Harley started up the stairs, realizing that today, like all the other days in Notchey Creek, would not be normal. On the third floor, she half expected to find her grandfather kneeling beside a charred oak barrel as he once had, his eyes closed in quiet concentration as he sipped from a small whiskey tasting glass.
To her, he had always appeared more like a monk lost in prayer than a whiskey distiller, but instead of a habit and tonsure, he had worn a pair of denim overalls and a University of Tennessee Volunteers baseball cap. But the upper room was empty of his presence, only her memories left to fill the space.
“Needs more time,” her grandfather had always said, at last opening his eyes from the tasting glass to meet hers.
Harley removed that same tasting glass from the shelf and, after unplugging the cork from the barrel, filled the glass with whiskey and took a sip. She drew in the aroma of caramel, vanilla, and char, rolling the sweet smokiness over her tongue. As was usually the case, it needed a little more time.
Whiskey was a patient spirit, not held to timetables or human impatience. “It’ll be ready when it’s ready,” her grandfather had always said, “and it’s best not to rush it.” According to Jackson Henrickson, all of the best things in life took years to develop richness—friendships, marriages, and bottles of whiskey being just three of them. At the age of twenty-six, Harley believed that to be true as well.
Returning to the sink, she rinsed the whiskey glass before placing it on the shelf. As she dried her hands on a towel, she thought of her grandfather, the man who had been not only her mother and father but also her very best friend. Oh, how she missed him.
“You all finished up outside?” Wilma called from the stairwell.
“Charcoal’s down to a smolder,” Harley said, coming back down the steps. “Should be ready for Uncle Tater to collect in another hour or so.”
“If he’s even up by then. I swear that brother of mine. His bedroom was as quiet as Grant’s tomb this mornin’ when I passed by the house. He and Floyd must’ve tied on a big one at Bud’s last night.”
Bud’s Pool Hall was a notorious beer joint and the favorite watering hole for Uncle Tater and the large cast of characters he called friends. Wilma and Harley were grateful every day they didn’t find him in a jail cell in the Notchey Creek police station.
“Coffee’s about ready,” Wilma said, not glancing up from her nail filing. “And how about that new whiskey upstairs? Let me guess. It ain’t ready yet?”
“Not ready, but almost.”
Wilma blew nail dust from her emery board. “Figures. Waitin’ on that old stuff is like waitin’ at the Walmart pharmacy on a Saturday.” She returned to her nail filing. “Well, anyway, them bottles is filled up and sealed, waitin’ for you on the counter yonder.”
Harley retrieved her barn coat from the hook, and as she guided her arms through the sleeves, Wilma said, “Oh, and Tina called earlier. Says you need to answer your friggin’ cell phone. Says it’s aggravatin’ how you never pick up, and I’ve got to agree with her on that. Secondly, she said it’s an emergency. She needs to talk to you ASAP.” Wilma lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Of course, she always says it’s an emergency, don’t she? I swear that girl can stir up drama like a bear can stir up a honey bee’s nest.”
Tina Rizchek, Harley’s childhood best friend, seemed to call her at all hours of the day and night with self-perceived emergencies.
“I’ll give her a call,” Harley said over her shoulder, then hurried out the door before Wilma could catch her again.