Ernie nodded. “Make something illegal, and everyone will want it. It’s unfortunate that regular folks just trying to make a living are treated like criminals.”
Adele looked at him, thoughtful. Fred and Marie had preached that alcohol was at the root of all evil, but since crime had only increased in the past couple of years, it really did seem that the prohibition of liquor was causing more trouble than the drink itself.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Ernie asked.
“I was just wondering what my sister would say if she knew I was having a meal with a rumrunner. She’s quite an avid member of the temperance movement.”
“But you’re different,” he said, watching her closely. “A war nurse such as yourself isn’t afraid of a little booze.”
“No, I suppose not,” she said, emboldened.
At Ernie’s request, the waiter brought each of them a slice of pineappleupside-down cake—Adele’s first taste of the decadent delight—then Ernie smoothly turned the conversation in a different direction.
At the end of the evening, he escorted her to her car and opened her door. “Thank you for agreeing to have dinner with me tonight. I apologize for the spur of the moment invitation, but I’ve really enjoyed your company. Truly. It’s been a pleasure.”
“It has been. Thank you, Ernie.”
He helped her into the car and closed the door gently behind her. “Would you consider joining me for dinner again, perhaps on Friday night?”
She looked up at his face, admiring how his chocolate eyes glinted with gold under the streetlamp. “I would like that very much.”
“Until then,” he said, smiling.
As she drove away, she glanced back over her shoulder at the tall, sturdy man still standing in the middle of the street. It had been a long time since she had connected so quickly with anyone. Especially a man. Not since Jerry Bailey, she realized. Ernie might not have shared her wartime experience, but he had suffered his own losses and come out the other side, just as she had, and she was looking forward to seeing him again. She didn’t know what lay ahead, but her heart warmed at the thought that she might not have to travel that road alone.
thirteenJERRY
Jerry stepped back from the stack of whisky cases he’d piled against the wall, rotating his shoulders to ease his muscles. He’d arrived early that morning, sleeves rolled up, hoping to finish his inventory count before anyone else arrived. A new shipment would arrive from the still tomorrow, and he needed everything in the warehouse counted ahead of time. Too many people in the same place, all of them talking at once, made it more difficult to concentrate. Fortunately, everyone else seemed to have slept in, so Jerry was able to work in peace.
Life sure had changed for John and him since their toast over a year ago. From their first shipment across the water to their full list of buyers on both sides of the river, Bailey Brothers’ Best was doing a fine business indeed. Expenses were down, profits were up, and everybody knew their name. The stills were working overtime, and he’d hired more men, almost all of whom were fresh back from the war and needing a practical way out of the past. Their whisky was washing past a great many lips, smooth and bold and exactly what people wanted. Sure, he and John were breaking a law or two, as far as Prohibition went, but they were filling pockets and helping men, and so far, they had steered clear of any kind of violence.
The brothers made a good team. Jerry oversaw production, arranged contracts, and balanced finances while John managed the rumrunners and smuggling logistics. Their roles played to their strengths, and their natural partnership made it all run smoothly. But Jerry thought John seemed a little distracted of late, and he’d noticed empty bottles had begun to pile up around the house. He didn’t like the look of John’s cracked knuckles or the dark circles under his eyes. He’d seen it before. While Jerry turned to the irrefutable, dependable accuracy of the numbers in his ledgers for escape from the past, John sought it in alcohol. Jerry understood that. It was easy to drink away the memories, even if it was just for a little while. But John wasn’t good at putting the cork back in the bottle, and all the booze did was stoke his temper. Jerry stepped in when he could, diffusing situations, but he had started to worry that the day might come when he wouldn’t be there to hold John back from a fight he couldn’t win.
A few nights ago, he’d talked John into staying home for supper for a change. He fried up some fish and tried to be subtle about placing a cup of coffee in front of them both. John had eyed his cup, but when Jerry made no comment, he didn’t either. Over their dinner of fried fish, they talked about business, rumours, friends, and memories of anything that did not involve the war, and eventually, Jerry asked about John’s scraped hands.
“It’s nothing,” John told him, dismissing the questions. “We had a bit of a tussle at poker the other night.”
“You’re sure? You’re doing all right, then?”
“Never been better. In fact, I’m thinking about getting a new car,” John said, tipping back his whisky.
“You wanna show off for that new gal,” Jerry acknowledged, letting his concerns go. There was no point in having an argument over this. Not unless it got worse. “What’s it been? Two whole weeks this time?”
“Yeah,” John replied, oblivious to Jerry’s teasing. “Betty. She’s the one, I’m telling you.”
“She’s a peach,” Jerry agreed.
The only things as prevalent as roadhouses in Windsor were cathouses. On some streets the two businesses practically alternated, so a man in that frame of mind could go for a whisky, put money on the horses, visit a girl, then move directly onto the next drink. John was drawn to all the vices. His was the laugh heard over the crowd, the hand that poured drinks, and the heart that fell in love—over and over again.
“Hélène’s from Quebec,” he’d told Jerry one day as they were bottling. “Eighteen. Prettiest little thing, with those big brown eyes…” The following week it was, “How haven’t I noticed Suzette before?”
“Who?” Jerry asked.
“Suzette. With the long red hair and the… well, you know.”
Now it was Betty.
“When are you going to get back in the game, Jerry?” John asked.
