The man seemed relieved to be there, in the quiet of the shop, in the comfort of its bottles, in the warmth of its stove. Once again, she surveyed the ripped jeans, the motorcycle vest, and the trucker hat. He was a bit rough looking, she supposed, but no more than some of the hillbillies who blew through town on the weekends, their beat-up pickup trucks leaving a trail of exhaust on their way to Pigeon Forge. No, Harley guessed he was merely a long-haul truck driver or perhaps a Hell’s Angel. She predicted he would buy a bottle of whiskey or scotch, and after a wordless transaction, he would be on his way.
Instead, he started laughing. It was not a jolly laugh, a guffaw, or even a giggle. It was more of a gravelly chuckle as if he had not laughed in some time.
“I apologize,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s just that I’m rarely surprised, but that outside … well, let’s just say I wasn’t expectin’ it.” He laughed again. “That bird woman,” he said, referring to Alveda Hamilton, “she always get her feathers up like that?”
“She does around me, I guess. I seem to have that effect on her.”
“It’s because you’re not a cookie cutter,” he said, “and that’s all right.”
Harley smiled, studying him for a moment. “Are you just coming off a long haul?”
He turned from the shelves and seemed to look at her for the first time. His dark-blue eyes lit up ever so slightly and a subtle smile formed on his bearded face. He did not answer at first; his gaze moved over her appearance, from the camouflage hat and the pigtails to the thick-lensed glasses, the overalls, and boots.
“Are you?” he said in that whiskey-and-cigar voice.
Harley realized she must have looked as rough to him as he had to her. And she felt rough, too, had felt rough for some time. Recalling the events of the last several years, she nodded and in a lowered voice said, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
His expression adopted a look of understanding and in a lowered voice he said, “Me too.”
Harley perceived a certain coolness about the man, an understated coolness, as if he chose to dress this way, that he could do better and could afford better, but he chose not to. She, on the other hand, wore whatever was easy and clean and comfortable, putting hardly any thought into it. There was no style to it. No understated coolness.
“So, what’s the best whiskey you’ve got?” he asked, returning his attention to the shelves of liquor.
“Single barrel.”
“Can I try some?”
Harley motioned to the bar, and he followed behind her, taking a seat on one of the stools, and resting his bulbous arms on the counter. She placed a tasting glass in front of him and filled it with a shot of single barrel whiskey.
He lifted the glass to his lips, and with his mouth slightly open, his eyes closed, he drew in the aroma of caramel, vanilla, and char. His face relaxed for the first time, his features drifting into the softness of what she could only interpret as nirvana. Eyes still closed, he drew a sip and rolled it over his tongue, as if he were in a pleasant dream. She expected him to moan at any moment. Instead he opened his eyes, his features falling back into their somber seriousness.
“You got a bottle I can take with me?”
Harley nodded in assent, then realized she did not have any single barrel in stock at the store. “I can get some to you by this afternoon, if that’s okay.”
A brief look of disappointment, then, “Good enough.”
He raised the whiskey taster to his lip once more, revealing a series of hard callouses across the fingertips on his left hand.
“You make this?” he asked.
Harley nodded.
“So how does somebody get into the whiskey-making business?”
She considered for a moment, then said, “Well, I guess for me it was family. We’ve been making whiskey for centuries, even before our ancestors immigrated from the British Isles to Western Pennsylvania in the eighteenth century. Then with the Whiskey Rebellion in the 1790s, we made our way down the Appalachians to East Tennessee and settled here in the Smokies. The mountains gave us privacy, and the spring water was perfect for distillation.”
“What about Prohibition?” he asked, looking at her with sincere interest.
“Well, let’s just say it was the only thing that kept us from starving during the Great Depression.”
He seemed to appreciate this piece of Henrickson family history and said, “Interesting history this region has. I’ve always thought so.”
“So you didn’t grow up around here, then?”
He hesitated. “Only for a short time. I spent my early life all over. In foster homes mostly.” Her question seemed to have touched a vulnerable place in the rough-hewn man, and he lowered his eyes to the bar and changed the subject. “So when you’re not makin’ whiskey, you’re raisin’ pigs?”
“Well, there’s only the one pig—Matilda.” Harley looked to where the pig still napped by the potbellied stove. “My granddaddy gave her to me years ago.”
“Interesting present for a kid.”
“Granddaddy said I needed a friend.” Realizing how pitiful this sounded, she turned away from him to hide her embarrassment.
“Well,” he said, “don’t feel bad. I’ve never had many friends either. Not real ones anyway.”
Before she could respond, he added, “You’re more of a reader, I take, than a socializer anyway.”
The man was a walking contradiction, Harley thought, and she liked him for it. She pointed to the row of hardback books lining the top shelf of the bar and to the copy of Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations. “That book … that book’s my favorite.”
He studied the book’s worn spine, his expression relaying one of somber understanding and agreement. “Well,” he said, lowering his gaze to his calloused fingers, “sometimes the adventures we find in books are better than what the real world has to offer.”
“So what do you do?” Harley asked, returning the topic back to him. “For a living I mean?”
“I …” He paused, seeming to ponder the best approach to answer this question. “I’m a musician,” he said at last.
“And you play the guitar?”
He gave her a suspicious look, and she followed up with, “I saw the callouses on your fingers.”
“Ah. Yeah, I guess I have built them up over the years.”
“So, are you playing in some of the local clubs around here? I know Bud’s Pool Hall has live music most nights, and my Uncle Tater knows the owner really well. I could have him set up something for you.”
The hint of a smile curved his lips. “That would be kind of you. Thanks.” He reached for his wallet. “Now, how much do I owe you?”
“Nothing.” She smiled. “Consider it a welcome gift. And I’ll deliver it this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Harley Henrickson,” he said. “You’re a good kid.”
Harley wanted to ask him how he knew her name but was interrupted by the ringing of the shop bell.
“Excuse me just a second,” she told him. “I’ll be right back.”