Bourbon Nights (The Barrel House Series Book 3)

by Shari J. Ryan

  I’m sure the call won’t connect, but I answer anyway. “Hey,” I say, rechecking the signal as I walk closer to the stairwell. There isn’t even a sound on the other end. I’m not sure he can hear me. “Give me a minute, and I’ll call you right back. I’m just leaving the distillery. There’s no service down here.” I disconnect the call and find the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. During the long minute I take to get out of the cement structure, I consider what reason Pops would have for calling me while knowing I’m at his vendor meeting. This meeting could have been much longer, but luckily, they were ready to sign when I walked in the door.

  As I reach my rental car, I call Pops back. “Hey kid,” he answers after the first ring.

  “Everything okay?” I hear a sigh, then he clears his throat. The expressive sounds tell me something is wrong. “Is Parker okay?” I ask with immediate panic.

  “Yeah, yeah, she’s fine, Brett,” he says, sounding frustrated.

  “What’s going on then?”

  I slip into the car, switching the phone from my left hand to my right so I can close the door and turn on the ignition. “It’s Harold,” Pops says.

  “Harold Quinn?” I question. I just saw him two days ago when I brought him a shipment of barrels to The Barrel House.

  “Yeah,” Pops continues.

  “What’s wrong?”

  There’s a long string of silence and my thoughts are everywhere. “Stage four cancer,” Pops utters. “It came back. He waited too long and—”

  My heart thuds in my chest at the sound of Pops choking up. “Jesus.” I scratch my fingernails along the side of my cheek. The last time a doctor diagnosed Harold, I was overseas on a deployment and had no clue what was going on until I got home.

  “I’m so sorry, Pops. What can I do?”

  I don’t remember seeing Pops cry more than twice throughout my lifetime. One was when Grams died and the other was when Pop-Pop died. Aside from that, Pops is a man of few emotions. His end of the phone sounds muffled, but I hear heavy breaths. I’m not sure how to console him. I think I forgot how to trigger that simple human function over the last ten years. All I can do is remain quiet and listen.

  “I need you to get on a flight in the morning,” Pops belts out. “I know you aren’t supposed to leave until tomorrow night, but Harold needs help in the shop and you’re the only one who knows how to run the place as good as he does.”

  I’m not sure when it became second nature to run the shop or those machines, but something clicked the first time Harold showed me the ropes, and I took an appreciation for his passion of distilling bourbon.

  “What about his daughters?” I can’t imagine what they’re going through right now. Plus, if they’re at the shop trying to help Harold, I’m not sure they’d appreciate me being there and stepping on their toes.

  “Brett, you know neither of his daughters are versed with the mechanics of the distillery machines.” I didn’t know this because I haven’t spoken to Melody or Journey in about a decade, but I’ll take his word. “Journey is at Harold’s side, helping Marion out, but Melody has been living in South Carolina. I guess she’s heading home tomorrow too.”

  Melody is living here, in South Carolina. I heard she had moved away to live with her husband or something, but I didn’t realize it was here of all places.

  “How are the girls taking this?” I haven’t referred to them as “the girls” since we were kids, but it comes out naturally.

  “From what Harold told me, Melody isn’t doing well, and Journey is quietly digesting everything.” I don’t feel like I ever knew them as well as I should have considering how close our dads are, but Journey was always the quiet, moody one, and Melody was like a ray of sunshine; always smiling, giggling, and walking into things. She was also shy and sensitive, unlike her sister.

  They’re as opposite as Brody and I are. Although, we aren’t so different now, I guess.

  “I’ll get my flight switched and I’ll be home as soon as I can tomorrow. How long do you think he has?” I realize my question is forward for the state Pops is in, but I can’t take it back now.

  He pulls in a heavy breath and slowly releases the air before responding. “I don’t know, son. He doesn’t know. ‘Could be soon,’ is all he said to me.”

