Brett’s cold hands cup my cheeks as he stares down into my eyes for a long drawn out second, smiling at me with contentment. "I really really love you," he says, lowering his lips to mine.
28
A Year Later
I didn’t think we’d ever have another party in The Barrel House after Dad passed, but Brett thought it might be nice to continue his tradition. Usually, Dad would hold the party during the holidays, but the time of year is still raw, so he mentioned waiting a few months. Then we could recreate a Harold Quinn style bourbon party.
I’m excited to host the party. I think it will be a wonderful turnout, and Dad would be proud. I put a little extra effort into my hair and makeup, and I’m wearing something a little more elegant than I have in the past to these parties. Dad always dressed formally during a party. He said it was a form of respect for the business and it made him feel prideful. I needed to do the same today.
I found a perfect black cocktail dress. I spin in front of my mirror, telling myself I look the part of a business owner; classy and elegant.
I hear a horn blare from outside the house. I recognize the horn because Journey doesn’t get out of her Jeep unless necessary when picking someone up. She agreed to drive Mom and me to the party. Parking is only available right off the main street at the firehouse, and there are only a few spots in the back for staff. We opened the back lot where we take in deliveries, so we’d have more space, but it will still be a tight squeeze.
"Look at you, all fancy," Journey says as I try to climb into her back seat without flashing my butt to the rest of the neighborhood.
I scoot all the way in to look at what Journey’s wearing, and I’m not surprised to see the black pants. She has a coat on, so I don’t know what shirt she’s wearing, but I assume it’s dressier than her normal attire.
Mom takes a seat in the front and pulls down the mirror to apply her last coat of lipstick. “I’m happy we’re doing this," Journey says. "Dad wouldn’t have wanted these parties to stop."
"I agree," Mom says.
"He’ll be there with us," I tell them.
While driving down the back roads toward the center of town, I see Journey thumbing out a text on her phone. "Are you serious? Quit texting while you’re driving," I yell at her.
She hits the send button before dropping her phone into the cup holder. "Okay, I’m done."
"I’m serious. You’re going to get into an accident. It’s not worth it."
"Okay, okay, I understand." She says this a lot, and I’m sure she understands but chooses not to care.
"I really don’t like it when you text and drive either," Mom tells Journey. "You promised you weren’t texting while you drive anymore."
"Okay, it was the last time."
"I hope so," Mom says.
The small titter of arguing eats up the rest of the time it takes to arrive at The Barrel House. We take a spot in the back and park behind Brett’s truck since we’d be leaving at the same time, anyway.
As we make our way to the front of the shop, the caterers are bustling in through the front door, mission style without expression. Tables are being opened, and cloths are snapping in the air before falling into place while serving ware is delicately set on a side table.
The three of us are standing in awe watching the caterers set everything up so flawlessly, so a hand on my shoulder makes me jump.
I turn, finding Brett decked out in a suit and tie, his hair slicked, and cleanly shaven. "Your dad liked to add a little class to his parties, so I wanted to uphold the tradition. I see you felt the same," he says, his eyes roaming the landscape of my body from head to toe. "You look absolutely gorgeous."
"You—" I say, breathlessly. "Wow, you look amazing." He wraps his hand around my arm and leans to the side to give me a kiss on the cheek. "I’ll be right back."
"It’s almost like … he’s too perfect," Journey says to me.
"There’s no such thing," I retort.
"I know," she agrees, looping her arm around my neck. "I’m glad your wish came true with him. It’s hard to believe you knew exactly what you wanted at seventeen, but I guess some of us figure out life a lot sooner than others, right?" The woman of few words speaks profoundly about life, but to a point, making me wonder if she’s unhappy being alone. She’s vowed to be single for life because it’s what will make her happy, but I have always wondered if that ideal life might not be so appealing someday.
"What about your dream?" I ask her.
"I’m living it," she says.
"You still don’t want to get married or have a family?"
