“Some of the old Confederates wanted to run him out on rails,” she continued.
“Because he was Irish?”
“Because he hired freedmen.” She pointed to another set of photos showing a dozen or so black men interspersed with twenty or so whites in a barn surrounded by large barrels. “The original distillery where this picture was taken was burned down by a group of white men who didn’t approve.”
“You’re shitting me. Like, the KKK?”
“Pretty much, yeah, but I don’t know if they called themselves that. It took him a year to rebuild, and he hired all the same people back.”
The pride in her voice matched the glow in her eyes, both so discordant with the cold detachment she displayed when talking about her parents and her youth that it was as if she’d had two separate childhoods. It was on the tip of his tongue to point that out, but now wasn’t the time. Not with other people around who could overhear, and not when he couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t just shut down on him. Instead, he settled for, “That’s an amazing history, Gretchen.”
A deep voice resonated behind them. “Indeed it is.”
Gretchen’s face lit up as she turned around. “And this is Uncle Jack.”
A wide-shouldered man with a thick head of hair that was maybe a year from fully gray stood a few feet away, smiling at Gretchen with a warmth that would have revealed the familial connection even if Gretchen hadn’t called him “uncle.” He wore a black polo shirt with the Carraig Aonair logo stitched on the sleeve and looked like a man who would be just as comfortable breaking up a bar fight as serving the booze.
“Charlie buzzed me and said you were here,” he said, opening his arms.
Gretchen walked into his embrace, and Colton was struck again with the disharmony of the easy warmth she showed here and the image she’d painted of what it was like for her growing up. “I wanted to show Colton around,” she said, squeezing her uncle around the torso.
After a quick kiss on her cheek, Jack let her go and turned his attention on Colton with a decidedly colder stare. Colton knew when he was being sized up, even when the other person was trying to be discreet. Jack made no secret of it. He gazed with narrowed eyes and a stern thinness to his lips. “So, you’re Colton Wheeler?”
Colton offered his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Jack Winthrop.” He gave Colton’s hand a hard pump. “I hear you’re thinking of putting your face to the company.”
Colton shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Considering it.”
“I figured he should know what he’s getting into before he makes a decision,” Gretchen said.
“And?” Jack prompted.
Colton winked at Gretchen. “I like what I see so far.”
“I’m sure you do,” Jack said flatly.
Gretchen cleared her throat. “Jack is my dad’s younger brother. He runs the distillery and tasting room, and my father takes care of the boring side of things.”
“Where does Evan fit in?” Colton asked.
Gretchen and Jack shared an eye-roll. But then Gretchen jabbed her finger in Jack’s chest. “Speaking of which, you and I need to talk.”
“Your mother told you, huh?”
“He can’t be CEO, Jack. You have to block it.”
Jack shrugged and stuck his hands under his armpits. “They have more voting shares on the board together than I will alone. Not sure there’s much I can do.”
Gretchen sucked in a breath that said Time to change the subject. “So,” she exhaled. “Are my parents home? I was going to take Colton up to the house.”
“I don’t think so. They had some fancy Christmas party to go to downtown.”
“You didn’t want to go?”
“It was black-tie. The only time you’re gonna see me in a tux is when you get married.” Jack emphasized the point with a lifted eyebrow in Colton’s direction.
“Yikes,” Gretchen said. “On that note, we’ll get out of your hair.”
“You should take him to see your treehouse before you go.”
“Treehouse?” Colton grinned.
Gretchen groaned. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“I built it for her when she was ten or eleven. Little Gretchy wanted a place to read in the woods.”
“Little Gretchy wanted a place to hide from Evan.” She gave Colton a pointed look. “And no, we’re not going to see it.”