Page 41 of Tennessee Trouble

“I’ve never had a girl pick me up for a date before,” I comment, climbing into Lindee’s Jeep.

From the driver’s seat, she looks over at me, her beautiful, mischievous smile already firmly in place.

“And you still haven’t. This isn’t a date.”

Oh, really…

“Then what is it?”

She didn’t seem to balk last night when I used the word date, so I’m curious as to what changed overnight.

“Just two people hanging out. One enlightening the other on the history of the greatest whiskey ever.”

Wow…now that’s a bold statement. One that I bet brands all over the world would argue with. Including another major brand right here in Tennessee. I let her have it though, not willing to open that can of worms.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, Luna.”

Her fake name slips out before I can correct myself. Nerves grate at my skin, worried that calling her by the moniker we hid behind is going to open a wound. Our night together seems like forever ago, rather than only a couple of days, the whirlwind of emotions and realization we’ve been through since stretching out time.

Amusement tugs at the corner of her smile, drawing it out even more, telling me how much she liked it. The nerves ease, turning to some fluttering feeling seeping into my skin, as I file away that information.

Letting out a small laugh, Lindee turns onto the main road in town. The sidewalks are crowded with people pouring in and out of the shops and restaurants. In some ways it reminds me of downtown Hickory Hills, only with more of a tourist vibe. My small town back in Georgia gets its fair share of visitors during certain times of the year for special events, but nothing like this. Tourism is a full-time industry here.

“This is High Street, named for Terrance High, who was—allegedly—the first to find gold in these hills.”

“Allegedly?”

Lindee nods. “It’s now widely debated on whether or not what he really found was gold or something else. Trouble Town was never known for gold, but for a number of other metals that were desirable at the time. But his discovery was enough to catch the attention of mining companies and earn him naming rights to the main road through town.”

We stop at a light, watching as people pile into the crosswalk. The semi-organized chaos is a sight, as some rush across the street, almost knocking others over, while some take their time, seemingly in no rush whatsoever. Apparently they think the world will wait on them.

“High Street is a major attraction for people staying in town or up at Smoky Spruce Lodge. We have all the touristy things you could want, like a place to mine for gems and mini golf, plus a bunch of bars and restaurants. After all, we are the home of a distillery.”

“Of course.” I look over at Lindee, soaking her in. The pride she takes in her town is rolling off her in waves, making her even cuter than before. I need to find a way to keep her talking. “Any places of note?”

“The Hidden Barrel and the Secluded Still are probably the best two pub type restaurants. Final Cask, which is the more upscale eatery, is also really good but is pricey. I suggest avoiding Roscoe’s; everything there is always overcooked.”

“Good to know.”

The light turns green, and we pass an old brick building with a large mural painted on the side. The scene is idyllic and charming, with soft blues and greens mixed in with the depictions of different historical characters, some of whom I assume are Lindee’s ancestors. A long bar sits in the forefront of the image, with patrons throughout the decades, starting in what I would guess is the late 1800s up until something more recent. The old church is in the background, along with whiskey barrels, a copper still, an old-fashioned railcar, and an old mine entrance. It’s a beautiful piece of art, stealing your attention and transporting you into the moment.

“That building, with the mural on the side, is Mama Marguerite’s Come On Inn, the local B&B. Charlene Madera, who everyone just called Tutu, owned it for forever, but she died last month, so the future of it is a bit unknown. It was originally the town brothel.”

“Seriously?”

Lindee nods, giggling. “Can’t make it up. Official documents state that it was a saloon and entertainment establishment, but everyone knows the truth. It was owned by a woman named Marguerite Buffington, who was also the mistress of Charles Underwood, the head of the mining company.”

“Well, if that isn’t scandalous, I don’t know what is.”

Lindee throws her head back, laughing at my playful tone. The sound bounces off the inside of her Jeep, lighting me up like a pinball machine. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, the zing shooting down my spine making me tingle all over. I want more of that laugh. I want to bottle it and keep it with me at all times, so I can take a hit of it whenever I need.

“Oh, I left out the good part! He died in her bed. And then,” she continues, upping the gossip in her own voice, “he left her everything.”

“Well…damn.”

“Marguerite wasn’t a spiteful woman though, so she teamed up with his widow and the two went into business together, buying the building and turning it into a lodging house. When they passed, Mrs. Underwood’s children did away with the…ummm, extracurriculars, if you will, and turned it into an inn. Tutu was the last of the descendants.”

“And here I thought coming from a town that supplied the Confederate army with rifles was colorful.”