Journey keeps her focus set ahead while we continue watching the caterers bustle around. "I don’t know. Maybe there’s someone out there for me. We’ll see."
Mom and I lean back to give each other a questioning look behind Journey’s head. I don’t think either of us expected her to say what she did.
"There’s definitely someone out there for you.” I hope she knows this.
Journey shrugs and walks off to straighten a tablecloth. "Something has gotten into her," Mom says.
"Someone," I joke and nudge my elbow into Mom’s side.
"Melody," she retorts. "Be nice."
It isn’t long before the guests pour into the shop, filling every corner, every open space. Every glass is in a hand, and the conversations are cheerful and full of life, just as Dad loved.
He always made a speech at the beginning of parties to thank his guests for their patronage and loyalty.
"I’d like to make a toast," I announce as loud as my voice will carry. I hold my glass up to get the crowd’s attention. It isn’t long before there’s nothing more than a low whisper from a few people. "I want to thank you all for being here tonight. As you know, this is the first Barrel House party without my dad, but we all thought it was important to continue his beloved tradition in honor of his favorite customers." Everyone is quiet and listening intently. The silence makes my heart pound. "My dad once explained to me—there are times in the distilling process when some of the bourbon evaporates from the barrel. This is due to a pressure change or temperature fluctuation. At first, I thought—what a waste, but then he told me those barrels often result in the best tasting product. In distillery terms, this occurrence is referred to as an angel’s share because the ‘bourbon evaporates into the heavens.’" I didn’t think of the irony at the time Dad was explaining this bit of knowledge to me, but now, the reminder makes me smile. "Well, my dad is now an angel’s share too—he is the part of The Barrel House that left us for heaven, leaving behind, nothing but the finest." I take a breath to swallow the choky feeling rising in my throat but lift my glass a little higher. "In honor of Harold Quinn, thank you for being here tonight."
Glasses clink, and a rumble of the word "cheers" rolls through the shop.
"I’d also like to say something," Brett says, walking up behind me and placing his hand on my bare shoulder.
He clears his throat before speaking. "This year has been difficult for the Quinn family, but I’m very honored to have been here to help keep this business running with the Quinns. Harold didn’t want his legacy to die with him, and we won’t let it." I lift my glass to clink his, but Brett pulls his glass away. "I’m not done," he mutters. Brett steps in front of me, facing the guests. "I had this conversation with Harold the night before he passed away. He said to me: ‘Son, it’s only a business, and though it was my life’s passion, my wife and daughters have always been my key to happiness. I know I can’t predict the future or alter what might be, but I’ve seen the way you have always looked at Melody, even tonight. If the two of you ever find a spark, I know she will understand the meaning of joy, as I did. Things may never work out in such a way, but if they do, I believe it’s meant to be.’"
Brett pauses after repeating Dad’s words, and it feels like my heart stops beating for a moment. I have my hand over my mouth, trying to keep myself from tearing up at the words I never knew Dad said to Brett.
/> "He said this?" I ask, feeling my throat tighten from the rush of surprise.
Brett turns around to face me, his glass in hand, a smile on his face. "He did. Maybe he felt an intuition. Maybe he lived long enough to know a spark when he saw one. This last year and a half with you has been nothing but bliss for me," he says.
"I didn’t know if I would find a sense of contentment after he left us," I tell him. "But I feel nothing but happiness when I’m with you.”
Brett places his glass down on a nearby table and reaches into his coat pocket, retrieving something, something to make my heart beat out of my chest. He kneels in front of me and opens a small black suede box. "Melody Quinn, will you be my forever happiness, my life, and my wife?"
The tears are unstoppable as they pour from my eyes. I fall into Brett, knocking him down as I kiss him with every ounce of excitement I feel within my body. "Yes," I utter against his lips. "Yes, I’ll marry you."
He stands up, lifting me with him. "She said yes!" he shouts.