  “I get it,” I say. “Hey, Pops. I’m sorry to bring this up, but can you make sure Parker doesn’t get wind of this?”

  “Brett. Come on. You know we wouldn’t say anything. I just—I needed to tell you what’s going on, okay?’

  “Of course.”

  “All right, well, let me know what flight you get onto.”

  “Will do. I’ll see tomorrow, Pops.”

  “Love you, son.”

  “Love you too.”

  The only available flight out of Charleston is at six in the morning. Someone should inform the airlines that not everyone is capable of basic human functions at four a.m. I’m sure I looked like a drunk driver for the first two miles after leaving the hotel, but the breakdown lane bumps alerted me enough to stay in one lane until reaching the car-rental drop-off location at the airport.

  After running through the terminal and somehow getting through security in record time, I somehow arrive at the gate with five minutes to spare. This is a close call. The flight attendants are already pushing two wheelchairs through the doors of the gate. I’ve been so focused on the fact that I’m almost late, I crash into a woman’s carry-on bag.

  The woman jumps from the surprise jolt, clutching her hand against her chest as her long, auburn barrel curls bounce over her shoulders. How would anyone have time to make their hair look so perfect this early in the day?

  “Pardon me,” I say, placing my hands up. “I didn’t think I was going to make it to the gate on time.” Because it’s a brilliant excuse for crashing into you while you’ve been standing here waiting. I sound like a moron.

  “No problem. At least you made it, right?” She glances up at me for only a second; just long enough to respond to my apology. Her grass-green eyes pierce through me in the one quick instant. I know her. Why is she so familiar?

  “I wasn’t expecting the miserable traffic in the city today,” I say, continuing the conversation for no reason other than hoping she looks up at me again.

  The last time I’ve seen a woman with so many freckles was my senior year of high school, but the chances of this woman being Melody Quinn is slim, so I’ll have to chalk her up to a doppelgänger. Although, maybe the idea isn’t so ironic considering Pops said she is flying home from South Carolina today too. It would still be a crazy coincidence, I think. Plus, it’s been ten years and that’s a long time to go without seeing someone, then immediately recognizing them.

  Maybe it’s not her.

  I may never know since they call her zone before mine and she makes her way onto the plane without a second glance.

  A flight attendant announces my zone next, and I make my way through the gate and down the thin aisle between the rows, finding my assigned seat to be ironically—okay … not so much irony anymore … next to the woman I crashed into in front of the gate.

  “What are the odds, huh?” I ask, tossing my bag into the overhead compartment. “I always wondered how the airlines decide on zone numbers. You would think we would be in the same zone if we’re sharing a row, right?” I sound like I’m out of breath from lifting a ten-pound bag over my head. Nice.

  “It would make sense,” she says. The unsureness in her voice makes it clear she isn’t up for chit chat. Melody Quinn used to talk so much, we had to tell her to take a breath. It can’t be the same person. Plus, I’m sure she’d recognize me if we knew each other. She’d make some kind of expression that told me so, but she didn’t in the airport, and she doesn’t when she spots me taking the empty seat beside her.

  I think I’ve stared at her long enough that she’s likely labeling me as a creep, but I need to know if I’m seeing things.

  I strike up a conversation with Mel
ody’s doppelgänger by commenting on her apparent apprehension for flying as she studies the emergency landing card.

  “We won’t crash,” I tell her.

  Her gaze floats to mine again and I’m jarred by the stark contrast between her dark lashes and light-colored eyes. The Melody I used to know never wore makeup, so I don’t know what her features would look like with dark enhancements against her lighter features. “I wasn’t thinking we might crash,” she says with a raised brow. “But thank you for the reassurance.”

  I could ask for her name, but it’s a little soon and a bit forward. Plus, she’s deliberately ignoring me, which seems like the Melody I once knew. Her knee bounces furiously as her pink painted fingernails drum against the armrest. Maybe flying isn’t her thing. Flying wasn’t my thing either until they forced me into a helicopter, sans doors. There I sat with my legs dangling off the side while strangling the weapon in my hands. This flight is luxurious in comparison.

