Bourbon Nights (The Barrel House Series Book 3)

by Shari J. Ryan

  It’s just the two of us here, and I’m not even Parker’s parent. I can’t imagine Abby doing this all on her own. It would be impossible. Not only is the schedule tough, but her finances have taken a massive hit. She doesn’t have any means of incoming child support and she refuses to let me help in that way. She’s mentioned finding the biological father, hoping to get some assistance, but I was sure those thoughts were out of desperation, until she just confessed about finding the mystery man.

  I wasn’t expecting this conversation, her tears, and disappointment. I’m still not sure how she found out who the guy was after not having a clue this whole time, but Abby can find just about anything when she puts her mind to it. We’ve determined she could have an amazing career in forensics once she’s out of the Marines.

  “Anyway,” she says, falling back into the cushion of our couch. “He’s a jerk. He told me it was my fault for not finding him sooner, and he would have been against keeping her at all.”

  A pit grows in my stomach, knowing another person could speak those words out loud. “I don’t know much about any of this, but I don’t think a one-night-stand-man could deny child support by saying he would have chosen to end the pregnancy or give the child away. You can take him to court, Abbs. Get a DNA test and start there.”

  “He refused a DNA test. He said it was his right to say no. It’s not worth the fight. I’ll figure things out,” she says. Her words don’t match the look in her eyes. “The ironic part of all this is that he lives on base.”

  “Here?” I ask. Jesus. I didn’t think he was a Marine, probably walking by us on a daily basis.

  Abby shrugs and pulls an afghan around her shoulders. “You know, I was sitting here yesterday, thinking I’m going to have to delist in a couple of years because I can’t give Parker a sustainable life like this, but then I heard some talk today about a couple of upcoming deployments.” Abby had plans to retire from the Marines, but I understand why she’s thinking of alternatives now. Her eight years will be up two years before mine, which means she’ll need to make her decision within the next year. She’ll take Parker away and it will be like I never existed in either of their lives. I feel like we’re a family, minus the husband and wife part, and I continue falling deeper and deeper into this life, knowing there probably won’t be a good ending.

  “Where did you hear about the deployments?”

  “My Chief Warrant Officer. I’ll know more tomorrow. It’s not looking good, Brett. I haven’t gone anywhere since Parker was born. They aren’t going to skip over me forever.”

  I can’t argue with the facts, and she won’t be able to argue with orders. Either of us or both of us could be called to go. Although, I just got back from a two-month stint eight months ago so I’m not sure where that puts me in line to be called.

  We’ve discussed the possibility of deployments and what will happen with Parker, and Abby has a plan with her child-care provider to take Parker in full time, which means Carol, the caretaker, would more or less receive most of Abby’s deployment pay to care for Parker.

  “I’m probably not going to be called. I haven’t heard anything,” I tell Abby. “If I don’t get called, Parker can stay with me if you have to go. I know we’ve talked about Carol and going that route, but I can find her if I end up having to deploy while you’re gone.”

  “I’m not ready to leave Parker behind. The thought is killing me, Brett. If we both end up having to leave, it’ll be like she’s an orphan for God knows how long.”

  “What’s the guy’s name, Abbs? Who is he … the biological—”

  “Don’t call him anything,” she says, tightening the blanket around her shoulders as she rolls her head from side to side. “Dylan Stevens.”

  “Okay,” I say, leaving it at that.

  “Don’t go doing anything stupid, Brett.”

  I hold my hands up in defense. “What could I do?” Other than choke him until he offers to assist in supporting Parker.

  As if Parker heard me thinking of her name, a faint cry spills out of Abby’s bedroom where Parker sleeps. Abby closes her eyes for a moment, inhales sharply and pushes herself off the couch. “She’s got a cold. I saw it coming this morning.” Abby’s face is pale, her eyes have dark circles growing larger by the day and she has lost so much of her personality over the last few years. When I take note of how much her mental state has declined, guilt finds me, making me feel like I’m never going to be enough to help her and Parker as much as they need.

  Not even twenty-four hours have passed since Abby mentioned the name, Dylan Stevens, and I’ve already located him at the Slug Shack right down the street from the base. Abby isn’t the only one with detective skills. She might have better sleuthing capabilities than I do, but I know more people than she does, and everyone knows someone who knows the person of interest. It wasn’t hard to locate the shithead. I even have a photo to make spotting him easier, but locating him in a nearly empty bar at three in the afternoon isn’t as hard as one might think. There are only four other people here, and I’m one of them.

  A drink is all I need to sit a few seats away and listen to Dylan Stevens try every pickup line in the book on the new bartender who’s only been working here two weeks. After his attempt to sweet talk the girl who is likely a decade younger than everyone in this bar, Dylan rambles on about a strip joint and the private VIP access he has. Evidently, the strip club is his hobby after work every day.

  I try to envision myself buddying up to Dylan and convincing him to do the right thing for Abby and Parker, but after listening to the shit foaming from his mouth, there isn’t one part of me that could see this turning out well for anyone.

  Abby was right to give up.

  All I can do is offer to do more for her. I just don’t know what that is yet.