Everyone is cheering and clapping, but it’s background noise to the quiet between Brett’s lips and mine. "I love you,” I mutter.
"I love you more," he whispers. Brett steps back and takes the ring out of the slit from the box. His hand is shaking as he slides the beautiful ring onto my finger. I throw my hand up to show off the diamond as our families wrap us into their embrace. "I always knew you two would end up together," Journey says.
"I always hoped," Mom adds in.
"As did we," Bill says. "We will all finally be a family."
It’s almost like they knew.
"I have one more thing to give you, Mel," Brett says.
Bill hands him a bottle of bourbon, and Brett shows me the label: "Bourbon Love Notes."
"It’s him," I utter through a silent cry. I twist the bottle in his hand, seeking the writing on the back, which says:
If the opportunity arises, you have my blessing to marry each other. I know you will take good care of one another and live a life filled to the brim with perfection. Congratulations. I’m so proud of you both.
I grab the bottle from Brett’s hand and hold it against my chest. "We have his blessing," I tell him.
"We do."
"I truly couldn’t ask for more.”
"Get a room," Brody yells over to us.
Journey passes by Brody and slaps him upside the head. "Are you serious right now?"
"What?" Brody responds.
"This is not the time," Journey scolds him.
"It’s always a good time," Brody retorts.
Brett and allow their banter to fade into the background as we look at each other. "Come with me, let’s take a minute," Brett says, pulling me into the back room. "I considered proposing to you over here by the boxes where we had our first kiss, but I think I’d like to make this spot the place where we have our last first kiss instead."
My lips quiver, my arms are trembling, but the moment he folds me into his embrace and takes me lips into his, my body succumbs to the warmth and comfort. "Like the bourbon, which takes years to age and bottle up, our lives have blended together seamlessly, so now we can enjoy the sweetness of our patience," Brett says.
A flash of our first kiss plays through my mind, remembering how badly I wished for just one more, but I never imagined us ending up here, like this.
Epilogue
Two years later
"I can do the dishes," Brett says, tugging me away from the kitchen sink.
"No, you cooked tonight. Plus, there are only two left. I’ll be done in just a minute," I tell him.
"Are you sure?" he asks, kissing my cheek.
"Yes, silly. Take the kids outside. I’ll be right there."
I watch them from the kitchen window as I scrub the last plate. Brett has our little boy, Quinn, perched on his hip and the stroller in his other hand. Parker is following right behind him, dragging her bike down the driveway, singing a song at the top of her lungs. The plate I’m scrubbing will be extra clean as I stare at my life outside of this window.
The kitchen windows have changed throughout my life, as have the views from the inside looking out. Throughout my whole life, I wanted nothing more than to look out of my kitchen window and feel fulfilled with the life surrounding me. I didn’t want to be watching other lives pass by, wishing only to have the same. I know now, I could never see my life outside the window while standing on the wrong side.
Brett pushes the stroller down the sidewalk a few feet and stops in front of our white picket fence, the one he hand-built after we got married. With a cheek to cheek smile, he waves, hurrying me to come outside and join them in the life we built together. I place the last dish on the drying rack and rush outside, leaving nothing behind but the memories of waiting for the view I only wanted to be a part of.
I walk through the gate of our fence and take the stroller from Brett’s hands as we make our way down the street of our perfect neighborhood, meant for a perfect husband and wife, and two perfect children. It may not be perfect to anyone else, but this is my perfect. This is my dream and my wish come true.
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If you are interested in reading Journey and Brody’s story, tap here to preorder your copy of Bourbon on the Rocks!
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BOURBON on the ROCKS
CHAPTER ONE
"Just one more shot, and I think I'll have enough," I tell Marco. He's the owner of Chez Tru, the newest restaurant to open in the vicinity of this small town of Lakebridge, Vermont. I've been shooting portraits of steaming food for nearly four hours, and I feel nothing but starvation. I was hoping maybe Marco would offer me a sample after capturing the photos, but no such luck.
