“I can’t do this,” Kaden whispered to his brother. “I don’t have anything good to say about him.”

“Then lie,” Nate whispered back.

When Kaden reached the front of the room, his eyes went to the giant portrait of his father, which had been set up on an easel at the center of the stage. Kaden recognized it from the distillery’s main office. Christian may not have had any real hand in making the bourbon, but it had hung there as long as Kaden could remember. He doubted it would ever find its way back to that place.

Sylvia greeted Kaden with a cold hug, then took his hand and pulled him up the stairs to the stage. Nate started to follow, but Sylvia shook her head and he stepped back, his lips pressed in a flat line of annoyance. Sylvia stepped up to the microphone and forced one of the bourbon and rosemary cocktails into his hands. “Go ahead,” she urged. “Make a toast.”

He stared down at the drink, then up at his mother.

“My father,” he started, paused, tried to find the right words when he realized how hilarious all of this was, “is dead.”

A small laugh escaped the otherwise silent crowd, and people turned toward the source. At the back of the room, where the Haywoods had gathered, Clem had her hands over her face and had started coughing. Taylor ducked her head.

Irene bit her lip when Kaden’s eyes met hers. Kaden bit his own in response, sure any second he would start laughing. Already he could feel it rising up from his belly.

He cleared his throat.

“You already know that,” he said. “Obviously you know that. You’re all here to… recognize him.” He gestured to his side where his father stared out at them from that portrait. He gripped the podium tighter, tried to keep the laughter down. “I’m Kaden, by the way. I know none of you—” He cut himself short as his mother cleared her throat behind him. “I mean… it’s been a while. You, uh, may not remember me well. But Christian Durant is dead. So, here I am.”

Again, Clem’s laugh-coughing started up, and now Taylor joined her, and it was the funniest thing Kaden had ever seen. He grinned and held a hand over his mouth to hide it.

He held up his drink to the crowd. “To Christian Durant.”

They raised their glasses. They sipped.

“My father,” he said, his laughter bubbling up. He clenched his teeth and ground out, “What a man.”

He couldn’t keep it in any longer. His stomach rumbled with it and he thought, what was the worst that could happen from laughing at his father’s funeral? He opened his mouth.

And he puked all over the stage.

Chapter 18

Addison