  “You seem stressed out. That’s all,” I respond with regard to watching her read the instruction manual on how to use the oxygen masks that would fall from the ceiling panel in the case of an emergency.

  “I am very stressed, but not because I’m flying,” she replies. Her response is short and pointed, highlighting her disinterest to chat. It’s time to stop prying into a stranger’s life. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume.”

  “No Worries.”

  I pull my phone out of my pocket with hope of distracting myself from the aftermath of the assumptions I attacked this poor girl with. I’ll mind my business and we can both go back to our normal lives at the end of the flight. No harm done.

  “I didn’t think anyone still used Twitter,” she mutters under her breath.

  She’s good. I didn’t even notice her look over at what’s on my phone, nor did I realize I was scrolling through Twitter. I don’t think I’ve been on this app in months. Why does she care what I’m doing on my phone? Maybe she wants to keep talking. That must be the reason. I’m not sure if I am at strike one or two yet with her, but I open my mouth once again.

  “We will never see each other again after this flight, so tell me why you’re stressed out. I’m not one of those people who can digest a statement like that and pretend like it wasn’t said. I realize we don’t know each other, but sometimes a stranger is the best person to talk to, right?” Or do we know each other, and that’s why you’re continuing this conversation?

  The woman replaces the emergency landing card back inside the pocket of the seat in front of her and rests her head back to stare out the window at the tarmac, taking a moment to pause before looking back at me. “First, tell me why your hands were shaking when you arrived at the gate?” she asks.

  I think back for a minute, trying to remember why my hands would have been shaking. I don’t think I realized they were, but if so, it was likely because I thought I would miss my flight. Well, I suppose the call from Pops sent me through a loop too. Or maybe, too much caffeine. That must have been it.

  “I had a rough night,” I say, fibbing a bit. It was a bad night after Pops’ call, but I don’t want to tell her I was shaking from coffee when she’s obviously distraught about something.

  “Going home or visiting?” she continues with the questions.

  “Going home,” I respond. “You?”

  My response seems to make her think about the answer as if she hadn’t already decided. “As of twenty minutes ago, I’m going home.”

  Twenty minutes? What could have happened in the last twenty minutes to be so influential in changing a permanent destination? Now, I want to know.

  “What’s your name?” It’s a proper time to ask, far less creepy than it would have been if I asked five minutes ago. I think.

  “Let’s not …” she says, taking her headphones out of her bag.

  I should have figured. I just need to know if you’re Melody Quinn, but I’m going to sit here and keep wondering for the rest of the flight, and possibly after the flight too. Unless, maybe she recognizes me and would rather not start up the awkward catch-up conversation. I can’t imagine what a conversation like that would sound like after sharing a kiss, then never speaking again.

  Hey, so … remember me? Yeah, we kissed like ten years ago. Before that, we kind of grew up together, but not really. Then, I disappeared for ten years, and wow, here we are. Weird. Nope.

  “Fair enough,” I say to her. “You know … you look like someone I once knew.” Someday, I will gain the ability to think before I speak. I had this minor issue under control while enlisted, but after falling back into civilian life, I have apparently lost my filter again.

  The look on her face screams the word, “creep,” and I think I’ve said the last of all words on this flight.

  “It’s the red hair. You know one redhead, and you think you know us all,” she responds.

  Is that true? I can’t remember being friends with another redhead, but if I had been, I don’t think I would confuse Melody and that person unless they were twins. Like her sister. They used to look like twins, but when Journey got older, she started coloring her hair. After her changed appearance, they didn’t look so similar. With that thought, I guess she could be Journey with her natural hair color. However, I think Journey would recognize me, and would have called me out by now.