"I can't wait to see the outcome," Marco says, running around behind me to sneak a peek at the display on my camera.
"I should have the raw photos uploaded by tomorrow, but the edits will take a few days," I tell him, pressing the power button.
I slip my camera into my bag and offer him a smile with the hope he will stop asking to see the raw images on a two-inch display. I have a thing about allowing clients seeing unfinished work before I have had a chance to scrutinize which of the five-hundred photos are suitable for editing. "Very well," he says, huffing with a sigh. "As soon as you have anything to show me, please send a sample along. I'm very eager."
Marco is breathing over my shoulder, and the warm air puffing from his lips makes me shiver. He's in my bubble. I take a step away and face him as I zip up the lens pocket of my bag. "Absolutely," I tell him.
"Journey, might I ask you if you would be interested in joining me for dinner this evening?" His question shouldn't stun me after spotting the several lingering glances today when he thought I wasn't looking. He doesn't know that a photographer sees everything—every detail, including the indentation on his ring finger. Marco is probably my age or somewhere in his thirties, and he's a good looking man with full pockets. But, he's got this beard—which, I can't.
I feel the desire to spout off my spiel: first off, you own a restaurant … shave. Second, the whole wedding-band indent—what's up with that? Third, I'm emotionally unavailable to all suitable men. So um, sorry.
"That's kind of you to ask, but I should probably get working on these photos since you're so eager to have them back." I slip my leather jacket on and offer another phony smile to get my point across. I have my sights set on the front door of the restaurant. The street has minimal lighting, which makes the road darker than I like. "Oh, I'm sure they can wait a night," he says, placing his hand on my shoulder.
I try to inhale a slow breath, hoping to calm myself, but it's no use. Marco is already touching me. I jerked my shoulder away and stare at the spot where his hand was resting, glaring at my covered shoulder as if it were burning.
"You should get home to your wife," I tell him, brushing by as I shuffle my bag onto my back.
"My wife?" He laughs as i
f my statement was a joke. I'm sure there's a chance it might be a joke to him, but I'm going with my gut, and my gut says he has a wife.
"I always say, lies are hidden within the subtle details. By the indent on your finger, I'd say you've been married for at least five years. Have a good night, Marco."
I walk out the front door and take my keys out of my back pocket. Asshole.
I am not affected by slimy men. They are stupid, and I am smarter.
I'm not affected, yet my feet are both off the ground when my phone vibrates in my coat pocket.
"Jes-us," I groan, hitting the answer button before glancing at the display. I hear the FaceTime chime, informing me that I'm on video while recovering from my two-second heart attack.
"I am not Jesus, but I can see why you'd confuse me for him." I hold the phone up and tilt my head to the side, glaring at Brody Pearson—my arch-nemesis, and sudden FaceTime stalker.
"I shouldn't have given you my phone number," I tell him for the fifth time since I gave him my number last week.
"Aw, come on. This is like the first time you haven't tried to hide a smile when I've called."
I press my lips together and smirk into what he is referring to as a smile. "Oh, you mean my resting-bitch-face?"
"Journey, wait up!" The voice carries down the street, and I wish I had been able to park closer to the entrance of the restaurant earlier, but there was a sale in the antique shop next door, so I had to park three blocks away.
I turn my face away from my phone, determining how much distance I have from Marco.
"Who's that?" Brody asks, his eyebrows arched with concern.
"The restaurant owner who won't give up."
Brody looks confused, but it's because I didn't tell him I have a shoot today, which is because we aren't dating, or friends, for that matter. Brody and I grew up together, kind of. Our parents are friends, but we only saw each other a few times a year when our families attended the same parties. Then, he ran away, I got busy, and our families became a bit distanced—perfect reason not to see someone for twelve years. But, yay for me, I ran into him last week. Now, it's like we're best friends who FaceTime each other. I've already informed him: A. I don't have best friends for a reason. B. I don't FaceTime for a reason.
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