Bourbon Nights (The Barrel House Series Book 3)

by Shari J. Ryan

  I pull my phone out of my back pocket and bring up Melody’s contact information I saved to my phone this morning. A chuckle rumbles through my gut when I find the nickname: The Girl of My Dreams with her number beneath. She won’t see her number pop up in my phone, and there’s no sense in lying to myself about what she meant to me once, and what she obviously still means to me now. The words are beyond cheesy as I stare at them, but finally having her number in my phone feels like an achievement in this journey we’ve been making our way through.

  I wasn’t expecting to hear from her anytime soon, especially this morning or even this afternoon, but I’ve done nothing but wonder if she and the rest of them are okay.

  * * *

  Me: Hang in there.

  * * *

  The second I hit send and re-read what I typed; I picture the poster of a cat hanging from a wall by its paws. I couldn’t have said anything more thoughtless, really. I used to have game, way back when. I’ve since lost it all. If I were her, I might not respond. In fact, I place my phone back into my pocket just as it buzzes.

  She replied.

  * * *

  The Girl of My Dreams: Brett?

  * * *

  Maybe placing a nickname in her phone for myself too wasn’t the right move, but I thought it might make her laugh when she saw it pop up. I don’t know what she’s thinking at the moment, but she isn’t confused by who: “Your Teenage Crush,” is. It’s good to know there is only one of us.

  * * *

  Me: You’ve now confirmed my age-long question. :)

  * * *

  Again, maybe not the time for jokes. Most likely, definitely not the time for even a hint of a joke.

  * * *

  The Girl of My Dreams: Are you always this cocky?

  * * *

  I can’t say a woman has ever called me cocky. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not because maybe I’m too nice and too much of a “girl-dad,” and it’s the actual reason I’ve been single for so long, but as much as I’d like to play the role of a cocky guy—former Marine, I can’t pull off the attitude unless I’m pissed about something.

  * * *

  Me: Nah, just trying to distract you.

  * * *

  Staring at my phone and waiting on a response for a long several minutes does nothing but reassure myself of how big of an idiot I am to be sending her pointless messages when she’s sitting by her father’s deathbed.

  I suppose she didn’t need a distraction.

  The afternoon crawls by almost as slow as the morning had, but the boredom falls upon the empty storefront I’m manning with no one else here to run the floor. Machines don’t bore me but staring at a clock after completing all the daily tasks here, it isn’t my idea of a good time.

  The buzz of my phone pulls me out of my trance, and for a second I have hope that Melody has chosen to respond to my text from earlier, but it’s Mom instead.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  “Hi, sweetie. How’s the shop?”

  “Everything is fine here. I’ve got it all under control.”

  “Harold appreciates what you’re doing. I hope you know that,” Mom says.

  “Of course.”

  I sigh while staring at the minute hand tick once more to the right. “I ran into Marion in the hospital as your father and I were going to visit Harold. The poor thing. She is not doing well at all, as I would imagine. I offered to bring dinner over tonight. She suggested I bring you, Brody, and the girls over as well. I think the thought of having company cheered her up for a quick second.”

  I think about it for a minute because I already offered to bring Melody dinner tonight, and she rejected the idea, so I feel like this might be pushing my luck. “Maybe, just you and Pops should go over tonight,” I tell her.

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I know you’d love to see Melody. Plus, Parker told me so.”

  I close my eyes and release a heavy breath. “Do you get all of your gossip from a seven-year-old?”

  “Brett, she didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.”

  “That’s impossible and ridiculous. I ran into her for the first time a couple of days ago after going a decade without contact. Let’s be realistic here.”

  Mom huffs into the phone. “Okay, well, whatever the case … you’re single. She’s single. You once adored her, and she was always so bashful around you. I don’t know, sweetie, maybe timing was never in your favor, but now—”

  “Timing is not in our favor right now, Mom. Come on, let’s focus on what’s at hand here. Harold is losing a battle. Melody isn’t running out of days to find a man to marry, and I have my hands full, as you know.”