  My phone buzzes on the bar-top, displaying Abby’s name. Guilt floods through me as I wonder if she somehow knows where I am, or what I’m doing, especially since she was against the idea of me hunting Dylan down. I fearfully check the text message, reading the two words I was dreading to see.

  * * *

  Abby: I’m up.

  * * *

  She’s being deployed.

  I wasn’t expecting to accomplish anything last night other than helping Melody and Mrs. Quinn, but the few minutes Melody and I had alone felt like a time-out, a break in the storm. It was more than I was expecting and more than I should be experiencing. The feelings, the desire … all while knowing she’s going through hell. What I feel doesn’t matter, though, because I will not do a damn thing except help her or the family when needed. Plus, if there’s anything I’m a pro at, it’s putting my feelings aside, or shutting them off completely.

  When Melody strolled into the shop early this morning, I was surprised to see her, especially since she was toting muffins in a fancy container. She said her mom sent them in as a thank you for helping last night. I know she plans to spend most of her day at the hospital with Harold, but she seems to be stalling by the way she’s pacing around, glancing at each shelf. Though, I’d love to think she’s stalling just to spend more time with me, if I was her, I might put off facing the cold reality of losing someone I love.

  It’s Brody’s morning to carpool the girls to school, and he agreed to pick Parker up from The Barrel House so I could get started a bit earlier today. Brody makes a show upon entering through the front door, unfazed by Melody's existence even after going years without seeing her. It feels like no time has passed when he starts cracking jokes, and I’m embarrassed for my brother. Sadly, he wouldn’t care if I said that out loud, so I watch the show come and go and silently wait for him to leave.

  I kiss Parker goodbye and send them on their way as quickly as possible with the hope of having a few quiet moments with Melody.

  However, the moment we’re alone, I accept that the timing is not right. Despite knowing how much I would say to her if her life wasn’t splitting at the seams, it’s more important that I only provide c
overage in her family’s shop. She needs to know she can trust me here and be where she needs to be. “I have everything under control here. I promise,” I say, watching her nibble on the tip of her thumb. She’s staring past me, lost in thought, just as she has been each time I’ve seen her throughout the last couple of days.

  “I know you do,” she says, fixing a bottle on one of the lower shelves.

  “Go to the hospital, and when you need a break, take one. It’s a lot and you have to be easy on yourself.”

  Melody tucks her long waves behind her ears as she parts her lips to release a heavy sigh. “Thanks for the advice,” she says with a small smile. Melody scans the back area of the store until she spots her jacket resting on a crate. “There it is.”

  “I can bring you guys dinner again tonight if you’d like?” My offer might be overkill at this point, but I would offer even if I had no interest in seeing her again today. Plus, I know Mrs. Quinn would see it as nothing more than a nice gesture.

  Melody slips her jacket on and pulls her hair out from beneath the collar, letting it sway against her back. She takes a few seconds to respond but shrugs before speaking. “You have a lot going on, I’m sure. You don’t have to worry about us too. I appreciate the offer,” she says. A firm no. Understood.

  With her coat on and her phone pressed between her hands, she walks up to me again, looking as if she has something to say, but with a long quiet stare, I assume she can’t find the words, or she is simply refraining from sharing what’s on her mind. Melody is impossible to read. She never was before. Regardless, there seem to be words written across her face, spelling out what she’s thinking.

  Pain. Just pain.

  It feels like an entire minute passes when I consider asking what’s on her mind, but I hold back. Instead, I reach for the phone she’s holding against her purse and slip it away. She doesn’t try to stop me, nor does she snag it back when I hold the display up to her face in order to unlock with facial recognition.

  Instead, a look of surprise passes through her eyes, but not in a negative way. I add my number to her contacts and place a call to my phone, so I have her number. I could have asked for it, but it feels like a line on the do-not-cross-list. “I have your number, and you have mine. I figured you still hadn’t added it to your phone from the crumpled receipt I handed you on the plane.” Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed, but my contact wasn’t in there. “Call me if you need anything, please.” Even if you want to talk, smile, or just need a hug. I can be all of that. I’m good at those things.

  Seeing how her moments of talking and silence are unexpected and sporadic, it’s hard to determine her mood, but it’ll keep me guessing, wondering, and now waiting for a call.

  “I will,” she agrees.

  “I’m going to check up on you later.” I shouldn’t have said that. I meant to leave the ball in her court. I can’t be pushy. I’m having trouble following the unspoken rules I’m familiar with in delicate situations, and I need to get a grip.

  “Thanks for trying to be a friend. I don’t have many people in my life who would care so much, aside from my immediate family.” Another surprising comment. I figured our exchange of words had hit its limit for the day, but now I know she sees me as a friend and not a pain in the ass, so that’s something. I’ll take it.

  “I know life can be a jerk sometimes. We all need to know someone cares, right?”

  A smile perks to one side—it’s a faint smile, but a smile, nonetheless. Her cheeks turn to a shade of pink and she brushes her hair behind her ear again, something I notice she does just after her cheeks become a little too warm. Maybe I’m not alone, feeling like there’s something between us, something that never went away from all those years ago. There’s a chance it’s not just me who had faith we’d find each other again.

