“Well, George wasn’t really a farmer. He’d been a sailor, which was how he wound up on South Manitou—steamer ships used to put in there to fuel up with wood for their boilers. Back in those days, the Manitou Passage was a critical spot in the journey for ships traveling on the Great Lakes. South Manitou had an important lifesaving station and lighthouse to help prevent the shipwrecks that were all too common in those days due to high traffic, unpredictable weather, and the underwater landscape.”
I nodded, remembering some of this from being on the island with Sylvia and my dad. “I think there’s still a shipwreck visible from the beach. Like sticking out of the water.”
“There is. We’ll see it today on our hike. So George decided lumbering sounded better than being a sailor, and he decided to stay on South Manitou and settle down on the booming little island. But when the ships started to burn coal, the lumber business there died. He turned to farming, mostly to keep his family fed.”
“He had kids?”
Oliver nodded. “Rebecca was the oldest of five. Well, Jacob must have been a good salesman, because he convinces George to turn over twenty acres to Feldmann rye, and he persuades Rebecca to marry him. He moves onto the island, builds a cabin, and helps George with the planting.”
“And does it grow?”
“It does. Turns out the island’s light, sandy soil is perfect for rye. They’re so successful, in fact, that they persuade the other six farmers on the island to grow nothing but Feldmann rye, as it came to be called. And to this very day, it’s the only place in the country where it grows.”
“Really?” I glanced at him in surprise.
“Mmhm.” Oliver looked smug. “And no one has made whiskey from it in almost a century.”
My insides were jumping. I saw where Oliver was going with this. “But we will,” I said before I even stopped to think.
He nodded. “We will.”
Overcome with excitement, my creative brain kicking into high gear, I grabbed his hand. “Oliver, this could be incredible! Do you realize what we have? I mean, not only the potential to make a really good whiskey, but something even better—something that would help us stand out in a crowded market. We have a heritage rye, made from seeds brought here a hundred years ago by a Russian immigrant! We have the American Dream in a bottle! We have marketing gold!”
He squeezed my hand. “We have a story.”
I met his eyes. “We have a story.”
10
Oliver
THEN
Normally, I tried to get out of going to the Cloverleigh Christmas party with my parents, but this year I gladly jumped in the car for the two-hour drive down from Harbor Springs.
It was the craziest thing—I couldn’t think of another time I’d been this excited to see anybody, let alone Chloe Sawyer. We hadn’t spoken in more than two months … since that unbelievable night in my dorm room.
Sometimes, when I thought about it—usually right before I jerked off—I wondered if the whole thing had been a dream. But then I’d remember watching her strip off her sweater. Then her shirt. I’d hear her explaining to me why she wanted me to fuck her but not call her. I’d remember the taste of her skin and the smell of her hair and the sound of her voice telling me to take her pants off.
I’d recall how good it felt to get inside her and know that I was her first, that she wanted me to be the first. Somehow it had felt like my first time too, even though it wasn’t.
I remembered that feeling afterward, foreign and familiar at the same time, because it was Chloe I couldn’t get enough of. I wanted more.
But she’d been fucking silent afterward. Had she enjoyed it? She’d had an orgasm, hadn’t she? It was too hard to tell with girls sometimes. I got distracted and lost control so easily.
But I’d tried not to go too fast. I’d wanted her to enjoy it, even if she was only doing it to cross “lose virginity” off her list. In all honesty, I’d thought her plan was pretty fucking stupid and figured she was eventually going to regret it and blame me for everything, but I still hadn’t been able to stop myself from doing it. Not only because I was eighteen and obsessed with sex, but because it was her. Chloe wasn’t just hot, she did something to me. I had no idea why or what. But ever since she’d walked away from me on prom night, I’d been thinking about her. It drove me crazy that she didn’t want me.
Every girl wanted me! Why didn’t she?
So I’d done what she asked that night, and it had been fucking fantastic. So good I couldn’t stop thinking about it for weeks afterward. Other girls would approach me and sometimes I messed around with them, but somehow they never compared to her. They were pretty but boring. They never challenged me. They never made me feel anything.
A hundred times I thought about calling her, but then I’d remember I had promised not to. I’d recall how distant she’d seemed on the walk back to town.
And I was a fucking gentleman—I’d asked if she was okay. She’d said she was fine, but I knew her—something was off. She was never that quiet. Maybe she regretted it already.
I hoped not. I didn’t regret it. In fact, I was sort of hoping she might want to do it again. And maybe she’d let me fucking text her afterward. Maybe we could visit each other or something. Purdue wasn’t that far from Miami Ohio.
The first thing I did after saying hello to Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer was seek her out. I saw her across the wide expanse of the lobby, standing near the tree. My stomach did something weird and jumpy as I started across the room. I raked a hand through my hair, hoping my shirt hadn’t gotten too wrinkled in the car. I’d ironed it myself.
She was with a group of people I didn’t recognize, and she looked hot as hell in a black dress and tall boots with heels. Her lips were bright red. Approaching her, my heart began to pound.
She caught sight of me, and for a moment, she looked nervous. Then she smiled. “Hey, Oliver.”
“Hey.” I gave her a hug, even though we normally didn’t greet each other that way, holding her a little longer than necessary just so I could breathe in her perfume. “How are you?”
“Good.” She released me and put a hand on the guy standing next to her, a beefy-looking blond guy with a thick neck and a shitty haircut. “This is my friend Dean. He came up from Purdue with me for a few days.”
Fighting off a queasy feeling, I held out my hand. “Oliver Pemberton. Nice to meet you.”
“Same.” Dean shook my hand, although he didn’t look too pleased about making my acquaintance.
Chloe introduced me to the rest of the group, but I forgot all names immediately. All I could focus on was the way she kept touching Dean’s arm and smiling at him with those red lips, and how he put his hand at the small of her back. It was clear they were a couple.
I wanted to fucking punch him.
As soon as I could politely excuse myself, I did, going right over to the bar and asking for some Woodford Reserve, neat. The bartender asked me for my I.D., of course, and I brandished one of Hughie’s old licenses. It was expired, but the guy either didn’t notice or didn’t care. I took my whiskey and grabbed a seat at the end of the bar, away from the crowd. After tossing it back in less than two minutes, I ordered another.