Bourbon Nights (The Barrel House Series Book 3)

by Shari J. Ryan

  “Uh, one minute. I need to go find Mr. Crawley,” Melody tells the customer. She spins around in search of the man who normally tends to the distillery downstairs.

  “I can help,” I offer. “Twenty-four, ninety-five.” I make my way around the back counter where Melody is still fumbling around with the cash register. I give her my best empathetic look, silently asking her to move so I can ring the man’s order through. The purchase is complete within a minute and the man is quick to offer his gratitude with a promise of returning soon for the Quinn Pine. I hold my focus on the customer walking out the front door, waiting for the wrath to begin.

  The door isn’t even completely closed when the word, “You,” escapes her pretty lips.

  I twist to face her, responding with the only logical thing to say: “You.” Between the one word and whatever I’m supposed to say next, my mind goes blank and something stupid spills out. “Do you work here?”

  I don’t know why I thought playing dumb would work in this situation. However, she could have been playing the same game with me, and I’ll never know.

  “This is my dad’s shop,” she says, announcing it as if I’m an intruder. Does she think I’m some random person? She could think I’m stalking her if she doesn’t recognize me. How could she not recognize me? How could I have been so uncertain about her yesterday? What the hell is wrong with me? “The better question is, do you work here?”

  Do I work here? I suppose yes and no. Her father asked me to help, so I would think she’d be aware, but I’m not sure what to think right now.

  “You’re Mr. Quinn’s daughter?” What? Why would I ask that? Obviously she’s Harold’s daughter. She’s Melody. I guess playing dumb is just the easiest thing for me to do since I seem to do it so well. “I knew you looked familiar.” I more than knew. I was questioning it for hours while sitting next to you on the damn plane.

  “Yes, one of them,” she responds, but her words come out as a question, confirming she has no clue who I am. If she does, she turned into a talented actor. Unless maybe she is Journey, but I doubt her personality would change so drastically over the years.

  “I’m Brett Pearson. Our dads go way back.” I’m speaking to her as if she has amnesia now. I should take a minute to think before talking. She knows who Brett Pearson is and that our dads go way back.

  “You’re Mr. Pearson’s son,” she says, her jaw falling ajar. She had no freaking clue who I was. Unbelievable. Either I became a hell of a lot uglier or grew into my body. I’m hoping for the latter half.

  “One of them, yes.” Brody and I look alike but have two distinctly different body shapes. I’ve always been tall, lean and broad-chested, while Brody is a little shorter and built like an athlete. Although, again, I suppose anything can change in ten years, except height. I wouldn’t expect her to remember our precise height difference.

  “Are you Melody or Journey?” She has to be Melody. I know it’s her; I’m positive.

  Her eyes paralyze me as she stares into mine with a look of wonder, or something deeper that I can’t comprehend. “Melody,” she says after what feels like hours.

  We have confirmed she is Melody, and I am Brett.

  What may have only been ten years for me might have been a lifetime for her. However, I feel as though I have lived two lifetimes in the last ten years. Kissing her that night—it still feels like only yesterday and I can’t make much sense of what’s happening.

  “The younger one who doesn’t plan to let the family business go,” I tease. Melody closes her eyes and turns away as if she’s upset by what I said. I don’t want to cause her any distress, but it seems almost unavoidable. “Well, I won’t get in your way,” I tell her. “I’m only here to help.”

  Melody doesn’t respond or turn back to face me. I’ve made her uncomfortable, which is likely from the way I’m staring at the register with what must be a blank expression. I don’t understand, no matter how many years went by, how she could have forgotten about me.

  “I have a job for you, Melly,” a voice booms from the back door. I grin at the sight of Mr. Crawley. I haven’t seen him in a few months. The man never changes a bit. He’s a happy old soul with sad eyes.

  “Mr. Pearson,” he greets me. “It’s been a while, kid. How have you been?”

