Journey: No.
Me: Oh.
Journey: Meet me on the front step in a half hour.
Though I’m beyond the point of exhaustion, I somehow muster the energy to locate my suitcase resting on top of my short, wide dresser. I feel around for a pair of leggings and my sweatshirt. The thought of turning the lights on seems painful.
I tiptoe down the creaking wooden stairs, avoiding the few loud, creaking steps. Journey and I got good at remembering which steps would wake up Mom and Dad if we were sneaking in a little too late at night.
Flash forward fifteen years, and I’m sneaking out at four-thirty in the morning.
Out on the front step beneath the mild glow of our black iron lamp post, I stare out into the wooded area across the street. I built so many forts between those trees, always looking for a secret hiding place to read. The cold snap in the air offers my lungs more space to breathe. The dryness is nice compared to the humidity I left behind in South Carolina. Though, I’m shaking from the mild temperatures.
Journey pulls up along the curb, the rocks crackling beneath her slow-moving tires. I jog through the lawn and slip into the passenger seat. Her car smells like coffee and soap, and not a thing out of place. Journey is obsessively neat and orderly. She becomes anxious when anything is out of sorts, but channels her anxiety by hiding or running away, like she did earlier. I’m more vocal about my feelings.
Therefore, it isn’t surprising that we drive into town without saying one word to each other. Even the radio is off. We pull into a parking spot in front of the 1950s diner that remains open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It’s the last stop before the on-ramp to the highway, so it doesn’t attract as many locals as it does visitors. Meaning, hopefully, no one will know us in here.
We step out, in single file, walk into the quiet hum of the diner. There are only a few others here, all seated at the countertop, starring at a hanging TV while sipping on a mug of coffee.
Journey takes the lead and plops down in the last booth to the far left of the restaurant, and I follow, sitting across from her.
She combs her dark-painted nails through her matching dark hair. Journey covers the natural red locks she was born with. It’s hard to hide, but her hair is more auburn than ginger like it once was.
"This sucks," she says. I only nod because if I say too much, she won’t continue talking. "I knew something was up a few months ago when Dad got this wet cough. He wiped his mouth with a tissue, and I saw blood. I told him to get to the doctor."
"Why didn’t you tell me?"
"Because he said the doctor said, ‘All is well.’ There was no sense in alarming you."
"I thought we got a second chance. I thought it would last forever.”
"We got a second chance," Journey says, matter-of-fact.
"There is so much going through my head right now, and I can’t settle on just one thought," I say.
"Do you ladies want some coffee or some breakfast, maybe?" An older woman with her white hair in a mesh net under a fifties style cap glances between us with tired eyes and a small smile. She has a pencil in her hand and an order pad ready in case we want more than coffee.
"Yes, please, we’ll have two orders of chocolate chip pancakes, and two coffees," Journey says, ordering for the both of us.
"Are you two twins?" the woman asks with a chuckle.
We get that a lot, despite the different colors of our hair and the fact of having a face full of freckles, and Journey is as pale as a white sheet. "Oh, no, she’s older by two years," I tell the woman.
"Well, you look so much alike. I’ll be right back with your coffees."
"Is Ace a factor in your grief?" Journey asks.
I think for a moment, trying to search my mind for an answer that should be there, but isn’t. "Not even a little. I feel relieved to be away from him, which makes me feel guilty, I guess."
"He didn’t make you happy, Mel," she says. "You did the right thing."
"Yeah," I agree.
"What else is weighing you down beside the obvious?" Journey asks.
The waitress returns with our coffees and a little bowl full of individual creamers. "Your pancakes will be out in just a few minutes," she says, placing a handful of napkins down beside the creamers.
"I don’t want to sell The Barrel House," I tell her. "The thought of losing the family business is like we’re burying all parts of Dad with him when he goes."
Journey drops her gaze to her coffee and takes a creamer from the bowl. "He ran the shop seven days a week, Mel. How are we supposed to keep up with our own careers?"
