Bourbon Love Notes

by Ryan, Shari J.

  "I was wondering if you shut your phone off. I tried sending you messages, but they bounced back."

  "I had to disconnect.”

  "I totally understand." The phone rings again, and he answers the call this time. "This is Brett," he says.

  "Oh, hey, I’m sorry. Your number popped up as unknown. I figured you were trying to sell me something." Brett turns around with the phone and laughs at the other part of the conversation I can’t hear. "Very true. No problem, I’ll meet you downstairs in five." He ends the call and checks something else on his phone. "I didn’t hear the message come in either. Geez."

  With his phone back down on the counter, he grabs his coat from beneath the register. "Yeah, a shipment of barrels will be here in a few. I don’t know why the contact didn’t show up on my phone the first time."

  "I’ll watch the shop," I tell him as he jogs through the back door.

  His phone is still lit up on the counter, and I’m doing everything I can to mind my business, but I’m placing labels on bottles, and I’m reaching over his phone for the line of bottles he set up.

  The display shows a list of his text messages, the last one being from Becca.

  It’s none of my business. I peel another label and stick it in its place, then reach back over his phone for another bottle, seeing the next text message to me, and there is a red exclamation mark next to the name.

  The backdoor flies open, and Brett runs through the shop. "Is everything okay?" I ask, jumping away from his phone right as the display darkens.

  "The back-garage door isn’t staying open for some reason. I’m guessing the motor must be dead. I need a hand, quick."

  "From me?"

  "Crawley is in the middle of cleaning some corn, and the last time I interrupted him, we almost ended up with popcorn," Brett says with a snicker.

  "Funny.” I follow him through the back door, watching as he hurries down the stairwell into the basement, grabbing a wooden pole along the way. "I’m going to prop the door open, but I need you to hold it still, so no one loses a head or anything," he explains.

  I know Dad had problems with this door before, but I don’t know how he fixed it. "Yeah, my dad had to prop this thing open a few times. I guess that’s what you get for taking over a building built more than a hundred years ago."

  Brett squats down to pull up the bottom of the garage door. It’s three times the length of a house garage, so I assume it’s heavy.

  I shouldn’t be watching the muscles in his backside flex as he stands to push the door overhead. "Grab the pole," he instructs me.

  He dropped it a few feet behind him.

  I’m holding the wooden pole, waiting for my next direction, but he’s quick to get the door rolling upward and takes the pole from my hand, wedging it beneath the bottom panel of the garage door.

  A truck pulls into the space in front of the garage, and the back-up warning beeps scream into this small space we’re in. The truck stops, and a woman jumps out of the driver’s side door. "Is the damn door broken again?" she asks.

  "It sure is," Brett tells her.

  The woman walks over to Brett and gives him a hug. "How are you doing here?"

  "Good, good. I’m getting things under control," he tells her.

  It would be sexist of me to wonder why a petite woman is driving an eighteen-wheeler, but the thought crosses my mind. Plus, they know each other, which also crosses my mind. "How’s little Miss Parker doing?" The woman asks, while unlatching the back panel of the truck.

  "She’s doing well in school this year. She ended up with a great teacher, which she needed after last year."

  "Oh, totally," the woman says. "The old bat should have retired twenty years ago."

  I feel like a moron standing here, holding a pole.

  "Oh, Becca, this is Melody, Harold’s younger daughter."

  Becca.

  She wipes her gloved hands off on her blue work pants and offers to shake my hand. "I’m so sorry for your loss," she says.

  "Thank you," I mutter.

  "Your dad was awesome. Such a great guy."

  Brett clears his throat and hops into the truck, pushing out a small metal ramp that extends into the garage.

  Brett and Becca swap spots, and Brett catches each barrel rolling down the ramp, lifting each one without breaking a sweat.

  He lines all thirty-something of them up in a row behind me. "That’ll hold you for a while," Becca shouts from inside the empty truck.

  "Yes, ma’am," he replies.

  The ramp retracts and Becca jumps out. "Well, I have to get back to the warehouse. We have two more deliveries today. I’ll talk to you soon, Brett," she says, smiling.

  "See ya," he says, waving as she climbs back into the truck.

  Brett places his hand above mine on the pole. "Here, watch out while I dislodge this stupid thing." I take a few steps back, and he jumps up to press up on the bottom of the garage door to let it fall away from the pole. He catches it and slows it from crashing to the cement.

  "I don’t think I could ever drive one of those trucks," I tell him, trying to make conversation since I feel a little awkward.

