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Chapter Two
“We’re almost there,” Britta called out, pointing at the sign we passed on the road.
Hirschheim. Population 780.
“Nothing like a small town, eh?” I nudged Britta. “What you want to bet we’ll know everyone within a month?”
She chuckled to herself. “I plan to learn everyone’s name in a week.” She scratched her chin and looked upward, as if pondering the world’s problems. “Would they have a printer store here for my joke book?”
“I’m sure they will. If not, we’ll buy a printer online.” We’d just gained a huge inheritance, and we could afford to splurge once in a while for the first time.
During our previous moves, Britta had cried for a week straight and hidden in her room on moving day. But this time, she’d dragged me out of the apartment. She’d been ready to leave. We both had been. About time something good came our way.
I turned up the volume on the upbeat song in German playing on the car radio, along with the heat to keep us warm. We followed the curved road lined with snow-covered pines, and farther ahead a town came into view. The trees thinned out, giving way for the array of multi-storied wooden houses stretching outward like branches. The land sloped upward, and homes peppered the hill, narrow-winding streets weaving between the buildings. There were no blues or pinks or oranges. Just timber and whites amid the greenery.
“Wow!” Britta said.
I let myself fall under the hypnotic spell of the fairytale we’d entered. More hills surrounded the valley. Was this where we’d be living? In a fantasy world that could pass for Santa’s village? Smoke billowed from most of the chimneys. Wooden planks with fancy cravings covered most windows. We drove down the main road, which was bustling with people. Narrow streets zigzagged in every direction. Quaint storefronts that belonged in a movie slowly replaced the Tudor-style homes. Christmas decorations covered the windows. Some places were rickety shacks; others made of brick. We passed a huge stone church. The smells of baking and overripe fruit reached us. Words I couldn’t understand covered signs and windows. Tourists came to locations like this, yet we got that rare opportunity to live here, and I couldn’t stop smiling. It was perfect.
“The estate agent said to turn left on Schnee Street,” I mumbled to myself, scanning the signs we passed. Britta wasn’t listening. She looked outside, her hands splayed out on the glass, her breath fogging up the window. The last time I’d seen her this excited had been last Halloween when we’d gone pumpkin picking. We’d saved up money for the trip, and she’d spent hours selecting just the right one for carving.
Now if we could maintain this level of joy, that alone would have made this move worthwhile. Maybe we should have relocated to a small town earlier. Sure, I’d left my home and a friend behind, but in all honesty, my job had sucked, and I’d barely made ends meet. Little had kept me in California, and my sister was all I had left in the world. I’d needed this change as much as she had.
I spotted Schnee on the street sign and turned left. Cottage-style homes replaced shopfronts. The picturesque setting and roads perfectly shoveled clean of snow welcomed us. The sky rolled with clouds in hundreds of grays from deep to pale as if they were putting on a show for our arrival. And it was working because butterflies somersaulted in my gut as reality settled in. We were moving here. Hirschheim was our new home!
So why had my uncle lived all the way out here? And had never tried to find Britta and me? Had never tried to be a family with us?
We followed the winding road that curled along the base of the hill towering over us. The houses fell behind us and now we traveled past open land and skeletal oaks.
“Did we drive past it?” Britta asked.
I shook my head. “The lawyer said the house and distillery building were at the end of the street, and we couldn’t miss them.”
Several minutes later, we curved around a bend where an enormous house rose before us. It was a two-story, modern home, unlike the rest of the buildings in this town, all straight lines, a flat roof, and boxy with floor-to-ceiling windows. Iron gates made of twisted rods lay shut in front of the property. Just as the lawyer had advised. My stomach turned over. This belonged to Britta and me? Maybe I’d made a mistake and turned down the wrong street? A sign sat on the cobblestone wall surrounding the land, depicting a golden deer’s head.
The Holler Distillery.
“Hey, that’s our surname!” Britta called out.
An excitement buzzed through me. “Yep, it’s our family.” We stared toward the house beyond the driveway, as if this were a royal estate. On a normal day, if I visited this place, I’d leave at once, convinced I’d be turned away.
“Think this is us.” I drove closer to the gate and parked, then climbed out into a frigid cold and tugged the coat around my neck. The chill crept into my bones, and I trembled. I’d never experienced such an iciness before. Hurrying to the gate, I scooped out the keys from my pocket, and stared at the oversized gate with no bolt. Upon closer inspection, I found a slim keyhole and slid the best-fitting key inside and turned.
A little jingling bell sounded, followed by the grunting of a motor. I pulled out the key, and the gates groaned open, sliding sideways, and vanishing into the stone fence on either side.
Beyond lay an endless land, dotted with trees and shrubs. Snowcapped mountains stood guard around the property. Large wooden casks sat in the snow in front of the home, with “Holler Distillery” printed on them. When I eyed the driveway that curled around the house, it led to a warehouse-style building farther still. The distillery. Trickles of panic slithered through me. What did I know about making whiskey? I worked at a pub and served the delicious drinks all the time but making it from scratch? Never. The lawyer had explained that my uncle, Leon, had a team of workers who ran the whole business. Still, I’d have to get familiar with how everything operated. And worrying wouldn’t help, even if I felt out of my league and feared someone would soon discover how incompetent I was. Hell, I hadn’t even finished high school, so I’d be a laughingstock.
I headed back to the car, where I spotted the side of the car scratched to high hell, the back paneling buckled. Hell! The lawyer had said the car rental was covered, so I hoped that meant any premiums for the insurance for the damage.
Britta was gripping the dashboard, looking outside, her smile contagious. Yep, I’d make this work no matter what.Fake it till you make ithad been my motto in life so far. So I drove us onto the estate.
Before long, Britta and I stood in front of the grand wooden doors of the house, our bags at my feet. Everything we owned was inside—clothes and a few books. After all this time, I’d learned to travel light and not accumulate anything but the essentials.
If my uncle’s distillery made the money the lawyer had insisted, then I wouldn’t need to work or move again. If it didn’t, the house was paid off, so I’d get a job somewhere washing dishes. We had shelter, yet I’d never even owned a car in my life. Now I had this whole distillery.
“What are we waiting for?” Britta rubbed the cold out of her arms.
I unlocked the door and pushed it open. The hinges whispered a groan, as if the house welcomed us inside. We entered an oversized hall, and the cold had leached inside. White walls and the tanned beams overhead stretched into the adjacent rooms. To our right stood a simple staircase, running up against the wall with a deep wooden railing curling upward and over our heads to the next level. Simple light fixtures hung from the ceiling—bell-shaped domes. I had expected a chandelier, though nothing in this house was extravagant. More elegant and livable.
