Another piece of the pie, Lane thought. Had to be.
In the marble bathroom, he cranked on the shower and shoved Mack under the cold spray fully clothed.
The howl was loud enough to shatter glass, but at least the shock got the guy to stand up on his own.
Leaving him under the water, Lane went over to the petit déjeuner closet in the corner and got to work on the coffee pot, firing up the Keurig.
“You awake now, Mack?” he asked as he brought a mug with the Bradford crest on it into the bath. “Or should I add some ice to the mix?”
Mack glared through his wet hair and the spray. “I should punch you.”
Lane opened the shower’s glass door. “How many of me are there?”
“Two.” The man accepted the mug with his wet hands. “But that’s down from four and a half.”
“So it’s working.”
Mack took a draw of the java at the same time he reached around and juiced the “H” handle. “Coffee’s not bad.”
“Would you know if it were paint thinner?”
“Probably not.”
Lane pointed over his own shoulder. “I’ll be in there, waiting. Robe’s on the back of the door. Do me a favor and don’t come out naked.”
“You couldn’t handle me.”
“Too right.”
Closing things up, Lane went into his closet, put on a set of fresh clothes and then took a load off where Mack had failed to retain verticality. A little later, the Master Distiller made his grand, robed appearance.
The two of them had played basketball together for Charlemont Country Day before they’d gone to college, and the guy was as athletic as he’d always been, with no fat on him and the lanky build of a man who could play golf like a pro, run a marathon better than idiots ten years younger than he was, and still plow the lane on a b-ball court.
Oh, and there was still nothing stupid in those unusual, pale brown eyes. In a romance novel, Mac’s peepers would have been called whiskey or something—but it wasn’t the uncommon color that had gotten all those women into the guy’s bed.
No, there had been so much more to all of that.
And people called him a lady’s man? Lane thought to himself. Edwin MacAllan was worse.
“You got any more of this?” Mack held the mug up. “I think another gallon should do it.”
“Help yourself. It’s single-serve, in there.”
The guy glanced over at the open door to the little kitchen. “Right, I make bourbon. I should be able to handle caffeine.”
“On that note, let me do the duty again. I need some myself, and burning down the house this morning would be a buzzkill.”
The two of them ended up in the chaise lounges over by the windows like a pair of little old ladies. Little old ladies who both needed a shave.
“Talk to me.” Lane plugged his elbows into his knees. “What’s going on at the company.”
Mack shook his head. “It’s bad. I’ve been drunk for two days.”
“Like the latter’s ever stopped you before. We went on spring break together, remember? Six times. Of which only two were actually on the school calendar.”
Mack smiled, but the expression didn’t last. “Look, I’ve kept my thoughts about your father to myself—”
“And you can stop that right now. Do you think I don’t know what he’s like?”
There was a long pause. “I didn’t know how high up the memo went. I thought maybe the stop-buy came from the suits, but I was wrong. I asked around—it was at your father’s specific direction. I mean, the man runs a billion-dollar business. Why does he care about—”
“You need to back up. I have no clue what you’re talking about?”
“He’s cutting me off. He’s stopping production.”
Lane jerked forward. “What?”
“I got a memo the day before yesterday on my desk. I’m not allowed to buy any more corn. No corn, no mash. No mash, no more bourbon.” He shrugged and took another hit of the coffee. “I shut the stills down. For the first time since the move to Canada during Prohibition … I stopped it all. Sure, I’ve got some silos that are full, but I’m not doing a goddamn thing. Not until I speak with your father and find out what the hell he’s thinking. I mean, is the board up to something? Are they selling us to China and want things to look better on paper by cutting expenses? But even that doesn’t make any sense—they want us to delay for six months in the middle of this bourbon boom the country is experiencing?”
Lane stayed silent, all kinds of bad math happening in his brain.
“I wish Edward were around.” Mack shook his head. “Edward would never let this happen.”
Lane rubbed his aching head. Funny, he thought the same thing. “Well … he’s not.”
“So, if you don’t mind lending me a set of dry clothes, I’m going to go find that father of yours. To hell with your English bulldog downstairs—William Baldwine is going to see me—”
“Mack.”
“—and explain why—”
“Mack.” Lane looked the man straight in the eye. “Can I trust you?”