Page 22 of All Snowed Gin

Stockbroker. That makes so much more sense. I knew he couldn’t be a gamer—he just doesn’t give off that vibe. That also explains how he could afford to build his grandparents such a nice house and then furnish it. Apparently Pierce is not hurting in that area of life.

“Gotcha. But wait—and forgive my ignorance here—but like, don’t you have to be, like, on Wall Street for that?”

“Yes and no. I used to be up in New York. Then I was in London. Then everything happened and I holed myself up here. I think it’s obvious by now I didn’t handle their deaths well. I handed in my resignation, but I’m rather good at what I do, so my bosses said I could work out of here.”

I nod, not sure how to respond. Pierce must sense this, not giving me time to flounder but taking my hands again and leading me back into the living room.

“Follow me.”

I do as I’m told, not letting go of his hand. It’s warm, comforting, and making my insides do a dance. If there was a way to stay like this forever, I think I might. He slows his pace as we reach a set of stairs, carefully descending one by one, until we’re in the basement. Thanks to a large set of doors, even this space feels light and airy, and not dank like the basement in the house I grew up in. Turning the corner, my eyes go wide.

A large table runs the length of the wall, a distinct, but telling setup laid out in front of me. Inhaling, my nostrils fill with a familiar scent that I’d know anywhere. Alcohol.

“Stills!” I exclaim. “And they’re copper, so it must be gin.”

“Wow,” Pierce says, taken aback. He looks at me quizzically, but the smile tugging at his lips tells me he’s intrigued. “That’s…impressive.”

“I work for a brewing company, remember?”

I can see the light go on for him. He nods. “Right, Southern Brothers.”

“Yup. All the brewing is done in Hickory Hills. Milo Hayes and his best friend, Brandt Rawlins, who run Southern Brothers together, actually went all the way to Colorado State University and got degrees in fermentation science and chemistry before starting it up. Officially it’s just beer that they brew. But everyone in town knows that Brandt messes with moonshine on the side.”

“So then this is not nearly as cool as I was hoping.”

Disappointment takes over Pierce’s expression, and he drops my hand. Oh shit. No. That is the last thing I want him to think. More than anything, I want to hear all about what he’s distilling. I have to save this.

“Sure it is! We don’t make gin. So all I know about it is that it requires copper pots and juniper berries.”

I walk over to the still, peering around each one, as if I have any idea what I am looking at. Truth be told, I don’t understand how the beer stuff works either, other than the basics that Milo tells me. All that matters to me is that the end result is yummy, making it easy to sell.

“There’s a little more to it than that,” he assures me.

“Then I want to hear all about it. And why gin.”

“That’s easy. Gramps. He loved a good ‘Gin Mule,’ as he called them. Which was basically a Moscow Mule with gin instead of vodka. When he retired a few years back, he needed something to do to keep him out from under Gram’s feet. So, he decided to learn how to make his own. He used to call and tell me all about it and the different things he was trying. When I’d come to visit, we’d spend hours playing around with it.”

“Awww, I love that.”

“He was a great man. I miss him. But, when I’m down here, with the stills, sometimes I think I can feel him with me.”

I turn to face Pierce, my heart ready to explode. “I have no doubt that he’s with you. Especially down here.”

“Thanks.”

“What do you do with it?”

“Drink it, mostly. I share sometimes with my buddy Lou. Sent a bunch to coworkers for Christmas.”

“So you have some we can try? This Gin Mule thing sounds fun.”

“Sure, if you wanna grab a bottle, there’s a wine cellar on the other side of that sliding door,” he says, pointing to a large, dark brown barn door to my right. I open the door with a heave, stepping into the dark room. “Just be careful of the—”

“Ahh!”

Pierce doesn’t get to finish his sentence. I find exactly what I’m supposed to watch out for soon enough, tripping over something on the floor and into what feels like a large bucket, filled with…I don’t even know. It’s cold, sticky, and wet. And all over me. At least I assume it is, because I can’t see a thing, thanks to the darkness of the room.

Rushing over, Pierce holds up his phone, flashlight turned on. I look down, finding the vat of smashed blue-ish berries turned on its side, the contents strewn around me and, as I thought, on me. Well, I found the juniper berries. And by the looks and smell of them, the used ones.