton, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. And you’re Iris Cardwell, Brant’s mother.”
Way to go, genius.
Her red lips curl into a big smile that reaches all the way up to her blue eyes. “I am. So, why is it that my Brantley hasn’t invited you over for Sunday brunch at the house?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess that we’ve been taking things slow. He hasn’t met my mother yet either. Although, maybe he has since she works for y’all now.”
She laughs. “I remember those days—just wanting it to be the two of you. Meeting the parents can be nerve wracking. I was so nervous when I met Brant’s grandparents,” she says as she picks up a package of chocolate chips. “I tripped over my own two feet and crashed into the wall of their dining room. Their family portrait along with a glass cross crashed to the floor.”
My hands fly to my mouth. “Oh no. Did you think that was a bad sign?”
She tosses the chips into the cart. “Absolutely. I thought she’d hate me, for sure. But she didn’t.”
My heart beats a little slower now. “Oh, that’s goo
d.”
“So, what are you baking tonight?”
I shrug. “Can’t decide. Though I’m leaning toward pumpkin spice blondie bites.”
“Sounds delicious. Why don’t you bring some over tomorrow for brunch?”
“Are you sure that will be okay? I mean . . . will Brant be okay with that?”
“He better be, it’s my house and I’ll invite who I damn well please.” She picks up a bag of brown sugar and a bag of pecans from the shelf. “But for fun, we’ll keep this between you and me.”
I laugh. “Okay, I’ll be there.”
She grasps the handle of her cart. “Perfect. Eleven a.m. sharp, Caroline.”
“See you then.”
Well, that wasn’t unpleasant. I can’t remember the last time I had a “meet the parents” interaction. And I’ve never had a “meet the parents” brunch. Dinner, yes. Brunch that’s another story.
I double check my list and it hits me that I’m meeting Brant’s family tomorrow. First impressions.
My brain mentally catalogs everything in my closet. I reach for my phone and text Haven.
Me: What do I wear to brunch at your parents’ house? Your mother just invited in me in the middle of the grocery store.
Me: Also, you can’t tell Brant. I guess she wants to surprise him . . . maybe.
Three dots appear.
Haven: Meeting the family, that’s serious business in our family.
Internal freaking out begins and my palms start to mist with sweat.
Me: Oh good. That makes me feel less nervous. Insert sarcasm.
Haven: You’ll be fine. Go over to Willa’s Boutique in Smyrna Hills. You can wear anything to brunch except a hat. Mom doesn’t allow hats at the table.
I laugh and type a response.
Me: No worries there. Thank you.
Haven: You’re welcome. Have fun.
I inch my cart down the aisle to the checkout. Here goes nothing.
I change my outfit at least ten times before I leave the house. I finally settle on a black sweater and maroon skinny jeans and a cute pair of flats.
No heels.
No tripping.
No falling.
Before I leave, I let Julep out one more time and then I scoop up my pumpkin blondies. I made two batches.
Sweet Agony Page 17