"I don’t know, but I need this.”
"He hired someone to pick up the heavy lifting," Journey says, taking a sip of her coffee
"Yeah ... Brett Pearson. Brett Pearson, who also happens to be the guy I sat next to on the plane yesterday. I had no clue it was him—he looks so different now. What are the odds of this happening? In fact, what are the odds of any of this happening?" I huff with frustration.
Journey spits her coffee into the back of her hand, and her eyes go wide. "Wait, Brett Pearson—Mr. Pearson’s son—the Brett Pearson you—"
I close my eyes and toss my head back against the seat. "Yes."
"Does he remember you?"
"I think so, but he asked which daughter I was. Maybe he forgot all about that stupid night."
Journey takes a napkin and wipes up her little mess. "Okay, relax. It was like ten years ago or something. We were teenagers."
"It will bite me in the butt. I can feel it."
"See, you should have dyed your hair like me. Then, bam. No one recognizes you."
"Great, well. It’s a little late for that. In any case, we can’t allow Brett to run our father’s shop. We need to take some ownership. The business has been in our family since it originated in Dublin a hundred years ago. We have to do something."
"Dublin?" Journey asks.
"Yeah, I think our great-great-grandfather started the business in Dublin," I say, trying to remember the history.
"Mel, look, I know you need something else to focus on, but we need to take care of Dad first, okay?"
The waitress places our pancakes down in front of us, along with a stack of napkins, and two place settings with forks and knives. We both eye the bottle of maple syrup by the edge of the table, waiting for the waitress to walk away, but she presses her hands down on the table and looks back and forth between us. "I always tell people … pancakes can fix everything," she says.
I wish it weren’t the case. "You’re right," I reply, forcing a smile. "Thank you."
"So," I say, cutting into my pancakes.
"No," Journey replies as if she knows what was about to follow my ‘so.’
"You don’t know what I was about to say?"
"You were about to ask me if I’m seeing anyone new," she drones.
I guess I’m predictable. "You’re not on social media, so I can’t stalk you there, and you’re not exactly an open book. So, I have to ask you these personal questions."
"No, you don’t," she replies with a mouthful.
"You never tell me anything. We’re sisters. I should know everything."
"If there was something you needed to know, I’d tell you," she replies.
Journey’s phone vibrates on the table, and I see Dad’s name pop up on the screen. Both of us stare at each other for a long second. From now on, any time our phones ring, we will panic, but we should realize, if there was something to panic about, the call wouldn’t be coming from Dad’s phone.
"Hi, Dad," Journey mumbles with a mouthful. "Yeah, I picked her up for an early breakfast." She washes her food down with a sip of coffee. "I know it’s only five-thirty." Journey covers the phone with her hand. "You left the front door open, idiot."
Oops. "Sorry," I say, loud enough, so Dad can hear.
Journey leans back into her chair, appearing frustrated at whatever Dad is saying to her. "Yup, I’ll take care of it. No, it’s fine, I can do m
y photo edits later." I wish I could hear both sides of the conversation, but it sounds like Dad is asking her for a favor.
Journey ends the call and continues eating her pancakes as if nothing happened. "What did he want?" I ask her.
"For someone who’s sick, he’s still very much on top of things," Journey replies.
"Journey?"
"Mr. Crawley got food poisoning last night or has the stomach flu or something. He can’t come in today, and Brett won’t be in until around ten."
"I can go," I tell her.
"Okay. What’s the first thing you do when you walk into the shop?" Journey tests me.
I glance from side to side, wondering if this is a trick question. "Turn the lights on?"
"Do you have any idea how many machines are running beneath the shop?"
I see where this is going. "I suppose you know how to operate every single machine?" I ask.
"The ones needing to be monitored or checked, yes," she says. "Plus, we have a shipment coming in today."
"Well, it sounds like you need help, so you can show me the ropes. That way, when we need to take things over, we can."