  “Busy,” I reply. I’ve been working a ton of hours with Pops and juggling Parker every other hour of the day. There isn’t much downtime.

  “So, I’ve heard,” Mr. Crawley says. “I see you’ve reacquainted yourself with Melody. It must be years since you two have seen each other, huh?”

  Mr. Crawley remembers us being friendly, but Melody doesn’t seem to have the same recollection. I must be forgettable. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s been a long time.” Without a response from Melody on the subject, I think it might be best if I give her some space, so I head toward the back where Mr. Crawley has his hands gripped around each side of the door frame. I receive a look from him, one with his lips twisted to the side and his eyebrows turned into each other. He shakes his head and glances over to the back of Melody’s head.

  “Poor thing,” he mouths.

  “She isn’t doing well, I assume?” I whisper in response.

  “She seems a little scattered, maybe in shock, I suppose.”

  Melody turns, finding us muttering beneath our breath, so we stop. “I don’t know the password to the computer,” she says.

  “I’ll create one for you,” I respond quickly, hoping she doesn’t speculate about our private conversation.

  Her eyes narrow as her head cocks to the side. “Does my dad know you have this kind of access?” By the stiff strain along her jaw, Melody must be irritated by my depth of knowledge for the shop, but I’m not sure how to avoid any of this.

  “He does. He walked me through it … ”

  Melody slaps her hands down on the counter. “Well, it looks like you have everything under control here, so I’ll—” She points toward the front door and lifts her brows to follow. “Unless there’s something you need help with?”

  Mr. Crawley clears his throat and pushes away from the door. “The labels,” he says.

  It’s a crappy job. Boring and monotonous. I doubt that’s the kind of help she’s here to offer. I’m sure she’d rather keep her mind busy. “I can do the labels if you’d rather get back to your dad,” I say. The moment the words come out of my mouth, I realize she’s probably here to take a breath from the situation with her dad. I’m guessing the shop would be a second priority if she felt the need to be by his side. Everyone handles grief in different ways. I’m aware some can only tolerate it in small doses.

  I should have kept my mouth shut. Melody grabs her bag and coat and races for the front door. She looks mortified. I didn’t mean to make her feel this way, or any way for that matter.

  “Don’t take it personally, kid,” Mr. Crawley says. “She’s in for a long road of turmoil and she will need to learn how to navigate it like the rest of us have in life. It’s difficult. You know.”

  I do know.

  “I can’t just stand here while she’s in pain though. There has to be something I can do to help her.”

  Mr. Crawley folds his arms over his chest and runs his hands over his white beard. “I don’t know what you could do to help, but if you think of anything, good on ya. Their family could use a lot of support right now. I’ve been wracking my brain to come up with ideas on how to help them, but there isn’t a lot anyone can do to take away this kind of pain.”

  Without thinking too much longer about how I can help, I remember Harold asking for the bottle of Red Apple. I grab one from the top shelf and race out the door.

  “Melody!” I shout after her just as she approaches the street.

  She seems startled when she turns toward my voice, tripping from the curb in the same old Melody fashion I remember vividly. She catches herself and rights her feet. “I need to get back home. I should be with my dad,” she says. I don’t dare remind her I suggested th
at very same thing myself because it’s none of my business how she should feel or what she should do at this moment.

  She whips her head from side to side, searching for oncoming traffic, then bolts across the street. Another long few seconds pass when I remember the bottle in my hand.

  “Wait up a second,” I call out. “Your dad wanted a bottle.”

  I meet her across the street, watching as her long copper strands wisp around her head before catching on her long eyelashes. She pulls the hair away from her face and wraps her arms around her upper body for what I’m sure must be warmth in this chilly weather after coming back from South Carolina. Her coat isn’t heavy enough for this weather.

  “How did you—”

  I’m only a couple feet away when I respond. “I spoke to your dad just a bit ago. He said you were on your way down, flustered, upset, trying to be a hero, and you’d most likely forget he requested a bottle of Red Apple.” Again, I said more than necessary, but her feelings are so obvious, it’s like they’re written in black marker across her face.