  “Fine,” she groans. “Take away all my fun.”

  “I don’t think the Quinn’s are having much fun right now,” I say, being serious about the reason she wants to bring dinner to them tonight.

  “Brett, you know that isn’t what I meant. Just forget I said anything, okay? I’m sorry.”

  “No apology needed, Mom. Melody is a great woman, and I’d be lucky if she was interested in me. However, I have Parker, and she’s single, never married. Even if this wasn’t the worst possible time to consider asking Melody to spend time with me outside of her dying father’s shop, I don’t think she’d be interested. Let’s forget about whatever idea you have floating through your head.”

  “Brett!” She snaps. “I already said: forget it, you don’t need to keep harping on the subject. I said I’m sorry for bringing it up, and I am. So, let’s move on, but meet us at the Quinns’s house by seven-thirty. I can bring Parker if you want to go to the gym first. Maybe you could let off some of that pent-up steam you’re taking out on me.”

  Jesus. “Okay, Mom. Thank you.”

  “Okay, I’m going to go. I’ll see you soon. Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” I say with an unintended high-pitch tone. Thankfully, she hangs up before hearing the way I sound, and hopefully she will forget about our conversation. I understand she has strong feelings about the fact that Parker doesn’t have a mother figure in her life. I also know it’s technically my fault at this point for not moving forward. But I will not join every single dating site out there so I can find some random profile that matches up with mine. Plus, this town doesn’t exactly offer many new faces on a regular basis. If I’m going to meet someone or be with someone, it’ll happen. If not, then it is what it is, and I’m fine with that too. Mom doesn’t see it that way, though, and the odds are not in my favor that she will give up on her pre-planned fate for me.

  13

  Melody isn’t home yet, and I’m walking into her house with Parker, following my parents. I feel like we’re intruding, but Mom assured me Mrs. Quinn was very welcoming of the idea to have company. However, we were already parked out in front of her house when she pulled into the driveway. A smile tugging at her lips might offer the sense that we’re welcome, but I doubt a smile of any kind is natural at the moment.

  “Don’t forget what I said, Parker,” I say as she takes her boots off at the door, following my lead. “I won’t ask about Mr. Quinn. I already know,” she replies.

  Parker hasn’t been to the Quinns's house before. She’s only seen Harold and Mrs. Quinn at the shop a couple of times. She’s enamored by the walls and how they are covered with various styles of picture frames, embracing the story being told of a happy family. Parker smiles at the wall of memories as she walks by. Maybe I should hang up more photos in the house. I have a couple, but decorating isn’t an area I excel in. I had an interior decorator handle the house before we moved in so I could avoid the tasks of making our new home feel homey. When we moved in, the rooms seemed a bit staged, but when the boxes arrived, clutter filled up the empty spaces. I should at least hang up her school pictures, I guess—just another moment of realizing failure.

  I offer Mrs. Quinn a warm hug before saying anything else. “How are you doing, Mrs. Quinn? What can I help with?” I ask Mrs. Quinn as I step in
to the kitchen, watching Mom hustle around with her casserole dishes and salad bowl.

  “Brett, why don’t you get the drinks,” Mom says to me before Mrs. Quinn has the chance to speak.

  “Of course.” I spot the bottles of wine Mom and Pops brought in and notice the wine glasses hanging from beneath an overhead cabinet. “Parker, go tell Uncle Brody to take his shoes off.” I hear Brody make his entrance before walking through the front door, shouting at Hannah for whatever she just said to him. I’ll assume it was worthy of Brody raising his voice because she is the only person in this entire world who knows how to make Brody tick. I couldn’t even do that throughout our entire childhood. Brody brushed everything off or punched me in the gut to give me the hint I needed. Hannah, though, someone might think she’s shoving toothpicks under his nails with the way she tortures him. We’ve all chalked it up to her being a tween, and we’ve told Brody she’ll grow out of this phase of hating him at some point. I just hope Parker doesn’t go through the same thing because if this is a preview, I’m not sure I’ll survive.

