Undeniable (Cloverleigh Farms #2)(22)

“You sailing a lot?” I asked him.

“A fair amount. I’m a volunteer instructor at a sailing school.” He pushed his tortoise Ray Bans up his nose.

“You volunteer?”

He shrugged. “It’s part of a summer program for underprivileged kids. My mom roped me into doing it years ago, but I ended up enjoying it.”

“Oh yeah, I vaguely remember you telling me about that. Do you still have your own boat?”

He shook his head. “I did for a while, but I sold it to a friend in Chicago a few years back. I sometimes sail to Mackinac with him.”

The mention of Chicago jarred me a little, and I looked across the deep blue water of Lake Michigan for a minute, away from Oliver. Were we ever going to talk about what had happened there? Did I want to? Would there be any point? For years, I’d convinced myself I didn’t need any closure where he was concerned. But maybe I was wrong.

The ferry captain’s voice came over the loudspeaker, welcoming us on board, letting us know someone would be coming around to collect our tickets, and telling us the ride would take about an hour and a half.

“An hour and a half,” I said, poking Oliver in the leg. “Plenty of time for you to tell me a story.”

He exhaled as if I was a big pain in the ass. “Okay, fine. But you shouldn’t be so impatient. That’s not going to serve you well in the whiskey business, you know. Aging takes time. You can’t rush things.”

“Thank you, I know. I’ve done my research, too. Now tell me a story, and it better explain what I’m doing on this boat, headed for an island in the middle of Lake Michigan where I will be forced to share a tent with you tonight.”

“It will.”

“Good.” I stretched out a little, crossing my legs at the ankles and my arms over my chest, tilting my face toward the sun. “Okay, start.”

“The story starts one hundred years ago with a brave and determined young Russian named Jacob Feldmann. He’d grown up on his family’s farm, but times were tough. Facing widespread poverty, religious persecution, and starvation, he decided to take his chances in a faraway land—America.”

I smiled at his dramatic delivery. “Go on.”

“Like so many of his countryman, Jacob sets out on foot, bound for a port city in the east so he can sail across the ocean and make a better life for himself. And tucked inside one of his pockets is the key to his version of the American dream.”

“Magic beans?” I guessed.

“Something better. Magic seeds.”

“What kind of seeds?”

“Rye,” Oliver said emphatically. “But not just any rye—this was an unknown variety that had only been grown on his family’s land in Russia for generations. It had a big, earthy flavor that brought bread—and whiskey—to life. ”

I sat up a little taller in my seat.

“Now, he only has a handful of seeds—less than a handful, actually—but Jacob is confident. He makes his way west from New York City to Michigan and plants it. He chooses the state because he believes the climate and soil are similar to Russia’s.”

“Fucking cold nine months of the year?”

Oliver pointed at me. “Right. And it works—Jacob’s rye spreads beautifully to nearly a million acres. People start growing it in Pennsylvania and Ohio, and as promised, it makes a delicious, flavorful whiskey. Jacob prospers.”

“I feel like something is about to go wrong.”

He tapped my nose. “Bingo. Two things go wrong, actually. First, it turns out that Jacob Feldmann’s Russian rye is a finicky little princess. It can’t stand mixing. The moment foreign pollen is introduced, the rye starts to lose all its distinctive flavor characteristics.”

I gasped. “No.”

“Within ten years, only five percent of the crop was fit for sale. But Jacob didn’t give up—he knew all he needed was to find a place where it would be possible to grow only pure Feldmann rye without any intruders. But while he’s searching for the right spot, the Eighteenth Amendment passes, and the whiskey industry dies.”

“Damn you, Prohibition.” I shook my fist.

“This means lower demand, and lower demand means farmers need to find other crops to grow. Rye falls out of favor. Jacob can’t find anyone in a suitably isolated environment willing to take a chance on growing his seed.”

“There’s a joke in there somewhere,” I snicker.

Oliver nudged my leg with his. “Keep your mind out of the gutter, Sawyer.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“Now right about this time, something fortuitous happens.”

“What?”

“Jacob …” Oliver paused dramatically. “Falls in love.”

“Oooooh!” I clapped my hands and wiggled in my seat. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Rebecca Hofstadt, and she’s the daughter of a South Manitou island woodsman, a German immigrant named George. She grew up on the island, but left after the eighth grade so she could attend high school on the mainland. Later, she becomes a schoolteacher and returns to the island to take charge of the one-room schoolhouse there.”

“Interesting,” I said. “So how do they meet?”

“One summer afternoon, Jacob sees Rebecca walking along the Fishtown docks in Leland. She came often during the warmer months to stock up on supplies you couldn’t get on the island during the winter when the boats aren’t running. Well, the story goes Jacob takes one look at the beautiful Rebecca and falls to his knees in the street. He’s never seen such a heavenly creature in all his life. As he watches her make her way along the boards, he hears the voice of God in his head saying, Marry that girl, Jacob Feldmann. She is your destiny.”