Even the tour of the distillery went off well. The charming owner showing them different kinds of casks, where they processed the grain, large pieces of giant metal machinery that looked like alien robots as described in a sci-fi novel he’d read recently. Not until they’d gotten seated around a high top in the luxurious private tasting room did things start to go downhill.
The owner brought out a leather-bound menu of all the different varietals and vintages on-site. His father surveyed it before ordering a round of something old and expensive for the table.
“Doesn’t matter how many times I come to Scotland,” he confided after the man left, passing over the menu now that he’d already ordered. “I’ve never been able to develop a taste for the stuff.”
“You’re drinking the wrong kind.” Riley skimmed a finger down the selections. “Next time try something less peated and you’ll enjoy it more. The flavor is richer, caramel instead of smoke.”
With the beckoning of a hand, she summoned the host back to order her own drink.
“Whiskey’s an acquired taste.” Riley passed the menu back to his dad. “It’s misplaced machismo that convinces men they have to prove themselves by putting back Lagavulin sixteen.”
Alfie blinked.
Clark tried to remember the last time someone had explained anything to his dad, gently chiding.
“You’re probably right.” His father’s smile was bemused. “Know a lot about whiskey, do you?”
“A fair amount,” Riley said. “I’ve been a bartender for over a decade, and I’ve got a particular affinity for scotch.”
Nicely done. She’d managed to neatly neutralize the subject of her occupation.
“Is that so?” Alfie leaned back in his chair. “In that case, I insist you pick out my second glass.” By grace of his warm chuckle, the question didn’t come across as condescending. Still, a test given in good faith was equally revealing.
Riley agreed, no hesitation, then debated with the server about the merits between a sherry and a calvados bourbon-cask single malt before making a selection.
“It’s beginners’ whiskey,” she told his dad when it came out in a highball glass, neat, “but it’s also amazing. No compromise.”
After swirling the selection and taking a healthy swallow, Alfie closed his eyes and shook his head. “Fuck, that’s brilliant.”
Unlike Clark, who wouldn’t have been able to resist beaming, Riley merely nodded, though he could tell by her eyes that she was pleased her choice had passed muster.
Part of his father’s allure was how he made you feel—important, exceptional—when he wanted to.
Clark wouldn’t tell her the fall from that feeling was swift and steep. She’d never have a chance to find out.
“Tell me more about you,” his dad said to Riley. “You’re American?”
“I’m from South Jersey, right outside Philadelphia,” she confirmed, and acquiesced by telling him about her hometown—apparently it was “a pillar of American diner culture,” something Clark had never heard of, but now wanted to experience with a kind of desperate curiosity.
As the conversation went on, Clark realized he’d never seen Riley so mild-mannered. It was jarring. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
At first, he attributed the shift to her being uncomfortable, but when it didn’t go away after a second glass of whiskey, he changed his mind. This was her making an effort. Not for Alfie. Clearly her opinions on his father hadn’t swayed from her initial assessment that first night at the bar. No. From the way her eyes kept slipping in Clark’s direction, she must be talking about herself and listening to his father prattle on about the one time he’d visited Atlantic City for him. Because she knew how much he prized his dad’s good opinion.
Clark had to fiddle with his napkin about that for a while.
When Riley got up to use the washroom, Alfie nudged his son’s elbow.
“Relax. I like her.” He smiled into the drink she’d picked. “You should bring her around to the house sometime. She can have that bottle of scotch my publisher sent me.”
Hang on. Were Riley and his dad . . . getting along?
A sudden daydream montage assaulted him—Riley burning a pudding she wanted to take to Sunday dinner. Her kissing him after he bought a replacement. Riley shooting darts at his father’s local. Lord knew she could hold her own against the old blokes when it came time to trash-talk. Clark wouldn’t mind watching, fetching her drinks. Talking her down when she lost and subsequently challenged her opponent to a fistfight. His father and Riley on a family holiday, bullying him to do something horrible like cliff dive.
He chewed the inside of his cheek. The addition of Riley, of anyone, wouldn’t replace Patrick’s absence.
For the first time in a long time, Clark missed his brother and found the feeling untainted by any sense of resentment, betrayal, or guilt. Perhaps it was because he’d learned recently how easily fear could convince you that the right thing to do was lie even to people you respected and cared for in order to protect them, to protect yourself. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment, maybe there wasn’t one, instead a handful of small shifts that had somewhere on the grounds of Arden Castle finally resulted in release. He’d forgiven Patrick. Realizing it felt like taking his first deep breath after six months with a head cold he couldn’t kick.
Clark had always been a second son, but today he saw the potential in it.
“Always thought you could do with a bit more messing about.” His dad ruffled his hair. “Looks good on you.” He pulled back, tilted his head again. “You look happy.”
Before Clark could even process that comment, what it meant, his dad launched into a story of one of his own exploits featuring his infamous coalition of mates named Dave. Though this particular tale—how the middle-aged man Clark knew as “well-behaved Dave” had earned the now-retired moniker “rave Dave” by passing out in a puddle of sick during an underground punk gig—was new.
Clark laughed, breathless. This was the kind of messy, embarrassing story you told a friend, someone you saw as a peer, not a kid.
By the time Riley returned and they ordered a last round, he couldn’t believe how well the outing had gone. Had he ever felt this relaxed around his dad? Yes, the whiskey played a role, but it was more than that. Riley provided some kind of magical buffer, smoothing out the harsh edges they usually caught themselves on.
Under the table, he nudged her knee with his.
“Thanks for this,” he said when his dad got up to speak with the owner.
She gave him this look out of the corner of her eye, soft and private, and shrugged.
“The pair of you won’t believe this,” his dad said, startling them as he returned to the table. He braced his hands on the back of his chair. “Apparently, there’s some horrible person at Arden Castle masquerading as a curse breaker—whatever the fuck that means.”
Shite. Clark might take the easy way out, let the comment lie with a noncommittal “Is that so?” but Riley wouldn’t. She’d have no problem barreling in, telling his dad exactly what she did and why, gloriously righteous, as ever.