CHAPTER THREE
The heavy steel door banged shut behind Beck as he entered the warehouse that held Trinity Distillery’s grain boilers and fermentation tanks. Gabe insisted they needed to name all the buildings to avoid confusion, but so far, no one had come up with anything more creative for this one than Warehouse Number Two.
Located in the trendy South of Market neighborhood in downtown San Francisco, the warehouse was part of a four-building complex. It had been vacant for more than thirty years before they’d moved in.
The warm, moist air from the boilers filled the cavernous building with the smell of baking bread. The aroma always reminded Beck of his childhood in Kentucky, of visiting his dad at the family distillery after school, watching the yeast work its magic in the fermentation tanks and running through the maze of stacked oak barrels.
His memories were bittersweet. He hadn’t stepped foot in the Jonah Beck Distillery in more than fifteen years, not since he was a senior in high school and his world fell apart.
Beck’s ancestor, Jonah Martin Beck, built the distillery in the early 1800s in rural Nelson County, near Lexington. It had operated continuously, even during Prohibition, thanks to some very powerful men who refused to give up Beck bourbon.
Today, the distillery was the largest producer of bourbon whiskey in the world. But the Beck family didn’t own the Jonah Beck Distillery any longer. A British company had bought it when Beck was a sophomore at the University of Kentucky.
After passing the massive grain boilers, Beck reached the industrial stairs that led to the suspended catwalk. His boots thumped on the grate treads as he climbed the stairs, and once he arrived at the top, he took a moment to survey the six round fermentation tanks.
Measuring fourteen feet in diameter and ten feet tall, the tanks were constructed of cypress wood. Each one was filled with Trinity’s mash bill, a proprietary blend of boiled corn, barley, and rye. Once yeast joined the party, the fermentation process began. It took several days and created enough heat to make sweat bead on Beck’s forehead.
The catwalk shuddered under his feet, and he glanced over his shoulder to see what caused the movement. He grinned when he saw his master distiller heading toward him wearing tan canvas work pants and a black T-shirt with You had me at bourbon in white block letters.
Ellis Oglesby reached Beck’s side and slapped him on the back in greeting. “How’s it going, boy?”
Beck shook his head in amused exasperation. Ellis never called him anything but boy. He doubted the wiry old man ever would, regardless of the fact Beck was nearly a foot taller and outweighed him by at least eighty pounds. He didn’t know if Ellis called him boy because every male in Beck’s family was named Jonah or because Ellis had known Beck since he was in diapers.
“Afternoon, Ellis.”
“Whatcha doin’ up here?”
“Checking the mash.”
“You pay people to do that.” Ellis raised a bushy gray eyebrow. “Don’t you have better things to do?”
Beck shrugged. “I like doing it.”
Bourbon was in Beck’s blood. Hell, his last name was synonymous with the spirit. When people walked into bars, they asked for Beck and Coke or Beck on the rocks.
He’d learned to distill bourbon before he had been able to drink it ... legally, that is. He enjoyed his first sip of bourbon when he was ten years old, and he’d eaten food flavored with bourbon for as long as he could remember—French toast with bourbon syrup, bourbon beef tenderloin, bourbon-roasted vegetables. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out his baby food had been laced with bourbon.
Sighing loudly, Ellis leaned against the side of the nearest fermentation tank. “You only come up here when somethin’s botherin’ you.”
He studied Beck, his pale blue eyes clear and astute despite the wrinkles around them. Beck looked away from the older man’s penetrating gaze and focused on the little yeast bubbles covering the surface of the mash.
“Aren’t you meetin’ with that singer this afternoon?” Ellis asked.
“Yeah. At two o’clock.”
When Quinn had called to let him know Ava Grace Landy and her manager wanted to have a conversation about a possible partnership, Beck was floored. He never imagined she’d be interested in working with Trinity, but he was thrilled she was willing to consider it.
Trinity had reached the point where it needed a spokesperson, and Ava Grace Landy would be perfect. Although Beck was the founder and CEO, he had no desire to be the face of the company. He wanted to stay in the background as much as he could. He wanted to focus on making great bourbon while someone else—preferably Ava Grace—told the world about it.
“You’ve met her before, right?” Ellis asked.
Beck nodded. He and Ava Grace hadn’t exactly gotten off on the right foot when they were introduced. She told him she didn’t like Trinity “all that much.” Her dismissive attitude stung, more than he liked to admit.
If someone else had disrespected his bourbon, he would’ve ignored them. But when Ava Grace did it, he retaliated by tossing her words in her face, saying he didn’t like her music “all that much.”
The moment the words had shot out of his mouth, he was ashamed of himself. He was still embarrassed by what he’d said to her.
“What do you think of her?” the older man prodded.
I think she’s hot enough to melt the polar ice caps.
And Beck wasn’t made of ice. He was just a flesh-and-blood man ... a man who was attracted to her, even though he didn’t want to be.
The first time Beck saw Ave Grace in person, he was at Quinn and Amelia’s wedding. She was the maid of honor, and she outshined every woman there, even the bride.