  “I know,” she says, peering down at her boots. “Thank you for coming to help.”

  I’m not sure if this is a breakthrough moment for her anger or a loss of control in this situation, but there is so much pain wrenched into her freckled face, I can almost feel it in my chest.

  “I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.” Death. It is the worst thing a person can experience in life. There are just varying degrees of how much worse it can be, and to lose a parent, I could never assume the intensity of her pain.

  Melody sweeps another windblown strand of hair away from her forehead and peers up at me, her lashes fluttering beneath her perfectly shaped brows. “I don’t know what else I can do right now aside from helping him, and being in his shop feels like the only way—” Her words trail off into the breeze, forcing me to assume what she was trying to say. Her eyes are open wide as if she’s seeing the unthinkable play out in front of her, even though it’s only me here. Tears fall, one by one, and she’s quick to clap her hands over her face to hide the truth she’s more than entitled to be feeling.

  My body aches, watching her in pain and I don’t care what right I have or don’t have, or if she remembers me or not. She needs a hug and to know she’s not standing here alone watching the world crumble before her. I wrap my arms around her slim body and squeeze her into my chest. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  She allows me to hold her for a long minute, one I’d pause if possible. The scent of that shampoo—the same scent. It makes my chest weak and my heart race at the same moment. She’s warm, and God, this is awful. I can’t be thinking about anything more than the pain she’s experiencing. I struggle to release my arms, but assume she needs space even while needing comfort. As I back away, I spot another tear falling from the tip of her bottom lashes. I press my thumb beneath her lashes and wipe away the proof of pain. “I don’t know how long you’ve known about your dad’s illness returning, but I doubt there’s any length of time long enough to accept or adjust to that kind of news.” I don’t think she has known much longer than I have from what Pops was saying. The news must be tearing her apart. Melody swallows hard and looks over at her dad’s truck. “I’m going to—”

  I need to let her go. I take a few steps away, complying with her statement. However, the moment she’s secured inside the truck, I feel the cold neck of the bottle in my hand. Crap. I’m acting like a psycho, but I’ll also seem incompetent if she goes home without this. I knock on her window with the back of my knuckles and hold up the Red Apple.

  The window slides down, and a smile arches to one side of her peachy lips. “Thank you for everything.”

  I hold up my hand and step away from the car so she can leave, feeling heartbroken for a woman I tried so hard to forget about. I failed miserably. She’s unforgettable in every way.

  I spot her eyes in the rearview mirror, another undecipherable look as she pulls away from the parking spot. Her eyes can tell an entire story between two blinks, and yet, I feel blind and deaf to whatever it is she’s trying to tell me.

  5

  Pops asked me to help with The Barrel House. I would never ask questions about how long they might need the help, but the more I think about the outcome of this unfortunate situation, I’m realizing the help I’m offering could become more permanent as Harold’s illness progresses. I don’t know if Melody and Journey plan to keep the business running or what anyone’s wishes are, but I’m sure I’ll find out in due time.

  Mr. Crawley is understanding of the flexibility issues I have with Parker, which makes everything less stressful on my end. So, as long as I have her to school before nine and pick her up at three, things will work out. I’m just not sure how long Mr. Crawley can manage the shop and distillery at the same time while I’m out.

  The looping line at the elementary school is spilling onto the street earlier than usual today. I try to time my arrival ten minutes before the hour to avoid this line, but it looks like I’m out of luck today.

