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"Hey Santa," I laughed. "Blanchard, right?
"Yeah. I go by Wiley mostly, though." The man had a broad likable face with an easy grin that made me feel immediately at ease. Wiley Blanchard wasn't a big man—not like many of the athletes I knew—but he was tall, and the wiry muscle exposed by the flannel shirt rolled up his forearms told me he could probably hold his own when he needed to.
"I'm Callan, and this is April."
"Thanks for keeping things quiet in the sleigh that night," April said, shaking Wylie's hand.
"Of course. I know how it is," he said, the grin fading a bit to a smile that looked like it was probably his usual expression. "Hiding from the parents, were you?"
April laughed. "Something like that."
Wylie stood next to a tall counter made from whiskey barrels, and he leaned down now, resting on his forearms. "All right. Well, what can I do for you tonight? The bar's just through there," he pointed back the way we’d come. "But if you'd like a quick tour of the distillery first, we can do that too."
"We don't want to intrude," April said. "We can come back during regular tour hours." She was gazing up at a sign over Wylie's head that confirmed tours stopped after four P.M.
Wylie waved a hand at us, straightening back up. "Nah, that's for tourists. Come on. I'll show you around."
He walked us through a broad barn-style door and into the heart of the distillery, where several huge copper tanks stood with soaring copper columns and complicated tubing and connections running here and there to various other metal containers and machines. Against a far wall, sectioned off from the machinery by a glass wall, were two long rows of barrels.
"White oak," Wiley said, pointing to the barrels. "Best wood for aging whiskey and bourbon. And these beauties," he said, walking over and laying a hand on one of the huge copper stills, "are the heart of the operation."
"Why copper?" I asked.
"Most bourbon stills are either made from or lined with copper," Wylie said. "Makes for a better flavor. If you want the science," he said, pausing and lifting an eyebrow in question.
"Yeah," I encouraged.
"Copper reacts with the compounds that contain sulfur—the stuff that gives the liquor bad flavors we don't want. The distillation sends those bad flavors and odors up this long column," Wiley pointed up at the tall copper column. "And the alcohol comes out these tubes down into this container here." He patted a smaller silver container with a glass dial on the front. "That's the long and short of it. Most folks care most what it tastes like though, not how we make it."
"We care about both," April said, wrapping her hand through my elbow and pressing herself to my side. A little thrill went through me, both at the contact, and at April's use of the word "we," something I wouldn't have expected to make me so happy.
"Well, the exact distilling method is the secret sauce, so to speak," Wylie said, lowering his voice. "And my brother Wade would not be pleased if I gave away all the goods, so that's about all the 'how' I've got for you."
"Some of the whiskey here has been aging for decades," Wiley told us, walking us through a door and into the barrel room. He pointed down to the darkest end of the racks. "A couple of those have been down there since before Prohibition. Grandpa had them back in the woods and he just rolled them in here and said they needed more time. We're a little afraid to tap them."
"You've never tasted what's in there?" I asked.
"I didn't say that," Wylie said, grinning at us. "But it's a good story, eh?” he chuckled. “A lot of our whiskey is twelve to fifteen years in barrels. Bourbon not as long."
April was walking the length of the racks, craning her head up to get a look at the soaring stacks. I watched her wander down the row.
"You guys local?" Wylie asked me.
I nodded. "Well, I am. She's here for work."
Wylie made a clucking noise of understanding. "Long distance then, huh?"
"Well, we're not really a couple." At Wylie's confused look, I added. "It's new."
"Gotcha." Wylie clapped me on the back and April turned, coming back to join us.
"So what's the 'half-cat' all about?" she asked.
"You'll see," Wylie said, leading us back to the hallway through which we had entered. "So this hallway here is in Charles County, and the part that goes to the bar is in St. Mary's. Part of the distillery sits in Center, and part in Charles, and half the bar is in Center, while the other half is in St. Mary's. They drew the lines after the building was established."
"That's crazy," April laughed.
"What's crazy is that all three counties have different liquor laws," Wylie said, walking us into the bar. "So technically," he said, taking the shots the woman behind the bar had just set up at his subtle nod and handing them to us. "You cannot drink that here by the bar, ma'am." He pointed to a line on the floor, about three feet away from the bar itself. "You can stand over there and drink."