  In any case, it’s time to be patient and wait on her. I did it once, and I’ll do it again no matter what the end game turns out to be.

  12

  When Harold first showed me around The Barrel House last summer, I was a little overwhelmed, especially thinking I was only there to help out when he was out of town during the couple of weeks he was on vacation. However, he had a way of teaching … it was as if he wanted to unload his knowledge onto me. Of course, I was interested. Coming from a family with a business who chars barrels for the purpose of storing bourbon, it was nice to see the other side of the process. I had been to The Barrel House hundreds of times before, but I kept my hands to myself and admired the machinery, wondering why there were so many machines to prepare a barrel full of liquid.

  I let Harold’s words soak in and I saw the passion through his eyes, finding my sparked interest. I must have asked him a million questions over the course of just a couple days, but he happily answered each one with detail. I understood the reason for taking pleasure in watching even the most minute part of the process because each phase has an equally important role in the final taste of bourbon, a taste no one will get to enjoy for at least two years after it stills in a charred barrel. I don’t know why I’m so fascinated by the process of distilling bourbon, but there is so much science involved. With only a few simple ingredients of grains mixed with water, yeast, and sugar, a fermented product develops. I thought the importance of the distilling process ended there, but it doesn’t. It’s where it all begins. Every single environmental factor has an effect on the final taste; how the barrel was charred, the temperature of storage, the airflow, and duration of time—it’s all so easy to alter, even just slightly. It’s hard to understand how any barrel of bourbon can taste exactly like another, but Harold mastered this process.

  After Harold returned from his first weeklong trip, he winked at me and pointed his finger. “You caught the bug, didn’t you?” I don’t know what made him think anything different of me after just a week of helping in the shop, but maybe he recognized the exhaustion in my eyes. I hadn’t slept much. I wanted to watch the machines and make sure every single part of the first steps were running precisely the way he wanted. Otherwise, whatever I did during that one week could potentially change the taste of a slew of bottles filled with bourbon that no one would taste for at least a few years. I didn’t want a mistake to follow me around like that. More importantly, I felt enamored watching the production of a mash that would turn into alcohol. It was distracting and allowed me time to forget about my ongoing nightmares from the war. The patterns working through the mash hypnotized me. I could only think about the motion of the machines mixing paddles. There were no triggers in the basement of The Barrel House. It was a safe place to be alone.

  Did I catch whatever bug he was talking about? I told Harold I enjoyed every minute of the time I spent watching the machines work their magic. Maybe it wasn’t a common statement to make.

  “No one knows it’s a fairly relaxing job, so we have to keep that between us, okay?” he said with a sly smile.

  “It’ll be our secret,” I told him.

  There were many nights after that week when I wished to be alone in that basement, watching the machines function on a repetitive cycle, never missing a beat as it created a void for me to stare into, forgetting everything else around me. I haven’t found something to offer that sense of comfort since then, really. It sounds odd, and it’s nothing I would share with anyone because I doubt they would understand, but I’m thankful for the time Harold spent teaching me how to make bourbon. I’ve spent the last year reading books on different practices and recipes to achieve particular tastes, for no reason other than intrigue. Now, I’m here, working in this brilliant man’s shop as he dies in a hospital bed. Did he always know I would end up here?

  Working here feels more natural than working with Pops at the warehouse.

  As I’m sweeping up the floor in the main room that holds the larger machines, I hear a landline ringing from the far corner. It’s Harold’s office, which I tend to stay out of even though he leaves the door open. I know the bills are stacking up, but I don’t want to touch an
ything without some kind of word from him or Mrs. Quinn. The phone doesn’t give up, making me wonder if he has an answering machine attached to the thing. I place the broom down against the wall and cross the open space to Harold’s office, flipping the light switch on the way in. I take a seat in his old leather rolling chair, feeling the springs plunge through a high-pitch squeal. It looks like the phone is from the eighties. I haven’t seen one of these box phones since I was a kid.

  “The Barrel House, how can I help you?” I answer.

  It’s a customer asking for hours, but not without a long-winded explanation of why he needs to know, mostly because he heard Harold is sick and assumed there would be a change in the opening and closing schedule. The long minute of chit chat invites my gaze toward the wall in front of me. There are photographs covering every square inch of the open space, from one side of the office to the other. The pictures aren’t in frames or in any particular order, just tacked up on a cork-board. My eyes fall on a picture of Melody from around the time I left for the Marines. She doesn’t look much different now, aged well, I suppose, but I remember her like that as if it was yesterday. Her smile was wide enough to show at least eight teeth on the top and bottom, and her freckles all scrunched together through her obvious happiness. I’d kill to see that smile again. She hasn’t smiled a real smile since I saw her for the first time the other day. I can’t say I blame her, but I can’t fathom what she must be going through.

  The customer thanks me for the answer that hasn’t changed since Harold set the times years ago and I realize I’m still holding the phone up to my year, scanning the photos long after the gentleman hung up on the other end. It seems like new pictures stopped coming in a few years ago, seeing the years labeled with a sharpie on the bottom corner of each one. I wonder if she’s smiled a real smile since the photos stopped being hung.