Gordon’s distillery was partially responsible for that. In fact, all the Island distilleries on the west were taking advantage of his success to promote their own brands.
The ferry’s PA system instructed all passengers to head for their vehicles and within minutes Raymond was off the ferry and parked outside the Victoria Hotel. He smiled broadly; there were no restrictive parking signs and no pesky traffic wardens on the Island.
After settling into his room he walked the length and breadth of the town. Stopping on the promenade, he leaned against the seawall and gazed out across the jewel of an ocean. The ferry was on its way back to the mainland and evening was closing in. A flock of seagulls eagerly followed, looking for any food passengers might throw their way.
He took in deep breaths of the sea air and sighed with satisfaction.
I could get used to this, he thought.
CHAPTER 3
Feeling on top of the world, Raymond woke up early, took a long shower, dressed in jeans and a golf shirt, and headed for the breakfast room. He ordered a full breakfast with a pot of coffee and picked up the local newspaper. He was busy reading an article on the new export initiative suggested by the Scottish Government, when he heard a familiar voice ordering coffee and French toast. He looked up in shock.
“Anne McCready… What a pleasant surprise! It’s been too many years.”
“Raymond Armstrong. You are the last person I expected to run into here.” Anne smiled broadly. “May I join you?”
Raymond was sideswiped by unfamiliar emotions and a loss for words as he looked into the eyes of the lovely woman he’d cared for so deeply, years before. In a blink of an eye the intervening years melted away and it seemed like only yesterday they’d been together – a cliché, but true.
“Of course, I’d love to have you join me for breakfast, Anne.” Raymond stood up and pulled out a chair for her, trying not to show just how pleased he was.
“Anne McCready, you haven’t changed a bit. Yes, you have. You’re even more attractive and you have an air of confidence that suits you wonderfully.” He kissed her on the cheek and tried to look composed as her subtle perfume braised his senses. He was more than excited to see her after all this time.
“Cormier, actually. My last name…”
Raymond’s disappointment didn’t deter him.
“So, Anne Cormier, how is life treating you in Canada?”
“Married for almost twenty years, a son and daughter taking exams, getting ready for university.”
“How time flies. Cormier… You have a French-Canadian husband?”
“He’s actually Acadian, from New Brunswick.”
“Interesting history. I know some of it. I met some Acadians in New Orleans on a trip and they told me about how their ancestors left Nova Scotia, and finally settled in Louisiana. Involved a fascinating journey down the Mississippi River, apparently.”
“Yes, true. Well at least some of them did that.” She smiled at the waiter who placed a glass of water beside the place setting. Raymond remembered when she’d smiled at him like that…
“What about you, still working for the government day and night?”
“Retired,” he told her. “Started my own small business. I research family trees and turn factual information into stories. Creative non-fiction it’s called. Facts with a little fiction added can make for interesting reading and it’s quite popular.”
“Well you must finally have time for a woman in your life,” she inquired, tilting her head to look through the window at the ocean.
“Not really. I’m still way too busy to really think about that,” Raymond said without missing a beat.
“I thought you just said retirement and a small genealogy company?”
“Well, I am becoming very popular for my researched stories. People are seeking me out. I might see about a publisher.”
“So on your own like always? A pet perhaps?”
“No,” Raymond replied. “No pets either. How about you?”
“Monty, my Russian blue cat. He barely made it when he was a kitten. Had some kind of breathing disorder but now – best cat ever. You should think about adopting one.”
“Tell me about the breed,” Raymond said. He had been thinking about acquiring a cat for quite some time.
“Well he may not be 100% Russian… You see, I adopted him from rescue. He definitely has the color and traits of a Russian. Loyal to one or two owners, distrusting of strangers until he gets to know them. Plays catch with a spring just like a dog does with a Frisbee in the park.”
“What else? You have me intrigued.”
“Loves to snuggle – just a mellow and loving guy. Not allowed outside and he doesn’t seem to mind.”
Raymond thought about how they used to snuggle when they were a couple but tamped that down. She was married and lived an ocean away.
“Would he hunt if you let him out?”
Anne chuckled, “Monty is far too laid back.”
“Have you ever heard of Towser?”
“Towser?” Anne leaned closer.
“Yes, the distillery cat in the Guinness Book of World Records, with over twenty-eight thousand mice devoured. Actually,” he continued, “I still don’t know how they calculated that number. Anyway, the whisky industry has never seen another cat like Towser.”
“Your knowledge of whisky and your interest in my cat are admirable…” She paused for a moment. They both sipped coffee. She leaned forward again, placing her hand softly on his arm. It’s like I’m talking to a new man but with all the same attractive qualities too.”
Raymond smiled at her. His eyes looked deep into hers for a brief moment. Yes, he was a new man, but a new man with a rekindled passion for Anne who had been his partner for five years… But that was many years ago...in the good days. The best days. Before she married someone else.
