The distillery gates had been thrown wide. People packed the space from road to stage, and everything smelled of sweat and yeast and anticipation.

Children with chocolate-smeared faces ran through the crowds, carrying old pickle jars filled with fireflies. Teens poured bourbon into empty soda bottles when their parents weren’t looking and slunk away behind the tents and booths to drink. Older women in elaborate hats waved paper fans to fight the summer heat while their husbands, dressed in thin, light-colored blazers, cast offended looks at all the twenty-somethings in their too-short denim and loose shirts.

A section to the right of the stage had been roped off and covered with an open-air tent and a sign labeling it the VIP area. They found Clem and Taylor waiting for them there, along with Sylvia.

Kaden’s stomach twisted at the sight of his mother. Maybe one day, with enough therapy, he’d be able to disassociate her from his father’s abuse. For now, he had to remind himself that she was a victim, too. And, whether he liked it or not, she was family.

Sylvia wrapped her thin arms around him, forcing him to drop his grip on Irene. Then she pulled back, clasping his shoulders.

“You look much better than you did at the funeral,” she said.

He took a steadying breath. “I showered this morning,” he said.

Clem snorted behind her hand, and Taylor cleared her throat.

“Not that it will do you much good in this heat.” Sylvia waved a paper fan emblazoned with the Bonner’s logo. To Addison and Irene she said, “I’m so glad the two of you made it. Maura not feeling well?”

“She’s well enough,” Irene said. She looked like she was trying not to bite his mother.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Sylvia said. “You know, it means so much to see the two of you here. None of this”—she gestured around her—“would’ve been possible without your garden. It really is something.”

“If you invited us here to blame us for the other night—” Irene started.

“No, no, not at all,” Sylvia said.

Taylor and Clem quietly backed away from them.

“It’s just, there’s something wrong with the corn. The plants aren’t yielding like they used to, and the past few months the white dog has been off—weaker. The nostalgia doesn’t really settle into the bourbon until it’s been in the barrels for a while. I’m afraid for what it will all mean once it’s ready to be bottled,” Sylvia said.

Irene crossed her arms. Kaden rested a hand on the small of her back, and she leaned into his touch.

“With the increase in demand, Nate’s had our farmers using every bit of that field since this spring. We used to rotate planting, to give different parts of the soil a chance to recover, but that just wasn’t an option this year.”