Page 71 of Road Trip
“Our mum was gone by then, and Dad lived alone. He needed a carer. So I chucked the job I hated and came home. Seven weeks later, he was gone. I mucked about, trying to sort out my life. I was working on the grounds crew at the estate when I saw a job notice at the cider mill someone had started in the estate’s old stables. Took the job, got on well there, and when the head man said he was thinking about switching over to whiskey-making, I was intrigued. He sent me to work at Bushmill’s, to learn the craft, and I found I took to it. From there, I went to the States, got a job working at Buffalo Trace, a bourbon distillery in Kentucky. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
“I have,” Maeve said. “And then you came back here and started making whiskey at Tarrymore?”
“Not quite. Did I mention my older brother is rolling in money? By then, he was intrigued with the possibilities. The original man at the cider mill was underfunded, and was happy to sell out. Luke Grogan doesn’t do anything half-measure. He sent me off to the Chartered Institute for Brewers and Distillers in London. And that’s how I came to be the head distiller at Tarrymore Distillery.”
Liam raised his glass. “Are you sorry you asked?”
“Not at all. I had no idea whiskey-making could be so… what’s the word?”
He leaned in and kissed her. “Fascinating? Nuanced? Sexy?”
Maeve laughed. “All of the above.”
“Right,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “Now, what were we talking about before?”
“You were asking my theory about the paintings stolen by the IRA, but maybe that’s a discussion for another time and place, considering present company,” Maeve said, as Esme Rossington walked past.
The older woman stopped at the bathroom door, paused, then pounded on it. “Reggie! What are you about in there?”
Maeve giggled despite herself. “Who is that guy?”
“Reggie O’Malley. Tarrymore’s official village idiot slash town drunk, and Esme’s unofficial dogsbody.” Liam turned in his chair to get a better look.
“Reggie!” Esme pounded the door, then gave it a kick for good measure. “I’m knackered and I want to go home now.”
There was no response. Heads in the bar turned, but nobody moved.
Liam sighed and walked over to the bathroom door. He knocked again, and when there was no response, he tried the knob. It turned and he opened the door to reveal a body, slumped on the floor.
Maeve gasped.
Esme, unaffected, prodded the man’s leg with the toe of her boot. “Reggie, get up. You’re making a spectacle.”
Liam knelt down beside the man and gingerly touched his cheek.
“Is he dead?” Maeve called.
“More like dead drunk,” Liam said.
By now, the barman was standing beside him, scowling down at his unconscious patron.
“Pissed his pants too,” Rodney said. He turned to Liam. “Give me a hand, can you? He can sleep in his car and then he’ll be cleaning up this loo in the morning.”
Liam took Reggie’s legs and the barman picked up his arms and they unceremoniously hauled the drunk out the door of the pub.
Five minutes later, Liam rejoined Maeve.
“Is he okay?” she asked.
“Sure. Yeah. Rodney says he does this a couple times a month.”
Maeve’s eyes found Esme, who was sitting at her table, clutching the cocker spaniel and looking expectantly around the room.
“Does this Reggie person drive her around? Like a chauffeur or something?”
“Or something. It’s my understanding he lives on her property in exchange for doing the odd job, and being her always-willing drinking buddy.”
“How will she get home if he’s passed out drunk in his car?”