  I see Brody waltz in after kicking his boots off, his cheeks are burning red, and his eyes are wide, looking at me like he just ran away from a killer beast. “I need a drink,” he says.

  “Red, white, or bourbon?” I ask while uncorking the bottle of red.

  “All three should do,” he says, peeking over his shoulder. I assume he’s looking for Hannah, who took off into the dining room with Parker.

  “Everything okay?” I ask with a raised brow.

  “She wants me dead,” he whispers.

  “No, she doesn’t. She’s just trying to show you who’s boss.”

  “Yeah, bro, and it’s her.”

  I shake my head and pour the first glass, handing it over to Mrs. Quinn. “Red?”

  “Yes, please,” she says, taking the wine glass into her hand.

  “What happened?” I ask Brody.

  “Uh, some little shithead, Dunce … like, who names their kid Dunce, first, second, why is my daughter texting a boy in her class?”

  I hand Brody the entire bottle of wine. “Dude, chill.”

  “Chill? Are you kidding? I know what I was doing at twelve.”

  “Hannah is only ten. I think you’re overreacting.”

  “She’s going to be eleven in two weeks. This isn’t good. You know how they say each generation figures things out faster than the one before? Well, she’s figuring shit out. I just know it. She told me she needed a bra. Like, what?”

  The words I hear strike a nerve because I know it’s all coming, and I’m not ready to have those talks with Parker or prepared to go bra shopping with my daughter. I’ve told myself I will cross that bridge when I get to it, and it has to be at least three years away.

  “Can shit-head handle the bra situation with her?”

  “Shit-head can barely make time for Hannah, so I’m guessing the last thing Shit-head wants to do is spend quality time with her daughter while bra shopping.”

  “You’re just going to have to suck it up, bro. I don’t know what to tell you. But I’ll tell you this … if you tell her she can’t talk to this boy, whoever he is, I promise you she will talk to him just out of spite.”

  Brody takes a swig from the bottle, and I grab it from his hand because that’s freaking rude as hell since I haven’t finished pouring glasses yet. “How do you even know all of this?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know, parenting articles, I guess.”

  “You read those?”

  “Well, yeah, I’d rather be informed than in the dark.”

  “Dweeb,” Brody says, flicking me in the forehead as he walks through the kitchen to offer his hello to Mrs. Quinn.

  I finish pouring a couple of glasses of red and move onto the bottle of white while hearing the front door open. It could be Journey or Melody, but I’m on the opposite side of the kitchen and can’t see into the foyer.

  “Hi,” I hear. My back is to the entryway of the kitchen, but I turn, finding an unsettled look. She’s clearly uncomfortable, which makes me feel bad since she’s in her house and we’ve barged in.

  “Hi, honey,” Mrs. Quinn greets her daughter.

  “It’s nice to see you again, sweetie,” Mom follows, making her way over to Melody and kissing her on the cheek. “I think we’re all set, so go have a seat. What would you like to drink?”

  I would offer her a drink since it is my assigned responsibility, but now it looks like my mother needs to speak for me. How fun.

  “I can get my drink, but thank you for offering,” Melody says with a polite smile.

  “Wine or something else?” I cut in, ignoring the fact that she just said she’d get herself a drink.

  Melody stares at me for a long second before responding to my question. It feels like she’s trying to read my mind or figure out why I thought it would be a good idea to join my parents here tonight. “I’ll have a glass of wine, I guess,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. She does this when she’s uncomfortable, like she’s protecting herself from everything around her.

  “Red or white?” Maybe I should have just offered the white since Brody was kind enough to sample the red directly from the bottle.

  “White, please,” she says. Thankfully.

  I turn to grab the bottle of white wine and a glass, but when I turn around, I see that Melody has left the room.