“We do a bit of trivia at our whisky club and I am always trying to find the strangest facts on the whisky industry to add to discussion,” he continued.
“Do they still have cats at the distilleries?” she asked, trying to stay focused. Her body tingled from head to foot as memories of how it had been with them twenty years before played over in her mind.
She’d never forgotten Raymond. He had been a tender and passionate good lover… And she studied him unabashedly, wondering what he would be like now. She shook that thought away and tuned in to Raymond who was still talking about cats…
“Some distilleries do have cats, although now the EU frowns upon them close to production. Not hygienic or some other stupid idea. The distillery on the Isle of Mull has dancing cats. They have an annual festival, where quite a few of the cats come out at night. It’s been said they wrap themselves around the guests’ legs and have been seen to dance with them.”
“Do they have any favorite songs?” she asked, laughing.
“Love Cats by the Cure, I believe.” He smiled at her and she melted a bit more.
“Good answer.”
“I try.”
“Funny.”
Talking about cats would have been the last thing on our minds, twenty years ago. Because of the attraction he felt for her, and the fact that she was married, he was nervous and guessed she was feeling the same way. We act like our love affair was only yesterday, but in reality, twenty years have washed under that bridge. Did she feel the same way?
“Anne, why are you staying in a hotel? You still have family on the Island, right?”
“I am actually on my way to an art conference in Paris. Both my parents passed away several years ago, and to be honest, I felt like a break and I wanted to be pampered. Growing up here, I always wanted to stay in this hotel. So here I am.”
“When do you leave?” He leaned forward and took her hand in his.
“Tomorrow.” She drew her hand away, but slowly.
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist… Seeing you here is like of breath of fresh air, honestly. I often wonder what would have happened if––”
Those touches were enough to cause a level of tension between them. A kindling of the fire they’d shared.
The arrival of their meals was more than welcome.
As they finished breakfast in nervous silence, Raymond downed his third cup of coffee.
“Raymond, have you ever walked around the town? I mean, taken a historic walk, not just to the pubs and restaurants?”
“No, and that’s quite strange, really, with the number of visits I’ve made here over the years. And all those times we never ran into each other. I’ve thought about you…”
She blushed and looked away. “This afternoon I could show you the history surrounding Rothesay, if you’d like…”
“As appealing as it is to spend time with you again, I will have to take a rain check. I am on my way to meet Gordon and the staff at the distillery. Do you have any time tomorrow morning?” Their meeting had been coincidence but now he had her full attention…
“Yes, actually my ferry isn’t until noon.” His heart tightened when she smiled at him and nodded.
He didn’t want their meeting to end. Or for her to leave the Island so soon. Halfway to the main hotel entrance, Raymond stopped and turned. Such fortuitous meetings didn’t occur without a reason, did they?
“Would you like company for dinner tonight?”
She thought for a moment. “You’re here to visit with Gordon and I don’t want to interfere. I would enjoy catching up more, but you need to understand, I’m not going back to how it was twenty years ago.”
“Really, Anne, you think I’d… Me?”
“I know you Raymond,” she continued. We used to call you the ‘moment man,’ when you had time for anything important outside your blessed job. I am a married woman and so don’t bother inviting me to your room for a nightcap after dinner if I do meet you later.”
“What if we stir up old emotions?”
“I will suggest you take a cold shower. Alone! How’s 7:30?”
He nodded, trying to look innocent.
CHAPTER 4
The door to Gordon’s office was slightly ajar so Raymond didn’t bother knocking. With a gentle push it opened so he could see Gordon was deep in conversation on the phone. When he spotted Raymond, Gordon put a hand over the receiver.
“Go have some time with Willy and I will catch up with you shortly.”
No problem, Raymond mouthed back.
Raymond wandered through the distillery and found Willy, the Distillery Manger, busy at the spirits safe.
“Raymond Armstrong!” Willy shouted. “How is the new President of the Stamford Whisky Society?” he asked as he approached Raymond to exchange a firm handshake.
“Ready to learn and then take it all back to the Society. How about sharing some tidbit we can get our teeth into while sipping on our whiskies? I plan to buy two of everything in the shop before I leave.”
“Okay, but I am just in the middle of something here. I will only be a moment, so feel free to look around.”
Raymond stood next to one of the stills admiring their shiny copper exteriors, which emanated a golden aura of light around the distillery floor. He ran his fingers on the copper surface and thought about the fabulous team and facility Gordon had assembled at the distillery.
Willy, as Distillery Manager, basically ran the production of all their single malts. After forty years in the industry, Gordon Reid had persuaded him to postpone retirement and join the team at the Bute Distillery.
Willy had worked for two other island distilleries in his career and knew exactly what style Gordon was looking for. He liked the idea of a new challenge and living on the Isle of Bute.
Gordon had invited Willy to the distillery to discuss bringing him out of retirement. Before Willy accepted the position, he insisted he drive to the distillery’s reservoir. He took samples of the water and placed them in his knapsack. He hiked up the mountainside following the stream, studying the vegetation and all that came into contact with the water as it tumbled down from the mountains into the reservoir.