  I take the few minutes my car is parked along the curb to check my news feeds on social media—a habit I gained years ago but only for the purpose of spectating. I don’t think I’ve posted anything in over three years. Plus, I locked my profiles down to the highest level of privacy because I don’t like the thought of people having an inside view to my life. I wonder if Melody prefers privacy or being an open book. I tap her name into the search bar, finding her profile image pop up first on a list full of other Melody Quinn’s. I select her name, finding her profile to be open to the public. Her photo is candid, a beach photo from the neck up with the sand, water, and sky behind her. Her rosy locks are blowing wildly around her face and her freckles are more prominent than what I saw today. It’s clear the photos were taken in the summertime. The only thing I find odd is that she isn’t smiling. Melody was always smiling when we were younger. Maybe the candid photo was taken without her knowledge, but even still, there’s a look of sadness on her face.

  Scrolling down the stream takes me to other photos, ones of a pale-yellow colonial house with shutters that’s surrounded by a picket fence. She captioned the photo, “Home is where I am.” I wonder if she purposely misconstrued the quote. I scroll further, finding a photo of her with a man, dark hair, gym buff, cocky looking; all the qualities I wouldn’t expect Melody to be looking for in a man. Maybe they’re just friends. Another quick scroll proves my assumption to be wrong. Her arms are around his neck, she’s kissing his cheek, and has a leg up behind her in a cute pre-planned pose. They’re standing in front of the beautiful house she was calling home. I heard she was married, but it was through gossip, and from what I could see earlier, she wasn’t wearing a ring.

  Melody’s love life shouldn’t be a concern of mine. She came home to be with her dad. I swoosh the screen back to the top, clicking the “About” section of her profile, finding her relationship status marked as: single.

  Bizarre. In a good way.

  A car horn blares, informing me I haven’t pulled up fast enough. I wave at the obnoxious parent behind me, drop my phone into the cup holder and pull up the few allotted feet.

  Happy now? I’d like to shout out my window. If I was on base, it would be the normal thing to do, but civilian life doesn’t come with the same understanding values for freedom of speech. We’d laugh it off if someone yelled at us to move, but people get so serious about petty things these days, there’s no place for humor in the world.

  It takes just a few minutes to reach the loading zone. Parker isn’t paying attention as usual. She has her nose stuck in a book until a teacher taps her shoulder to let her know I’m here.

  I unlock the doors and Parker climbs into the back, securing the seatbelt over her booster seat. “Hey sweetie, how was your day?” I ask, looking back at her. She hasn’t picked her head up to look at me yet, but I give her a minute to buckle before asking the next question of: What’s wrong?

&n
bsp; “It was fine,” she says, picking her book up off her lap.

  I squeeze her pink legging covered knee and turn back to the front before the obnoxious parent behind me honks again. “What did you do today?” I continue.

  “Nothing really,” she says.

  “You had gym class. What did you do there?”

  “We played capture-the-flag.”

  “Park, what’s going on? Did something happen today?”

  Seven-year-old girls, something I didn’t know much about until this year, but I’ve learned a couple of facts. Most of them don’t stop talking, and very few have their noses stuck in a book as often as Parker does. I try not to be concerned, but I will always wonder what is going on in that little head of hers. Sometimes it appears she’s depressed and I’m not sure that’s common for a child her age. She was a loud toddler, always singing at the top of her lungs, making up words to every song she’d hear on the radio. Sleeping wasn’t her thing, so she’d be up at the crack of dawn then rarely fall asleep before ten o’clock. Her giggle—it was infectious, and I would do just about anything to put her into a fit of that infectious laughter.

  I don’t remember the last time I’ve heard her happy like that though. I miss the sound, and I would do anything to bring it back. “I’m making you Cheez-it chicken fingers and tater-tots tonight,” I tell her. It’s her favorite meal besides pizza.

  “Thank you,” she says without a hint of excitement.

  “Parker, put the book down for a minute.” I should wait until we get home before continuing to dig for the reason of today’s quietness, but it kills me when I think something is bothering her.

  “Why?” she asks.

  “I want to know what’s putting you in the mood you’re in.”

  I glance into the rearview mirror in search of her expression. She shrugs rather than answer. “Did someone or something upset you today?”