But then…it was the reason Dyer’s Medallion was winning medals. The oils of the botanicals vaporized at different rates, with the citrus generally coming off first. Instead of hovering in the super dry end of gin that came from trying to get the best out of the orange while getting the worst out of the juniper due to distilling the lot together, Jake’s approach made sure the notes of all the botanicals were crisp and clear. The spirit became rounder, richer. The flavors, fresher. They rarely lost focus. It was the reason the brand had done so well. That, and Jake’s nose for botanicals. His latest additions, Vietnamese black peppercorns and Thai lemongrass, had been well worth the increased supply costs.
Interest in orders had increased since the Best in Class medal. There was no doubt in her mind that it was the volume they had been pushing hard for since the gin had hit the market that had killed their still. There was barely a moment to rest or service machines between batches. As a family-owned business, the distillery was operating more often than not on the weekends.
And while she knew everyone in the building was rooting for the volume, she needed to get more familiar with the financials of the company. Her father had held the purse strings ridiculously tight.
Emerson sighed. “I’ll go make a call to get a service engineer in, then I’ll take a better look at the financials. I started something on the plane the other day that I wanted to go over with you and Liv. Let me get to work.”
Jake glanced up at the mezzanine and their father’s office. Her office. “Good luck.”
Emerson walked through the distillery and looked toward the high, beamed roof as rain lashed against it. The old Denver millhouse was the perfect size and location, but boy, did it need renovation. It was the one thing she and her father had disagreed on. It needed investment. With the distillery as collateral, if needs be. They could invest in a more environmentally friendly production process by purchasing sustainable biomass boilers to power the distillations.
Perhaps now was the time to clean up her presentation for the bank. With a broken still and the threat of reduced production of a medal winner, perhaps the bank would help. Emerson sat down at her desk and opened her laptop.
They needed this last run of the day to go smoothly. She needed it to go smoothly so she could get ready for her date with Connor. The last thing she wanted was to cancel because, heck, it had been two years since her last serious boyfriend. Since then, there had been a few casual things here and there, but she actually wanted to spend time with Connor.
She had a thought and quickly dialed Jake. “Can we manage on the two stills this weekend?” she asked when he answered.
“Only if you want to cancel orders. We already had weekend runs planned for all three stills. Dyer’s Medallion is flying off the shelves, especially since that trade review last month. Add that to the usual Thanksgiving and Christmas sales bump, I was even hoping to try and get ahead.”
Emerson ran her fingers over her brow. “Can it wait until Monday at least? So we don’t have to pay them extra for a weekend callout.”
“Nice try, Em. But I think you know the answer to that. Can we take a chance and not run anything? Sure. But is it advisable? No.”
Emerson groaned. “I know. I guess I was just hoping for a different answer. I know how full the schedule is. Would you consider an option to distill some of the ingredients together to save time?”
“Emerson,” her brother said slowly. “We’ve had this discussion. It will affect the product and—”
“Okay. I get it. I was just thinking out loud with you. I’ll figure something out.”
She put her phone down and recalled her last conversation with her father.
“I’m sorry, Emerson. You made your point clear. I thought I’d made mine,” Paul said, folding his arms on the desk. “We need to manage. We need to see some of the returns from Dyer’s Medallion, give it a little bit longer than three months. What if it’s a flash in the pan? Plenty of good gins have peaked and then flopped. What if that’s what happens here, and then we’ve spent the insurance and still have no venue?”
“We might just win a medal at one of the most prestigious liquor festivals in the US. How much proof do you need? Dad, listen, if it flops, it’s because we can’t make enough.”
Emerson leaned forward, frustration bubbling in her chest. “We’ll be sensible. Not overextend. Although, if we did take out a loan at the same time, we could do a faster renovation . . . perhaps take a loan out over a longer term. We’d increase production immediately, there would be a significant bump in sales. Dad, we’re turning away orders.”
“And scarcity helps build—”
“Please don’t tell me scarcity drives interest and prices, Dad,” she begged. “We could have prices and volume. Enough businesses want the product. We even got an inquiry from a pub chain in the UK.”
“Emerson,” her dad said with a tone she was familiar with. Exasperation. He’d used it when she’d begged him for six months for a dog. He’d used it when she’d desperately wanted to go to Disneyland instead of camping in Yosemite. He’d used it when she’d insisted that the distillery should continue to be a family concern and hence she was skipping college. Skip, their golden lab, had been a loyal friend for ten years. Disneyland had been the trip of a lifetime. The diploma from her degree in economics hung in her office down the hallway. Two out of three was a good success rate, but she knew when