Willy was known in the industry for sticking to tradition – relying on the old ways that had worked for centuries. ‘You always start with the water and not focus on casks alone,’ he would debate at many large whisky conferences around the world.
Willy walked quite a few miles that day, according to the story Gordon told many times. Upon his return he sent the water samples to a lab in Glasgow and waited for the results. Finally, a few days later, he gave it two thumbs up, announcing this was one of the best water sources in Scotland and would make a wonderful single malt whisky. Then he accepted the job.
Gordon’s daughter, Louisa, applied her master blender skills and assisted with the sales and marketing side of the distillery. She had attended Durham University and graduated with a master’s degree in chemistry and spent all her spare time alongside her dad in the distillery. Raymond had to laugh each time he saw Louisa as she grew up. By the time she was twelve, she could nose any single malt and give you a full description of aromas. She was not allowed to sip until she reached fourteen, when her dad let her have a wee sip to study all the tastes. It was obvious, even before she attended university, that her chosen profession in chemistry would land her front and center in the whisky industry.
James, Gordon’s son, was a different kettle of fish and the oddball of the family – a bit of a dark horse. Gordon had actually sent him to an exclusive private school, hoping that the discipline and camaraderie would help James develop interests and skills. That did not work out too well, but at least he graduated. James finally chose Bristol University and he barely scraped through their marketing program. His campus life was more about partying and generally doing as little as possible.
After a few years working at the distillery, Gordon’s derelict son was given the title of Brand Ambassador. A job that most people in the whisky world would have killed for – metaphorically speaking. He would swan around the world overindulging on a large expense account, regardless of the consequences of his actions. His notoriety in the industry was already established at his young age.
Most around the whisky world were impressed with his breathtaking video of the Isle of Bute – he produced it himself, using some fancy software. It featured the distillery as the key focal point. He also added the audio that put forth the compelling story of the distillery’s success.
As for the business, James had a decent palate but a dreadful nose. He would invent the aromas as he went along. His only salvation was the book of notes on the specific aromas provided by his sister Louisa, who had a perfect whisky nose.
“Raymond, I am close to taking the spirit. Would you help me over here?” Willy asked while studying a glass half full of clear alcohol.
“I had a feeling you were doing your magic.” Raymond moved closer to get a better view.
“After all these years and modern technology, it’s not magic. I could do this in my sleep,” Willy said in a matter of fact manner.
“Quiet, or you will take all the mystique out of whisky making. My whisky club members could debate for hours at every meeting about taking the middle cut. In their minds, distillery managers and stillmen are up there with the likes of U2 and the Stones.”
“Showing your age, Raymond. I imagine that analogy would have a young person thinking I am ancient.”
“I get your point: Some super fresh rapper with ten #1 hits. A hip guy doing his whisky magic.”
“Much better,” he said, laughing. Then his attention turned to the liquid again. “Right, she looks clean,” he said, referring to the spirit running through. “Alcohol content at 71%. What do you think?”
“Good to me.”
Willy nodded, obviously pleased. “Well, turn the lever.”
“Me?”
“Yes, go ahead.”
“You do realize I will take all
the credit for this batch – being the one that performed the middle cut on this run.”
“You may have to wait twelve years, but you can have the credit.” They both laughed.
“Actually, all the work involved in producing this fine spirit has already been done,” Raymond reasoned. He’d read taking the middle cut was not so much a science as a feel: the right touch in the hands of the stillman.
“So what are you waiting for?”
“Just thinking about all this…and how I’ll explain this experience to the whisky club members at our next tasting.”
“Why do so many of you enthusiasts over-think all this? If we all did the exact same things and told you all our little secrets what would whisky be like? Boring, I imagine.”
“Look, let me explain this in layman’s terms so you’ll have it right when you explain,” said Willy. “Within every distillation, the distillate is divided into three cuts. Only the second cut, the heart of the spirit run, will be used. The first cut – sometimes called foreshots – and the last cut – known as tails or feints – are sub-standard and will be redistilled with the next batch.
“The middle cut, containing few impurities, is what we are all after. On average, the middle cut is twenty-four percent of the total distillation. We capture the middle cut in a cabinet with this viewing window…” He pointed, then opened the small door. “We take a sample from here to nose and look at the appearance. We are looking for a clear spirit, close to 70 % alcohol by volume.” Willy smiled and held up a sample, then continued: “Macallan Distillery only takes 16 % as the middle cut.
“In other words, we are all different, Raymond. Do you understand? All the talk in the industry about regions and shoppers buying by region is ridiculous and outdated. When you are hosting the club tastings focus on explaining that each distillery in Scotland has their own brand, their way of expressing their individuality.”
“Okay.” Raymond was in awe of the older man and scrambling to remember the details to write down later.
The Whisky Affair (Raymond Armstrong Series) Page 2