"Mel, aren’t seeing the big picture here."
"You’re acting like I never spent a day at The Barrel House. I grew up in those back rooms like you did. I can figure it all out. Besides, when did you become an expert?"
Journey doesn’t snap back in true fashion. Instead, she takes another long sip from her mug. "The last time Dad got sick."
"So, now you know how to run the shop yourself?" I counter, feeling guilty for not helping Dad as much as Journey was the last time we went through this.
"No, but I can figure most of it out," she says. There’s uncertainty in her voice. She’s putting on a front, and I’m not buying the confidence. "We need to open the shop by eight."
"Okay, let’s do it.” I straighten my posture, proving my seriousness.
"You’ll have to see Brett again," she says, jiggling her eyebrows.
I close my eyes and pull in a sharp breath through my nose. "I don’t think Brett remembers anything from the night of that holiday party.”
Journey raises a brow. "I guess we’ll see, but it was so long ago. It’s probably best to forget about it. It’s not as big of a deal as you made it out to be back then."
I beg to differ.
The thing about being the daughters of a bourbon Master Distiller means we had access to beverages when we shouldn’t have. Dad was sure we’d never touch the stuff after one whiff, but he was wrong one time. That one time has made me refuse to try bourbon again.
7
I must have been part of the most unforgettable kiss known to man. If that’s a thing. He asked me if I was Melody or Journey. Journey has been coloring her hair since she was fifteen, so I’m the only redhead in the family now. Maybe I was a joke to him the night of the party, and he’d rather pretend like it didn’t happen.
Well, I can pretend the same. Just because Brett stole my first kiss doesn’t mean I need to give him the credit. He doesn’t deserve it.
"Why are you so quiet?" Journey asks as she parks behind the firehouse.
“I’m thinking," I tell her.
"About Brett?"
"No," I grunt. “Don’t bring his name up again, okay?"
"Okay, I won’t repeat Brett’s name again. It looks like he’s already here, though. That’s weird. Dad said he wouldn’t be in until ten."
I glance at the time on the dash, realizing it’s only eight. "Hmm."
"Well, let’s see what he’s up to," Journey says, casually, yet snarky at the same time.
"Have you seen him before today? Or since I saw him last ... ten years ago?" I ask Journey, curious if she knows more about him than she’s saying, or not saying.
Journey shakes her head and purses her bottom lip. "Nope. I haven’t heard much of him at all, in fact." She removes the key from the ignition, and we step out into the frigid air. The scent of fresh snow swirls through the air around, me and with the clouds clearing in the sky, I notice the mountaintops are covered with a white blanket.
Journey unlocks the back door of the firehouse: it’s oversized, red, and rusty like it’s always been. It takes two hands to pull the thing open. I like that Dad didn’t change all parts of the original building. It gives the place character.
The shop itself won’t open for another hour, but I guess the machines need maintenance or need to be turned on, or—I’m not exactly sure.
I follow Journey in through the back room, spotting the basement light on. Before papa bought this location, the town’s firemen would park the firetrucks down there since the garage doors open to the side where the road is flat and flows onto the main Street. Even the fireman’s pole is still intact. I spent many days flying down that thing, burning the inside of my legs in the summer when I had shorts on. It’s a wonder how I only have fond childhood memories of this place.
Journey and I head down the battleship gray painted cement steps, finding the usual view of walls lined with barrels.
"He’s cleaning the new batch of kernels," Journey says.
"Huh? Kernels? Why would we be—"
The machine is so loud I can hardly hear the sound of my voice as we enter the machinery area. Sure enough, Brett is standing in front of a machine, hands in his pockets, watching whatever it is he’s doing.
Journey waves her hands in the air to get his attention. My personal thought is: he deserves to have the shit scared out of him, but I guess we can be nice since he’s here trying to help and all.
He doesn’t seem startled in the slightest when he sees Journey waving. In return, he offers us a simple wave, leans in to inspect a part of the machine, then heads toward our direction.