  I pour the glass anyway and set it on the counter for when she returns, but she doesn’t come back. After a few minutes, I join Pops and Brody in the dining room, watching a magic trick show, which Parker interrupts when she yanks on my wrist, loudly whispering her need to find the bathroom.

  “Is it a secret?” I ask her.

  “Daddd.”

  “Okay, okay. I believe it’s over this way,” I say, taking her through the other opening in the dining room and across the hall. The door is closed and locked. “We have to wait a minute.”

  I spot a bottle of air freshener behind the thin hallway decorative table. Maybe my ideas aren’t the best, but I’m not giving up until I make Melody smile.

  The door finally opens to the bathroom, and Melody looks flush and splotchy. “Air freshener?” I ask, handing over the bottle.

  She smiles. Not a full-fledged smile, but a I’d-like-to-punch-in-you-the-face kind of smile. “You’re so sweet to offer.” Again, she folds her arms over her chest.

  “I’m kidding. Girls don’t do those sorts of things in the bathroom, right, Parker?” Two birds with one stone, I see. Parker has also crossed her arms, and she’s giving a very similar look to Melody’s.

  “Dad,” Parker groans.

  Melody steps out of the bathroom and stands to the side, so they can switch places. She’s quick to close the door, leaving Melody and me in the hallway in a stare down. “Girls get easily embarrassed about bodily odors,” Melody schools me on the etiquette of talking to a girl. I’ve been given the lectures many times by a child, so I’m not new to what she’s saying. However, I have to toughen my daughter up somehow. If she goes through life embarrassed about poop, I’ll be allowing her to act in a way her mother would never approve. Abby had a mouth on her, and there was no filter, no secrets. If she had a stomach ache, I got descriptions while she was in the bathroom. She was essentially my guy friend in a woman’s body.

  “I’m aware, but I need to toughen her up a little too, right?” I slip my hands into my pockets and roll onto my heels while offering a charming smile to smooth her over.

  “No, girls should believe they always smell like roses.”

  Melody takes a step closer, looking up at me as if she had something more to say, but I quickly realize she’s moving to the side to walk around me. During the short moment of seeing her eyes up close, I notice a hint of thin, red veins, fogging up the vivid green hue. She has a smudge of black makeup beneath her eye, and I have the urge to wipe it away, but I keep my hands to myself. As she takes another step by me, I stop thinking and grab her shoulder, forcing her to turn back
around. “Are you sleeping at night?”

  “She seems confused by my question as her eyebrows knit together. “A little,” she says, squinting her eyes with a questionable look.

  “You look exhausted.” I don’t mean it to be offensive, but I know what can happen when someone goes for long periods without sleep. It breaks down the body and mind.

  Melody glances down at her carpet runner that we’re standing on and sighs. “You know, it’s another one of those things a woman doesn’t want to hear from a man.”

  I’m not trying to win her over. Well, I’d like to, but now isn’t the right time. I’m just concerned. “Well, I’m worried about you. That’s all.”

  When she looks back at me, her mouth turns down into a grimace, and stress lines deepen on her forehead. “Why? We don’t know each other anymore, not after life has had its way with both of us.”

  I’m not sure there is a response suitable enough to explain a reason for caring for this woman, other than the fact that I once had feelings for her, and now that I’m in her presence again, I realize those feelings are still inside of me. They were just buried beneath the years of hardships that I, and evidently she, have lived through. I understand why she thinks I have no right to be concerned about her, but she doesn’t understand what’s been going on inside my head all these years.

  Being late to dinner made it so we sat directly across from each other at the table. The arrangement was likely set up, but I’ll happily enjoy the view while we eat.

  The small talk doesn’t allow for much other than ordinary conversation or anything more than questions about The Barrel House. I know Mrs. Quinn never spent much time working behind the scenes at the shop, but she enjoyed being there and greeting customers. Her questions about sales surprise me, but I guess she is trying to gather a report to bring back to Harold. I’m sure he would like to know how things are going.