They hadn’t officially met until Amelia introduced them several months later during a group outing at a bowling alley. When he’d looked into Ava Grace’s face and clasped her hand, her beauty slammed into him so hard, he felt as if a heavyweight boxer punched him in the gut. He hadn’t been able to form a single word so he just nodded like a mime.
“I saw her on TV the other day,” Ellis said. “A woman like that improves blood flow to a man’s most important organ.”
Although Beck knew exactly which organ Ellis meant, he replied, “You could use some extra blood flow to the brain.”
Ellis chuckled, his voice raspy from decades of pipe smoking. “That’s not a man’s most important organ, boy. I’m talkin’ about the power sprayer, the hot rod, the jackhammer, the broadsword—”
“Ellis,” Beck groaned, “shut up.”
Ellis’s booming laugh bounced off the high ceiling. “Did I tell you I went out with that sweet thang I met at the farmers’ market?”
Everywhere Ellis went, he attracted women. He picked them up at gas stations, grocery stores, in the park, standing in line at the bank ... just about anywhere. Despite his puny stature, sun-weathered countenance, and sparse gray hair, women of all ages seemed to find him irresistible. It baffled the hell out of Beck since Ellis reminded him of a scrawny rooster.
“No, you didn’t tell me,” Beck answered before rushing to add, “and I really don’t want you to. Please don’t.”
Ellis ignored his plea. “Mmm, mmm, mmm.” He smacked his lips. “Her tits were so—”
“Jesus Christ.” Beck shook his head, both awed and disgusted by Ellis’s active sex life. “You’re such a poonhound.” He pointed his forefinger at the horny old goat. “Are you aware there’s been a spike in syphilis, chlamydia, and HIV among seniors? I hope to hell you’re using a rubber when you screw these women.”
“You don’t need to worry about me. I’ve been pumpin’ for nearly sixty years, and I haven’t caught anything yet.” Ellis patted the front pocket of his worn pants. “I always carry protection. Don’t you?”
Beck barked out an incredulous laugh. “No, Ellis, I don’t carry condoms, hoping to get laid. I haven’t done that since I was a teenager.”
And back then, Beck had sex with only one person: Callie Boone, the most beautiful girl in Nelson County. She’d been his first everything.
The first girl he’d ever loved. The first girl he’d had sex with. The first girl who’d broken his heart. The first (and only) girl who’d tried to ruin his life.
“I worry about you, boy. I really do.” Ellis shook his head sorrowfully. “When’s the last time you got some?”
“I don’t kiss and tell,” Beck quipped. “You shouldn’t either.”
“I hope to hell you’re doin’ more than kissin’,” Ellis shot back.
Beck wasn’t about to admit Ellis got more action than he did. He hadn’t been on a date in ... Shit, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on a date. Maybe last fall?
Unfortunately, he had no trouble remembering the last time he’d gotten laid. It had been more than a year ago, shortly before he and Olivia broke up.
“I know you’ve been workin’ hard ... tryin’ to get Trinity off the ground,” Ellis said, “but there’s more to life than makin’ bourbon.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that since you’ve dedicated your life to it,” Beck replied dryly.
Without question, Ellis was the best master distiller in the nation, maybe the best in the world. He’d spent more than thirty years as the master distiller for Jonah Beck Distillery, and while he had worked there, he won Master Distiller of the Year five times.
Beck lured Ellis out of retirement six years ago to take over the master distiller job at Trinity. He had no doubt the old man was the reason Trinity found success when other craft distilleries failed.
“You know, women are like bourbon,” Ellis said.
Beck laughed. “I think the saying is, ‘Women are like fine wine. They only get better with age.’”
Ellis shook his head. “No, they’re like bourbon,” he insisted.
“How so?”
“A good one is warm and smooth and just a little sweet. But she’s got some kick to her ... a bite that makes you flinch. She makes your throat burn and your chest tight, and then she settles in your belly and glows like an ember.” Ellis eyed Beck for a moment, a smile playing around his lips. “You ever met a woman like that?”
“Not yet.”
“Or maybe you just weren’t payin’ attention.” Ellis tilted his head toward the door. “You better hightail it. You don’t wanna be late for your meetin’.”
Beck checked his watch, a vintage Tag Heuer his dad had given him. Realizing the meeting started in five minutes, he patted Ellis on the back. “See you later, old man.”
As he jogged toward the stairs, he heard Ellis yell, “Damn it, boy, be careful! You’re gonna break somethin’!”
Once Beck was outside he took a moment to smooth his hair and check his clothes for stains. Today, he wore a beige vintage-style T-shirt with brown-and-orange cursive lettering on the front that said, Hello, bourbon, my old friend. I’ve come to talk with you again.
His faded jeans had worn spots on both knees. The bottoms were frayed, and one of the side seams was split over his brown leather work boot.
He’d thought about dressing up for today’s meeting but decided against it. He didn’t sit behind a desk all day. He got his hands dirty.
And now he was going to get his hands dirty with Ava Grace Landy.
*****
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