We back out of the area so we can hear a little better. "I thought you weren’t coming in until ten?" Journey asks him, checking her watch as if she needs to highlight her question. We know what time it is. We’ve been awake; up and about for four hours now.
"Yeah, I thought I’d pop by for a few minutes, but I have to leave soon. I knew we had to get these kernels cleaned today and wanted to get a head start.”
"Oh," I say. It’s the only thing I’ve said so far while standing here watching the process of—I should know what this part of the process is.
"Journey, right?" Brett says, offering his hand to my sister.
"Yeah, we spent some time together when we were younger," she replies with a little smirk.
"Sure, I remember." Oh, you remember meeting my sister, but you don’t remember kissing me. How nice. "Well, we have an incoming shipment of water due around noon, so I might need a little help to get the path cleared. Things seem a little out of sorts here."
I wonder if Mr. Crawley has been having trouble keeping up.
"Why do we need an outside shipment of water?" I ask. Because, I mean ... it’s water. I’m sure there are hose-hookups.
"It’s limestone water. We get an import from the Canadian distributor once a month," Brett says. He sounds like he’s been working here for years, but it’s his first full day on the job, and I’m very confused. I know his dad supplies the barrels, but that’s it—or so I thought.
"Oh," I say again. I’m full of great responses today.
Now it’s Brett’s turn to check his watch. His eyebrows perk up as he does. "I gotta run, but I’ll be back in about an hour."
"Do we need to do anything with the corn?" Journey asks.
"Nah, it’s good for now."
Brett walks off toward a row of the barrels, but cuts left rather than continuing to the stairwell. I slowly follow behind him, wondering what he’s doing between a row of stacked barrels. Maybe he’s checking out his dad’s handy work.
Nope.
A little girl, maybe around the age of six or seven, with two long auburn braids is sitting Indian style with a book pinched between her hands. A backpack is dangling from her shoulders, and she’s wearing leggings, little white Chuck Converse shoes, and a hot-pin
k tutu, topped off with a jean jacket.
"Parker, we have to get going.” As she stands up, she slips her backpack off her shoulders to place her book into her bag, then continues toward Brett without saying a word.
"Is she your—" I ask after spying on them.
This time Brett is startled as he turns around, finding me watching from behind. He clears his throat and reaches his arm out for Parker to join him at his side. "Yes, this is my little girl, Parker."
My gaze drifts to his ring finger, but I don’t see a ring. "Oh, wow, I didn’t know—congratulations!" I say, trying to force the enthusiasm, which sounds as fake as it feels. Though, I have no reason to feel anything right now. I’m obviously in a weird place, and he was in the same place yesterday, and now today.
"Thanks," he says with an odd look filling his eyes.
"You’re adorable. You must get your good looks from your mommy," I say, trying to jab Brett a little.
Parker shrugs. "I don’t know, maybe."
"Well, I’m sure she thinks the same," I continue.
With slight movements, Brett shakes his head and closes his eyes, then mouths the word, "No."
I think I’m done speaking for the day. "Sorry," I mouth back.
Brett shoos off my apology as if I shouldn’t worry, but I’m speculating a lot in this one very second. "Anyway, if we don’t leave, we’ll be late for school. First grade doesn’t tolerate tardiness these days."
"Dad," Parker says, rolling her eyes. "We’re never late." The little girl shuffles her backpack over her other shoulder, so the straps are even, and the two leave as I stand here feeling stupid for wondering why Brett didn’t remember me when he’s obviously lived an entire life since I saw him ten years ago.
"We need to go label some bottles and dust the store," Journey says, appearing behind me.
"Did you know Brett has a daughter?" I ask, turning to face her.
Journey screws her lips to the side and tilts her head as if she’s lost in thought. "I don’t think I knew, but maybe I heard something a while go. I didn’t pay much attention to it, because I’m not in love with the first boy I ever kissed."
The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set : Complete Series, Books 1-4 Page 6