  "Yeah, she’s been driving eighteen-wheelers since she turned eighteen. I give her credit though, it’s not easy."

  He’s known her for a while too.

  "I’m sure it’s not," I tell him. "Well, I’ll go unlock the shop door while you settle the barrels, I guess." I don’t know what happens with the barrels now, but I assume they won’t stay lined up in a row here.

  "Oh yeah, that would be great. I’ll be up in a few."

  The moment I reach the storefront, my emotions catch up to me, and I realize I was only okay while initially walking inside of this holiday decorated shop because Brett was here waiting.

  Since I’m not currently blinded by his presence, I can’t help but wonder if my heart will ever feel okay while standing within these walls again.

  Maybe Journey is right.

  18

  After unlocking the front door of the shop, Mr. Crawley wheels in a stack of crates. "Hey kiddo," he says, placing the rolling dolly down flat. "I wasn’t expecting to see you today." He brushes his hands off on his work pants and moves toward me with open arms.

  "Thank you for the fruit basket and the flowers," I say, remembering one of the bigger deliveries was from him.

  "It’s the least I could do," he says. "How’s Mom and Journey?"

  "We’re adjusting.” All I can do is shrug.

  Mr. Crawley pulls in a deep breath from his gut and twists his lips to the side, nodding his head with disdain. "It’s not fair."

  "Nope, it’s not, but you’re still here carrying on after Mrs. Crawley passed, which means we can all do the same, right?" I know he’s been through what Mom is going through, so I’m sure he understands better than most.

  "Time will lessen the pain, and you will all find your way again, as hard as it is to imagine."

  "We’ll get there.”

  "Where did Brett run off to? We have a big shipment going out today."

  I point to the back door. "He’s bringing in a load of barrels. He should be back up in a few minutes."

  Mr. Crawley glances down at his watch. "Gosh, it’s the third already. Barrel Day."

  "How many times a month do the barrels come in?" I ask. I didn’t know there was a certain date to expect them.

  "Well, we get a delivery of new barrels once a month, but we have a pickup of the empty barrels in the middle of the month too."

  I walk past Mr. Crawley and over to the back counter in search of paper and a pen. If I’m going to take care of this business, I need to keep notes. Though, importing and exporting dates of barrels is the least of the notes l need to take.

  "You really want to do this, huh?" he asks.

  "Do what? What day is pickup?"

  Mr. Crawley drops his hands into his pockets and paces toward me. "The fourteenth or the Friday before if it’s a weekend. The same goes for the pick-up sch
edule on the third." I finish writing the note, finding Mr. Crawley staring at me with a look of question filling his eyes. "You want to run this business?"

  My gut hurts when I search for the answer. "Not alone, but yes."

  "What about Journey?" Mr. Crawley presses.

  I sigh as I look back down at my note. "No, she’s not feeling the same way."

  Brett makes his way back into the front of the shop, unrolling his sleeves to cuff them at the wrists. "Those are all being shipped to Portland and Manchester, right?" he asks, pointing at the crates.

  "Yes, sir," Mr. Crawley answers Brett.

  "Where do the orders come in?" I ask.

  The two men share a look before either offer me an answer. "We have an order form through the website, and we receive daily reports," Brett says.

  "Do we ship to the same locations on a regular basis?" I continue.

  Again, Brett glances in Mr. Crawley’s direction. "After glancing through the orders for the past couple of years, it looks to be the case. Sometimes we’ll get a new location. We’re more of a boutique distillery, so our shipments end up in specialty stores, which typically offer rare liquors rather than the big chains."

  I jot down everything Brett is saying so I can keep track of the information. It’s a lot to take in at once.

  "Are you keeping notes on everything?" he asks.

  "It’s the only way I’ll learn.”

  “Good point," he agrees, though there is a sound of wariness in his response.

  "Will Becca be the point of contact for barrel deliveries?" I ask.

  I don’t lift my head as I press the tip of the pen against the paper. "Usually, yes," Brett says. "She’s one of two drivers working for my dad."

  "Do we have contact information for her somewhere?"

  "Sure, we do," Mr. Crawley says. There’s a binder next to the register with our contacts and it’s in the computer system now too.

  "Perfect," I tell him. "Are those shipments ready to go or do they need to be labeled?"

  "They need labels," Mr. Crawley answers.

  "Where can I find those?"

  "You know what, I’ll show you where the supplies are. How about that?" Brett offers.

  I continue holding the pen against the paper before looking up at the two sets of staring eyes. "Okay, good idea."

  Brett places his hands on his hips and nods his head toward the back door. "Come on. I’ll show you."