  The other possibility is that I’m just losing my mind. Although, the action of losing something would mean the process is already in motion, but some days I’m sure that I lost my mind on the battlefield in the middle of Afghanistan.

  After a few more unfiltered comments that got me nowhere, the woman falls asleep in her seat, giving me the opportunity to take a few more glances in her direction. Her left hand falls from her phone and lands on her lap. No ring. I’m almost positive I heard Melody was engaged or married. Another check mark in the “Not-Melody-Quinn” column. Then, I notice a cluster of freckles on her knuckle. They’re in the shape of a heart. Weird.

  “You’re into romance novels?” she asks, making it known she’s awake and admiring the book in my hand, but she can’t see the cover with the way I’m holding it up. I had the book out, so it didn’t look like I was staring at her the entire time she was asleep, like I actually was.

  While hoping I don’t sound lame; reading a book about a particular process of distilling bourbon, I respond with, “All of them. You should see my collection at home. It’s embarrassing.”

  She doesn’t believe me, thankfully. “I bet,” she says with a modest smile inching toward one cheek.

  We’re about to land, which means there are only a few minutes left to figure out if this woman is Melody. If I don’t, I might forever wonder.

  As she’s repacking her carryon bag with a few belongings, I take a minute and search around my coat pocket for a piece of paper. Lucky enough, I not only locate a receipt for some random coffee shop I went to yesterday, but I find a pen too. We’ll go with fate on this one. I scribble down my phone number and leave off the crucial identifier, being my name.

  I can only assume if she is, in fact, Melody Quinn, she recognizes me too. If so, maybe she’ll call me.

  The plane cruises around the tarmac for a long ten minutes before parking in front of a terminal. “It was nice to meet you,” she says, tossing her bag over her shoulder.

  “Likewise. Hey, totally random, but I want to do the old-fashioned thing and give you my number. You are welcome to toss it in the trash if you think I’m crazy, but on the slim chance you don’t think I’m nuts—”

  If a woman approached me with her phone number after exchanging less than ten minutes worth of conversation, would I blink in slow motion, smile, grin awkwardly, or turn around and walk away from what might be a crazy person?

  I’m calling it a win when she takes the paper from my hand and offers what I can consider another hint of a smile.

  That’s it. I tried. I failed. Well, I guess I didn’t fail, fail—because I didn’t really try, but the look on her face says: see ya
.

  By the time I reach the baggage claim, I come to the full-blown conclusion that I’m delusional and shouldn’t have given the girl my phone number based on the fact that she looks like Melody Quinn. Yet, I’ll be damned … because a few yards away, I spot Melody’s mother and sister, Journey, who are waiting by the front sliding doors of the parking garage exit.

  It’s true. I was sitting next to Melody Quinn for the last four hours—the girl who ruined all other women for me; the one I compare every other woman to, and the one who made me crazy enough to buy forty different brands of shampoo until I found the one that smelled like her hair on the night of our one and only kiss.

  Melody is not home for an enjoyable reason.

  She’s not home to reminisce with old flings.

  Instead, she’s hugging her mom and sister, falling apart as tears run down her cheeks—because she just found out her dad is dying.

  2

  How quickly I can forget about frigid temperatures when I’m down south for two days. I packed my coat in my luggage, and I’m not unpacking to dig it out, which means I need to make a run for the parking garage. Of course, I had to park as far away as possible, and my truck feels like an ice cube when I slide inside. I swore I’d never go back to North or South Carolina, yet here I am bitching about the cold.

  Once I get the truck heated up to a point where I can move my arms around, I head for Mom and Pops to collect Parker. Their house is about forty-five minutes away from the airport, which gives me a long minute to think about the last few hours and the reality of the Quinn Family’s lives. I wonder how he just found it, or if he had symptoms earlier that he didn’t pick up on or pay attention to. I can’t imagine getting a short timeline like that after a doctor’s visit. Plus, he’s been through this once before. Their family is as close as mine. It’s unimaginable.