  I follow him into the back room to a far corner where there are rows of stackable bins, each filled with a different set of labels. "Are the crates marked with the bourbon type?"

  "They are," he says.

  "Okay, good."

  "Melody, do you think it’s too soon to be picking up these pieces?" Brett asks, leaning his hand against a stack of wooden crates.

  "Is there an appropriate time for me to do so?" I respond, knowing there’s a touch of unwarranted haste breaking through my words.

  "No, there isn’t, but you seem stressed out and a little agitated."

  "Sorry.” I take one of the sheets out to inspect the labels. "Even the delivery girl seems to know more about this place than I do."

  "Becca?" he asks.

  "Yes, Becca."

  "No one can change the fact of this being your father’s shop, Melody."

  I place the label back on its stack, telling myself I’m biting off more than I can chew. I should have helped Dad more before I moved away. I was always more consumed with something else and never took the time to appreciate what he had kept running from prior generations in our family. "I will end up being the one to let four generations down."

  Though my back is to him, I hear Brett’s footsteps coming closer to where I’m standing, but I don’t move. I keep my focus on the ream of labels as they become blurry from the intensity of my stare.

  Brett’s hands cup my shoulders, and he squeezes tenderly. "If this is what you want to do, I’ll stick by your side and help you through it."

  "What are you going to get out of it? It’s not your family business. You’ve stepped away from yours to help with mine, and it’s not fair to you."

  Brett removes his grip from my shoulders and takes my elbow into his hand, twisting me around. "You’re asking a lot of unnecessary questions for your first day of owning a bourbon shop," he says. The doleful look in his eyes shows there is truth behind his reason for being here. "I want to be here, okay?"

  "Thank you," I tell him, exhaling a shaky breath.

  "You won’t learn this stuff overnight, so be easy on yourself. Notes are good, but you’ll figure it all out with time."

  "I hope I’m making the right decision. I don’t want to be the reason this shop fails either. I don’t know what is best right now."

  Brett drops his hand from my elbow and delicately places his palm on my cheek. "If you follow your heart, it will be the right decision. That’s what I think."

  The warmth of his touch eases the pain in my chest and slows the rapid breaths rushing from my lungs. "What did my dad tell you the night of his ‘goodbye’ party? The night of the celebration, before he died. I saw you two having a serious talk."

  Brett offers a faint smile. "Something I can’t share with you just yet."

  I pull away from his hand. "What? What do you mean?” I snap.

  "Oh, no, no, I didn’t mean it in a bad way. It’s not some secret. He said something about a letter he sent to you. Did you read it?"

  My jaw tightens as my breaths quicken again. "No, I haven’t been able to read the letter yet."

  "When you’re ready, you’ll know what he was talking to me about," Brett says.

  I close my eyes and toss my head back with a relentless feeling of frustration. "Every time I think my heart is hurting a little less, the pain comes back with a vengeance."

  "Mel, take a deep breath. You’re going to hyperventilate. Come on," he says, his words utter in a hush. Brett pulls me into his arms and places his hand on the back of my head, holding me against him in a hug I greatly need.

  His embrace reminds me of how breakable I am, and I’ve fallen victim to tears with each hug I have received in the past few weeks. I’m trying my best to keep my emotions in check because he doesn’t need to see me break down. It’s been a few days since I’ve let the last of my tears fall and I need to hold it together.

  I blow the air out of my lungs through pursed lips, waning the rush of sadness while focusing on the warmth of the embrace and the fragrance of laundry detergent from Brett’s shirt. It’s comfortable here.

  "You know. The last time we were standing here, in this exact spot," he whispers in my ear.

  The words bring a small smile to my lips, making me lose track of the ache in my chest, replacing it with the heart-fluttering memory of his kiss from all those years ago. "I know," I mutter against his chest. "I wish I could turn back time."

  Brett takes a step back, loosening his arms from my body. "Why turn back time, when we’re right back here where we started?"

  I lift my gaze from his chest and lose myself in the golden hue of his amber eyes. "Time brought me back here," I say.

  "Time brought me back too," he says. "The duration of time determines the worth of an outcome—that’s what this place is all about. Therefore, if we turn back time, we’d have to start over and bottle up our feelings for another ten years until it would be time to enjoy the potential quality."

  "Are you talking about bourbon, or—"

  Brett leans down and presses his lips to mine, his arms scoop around my back, pulling me in, holding me tight, making me feel like we have waited more than enough time for this moment. His hand loosens from my back and sweeps across my cheek. His lips part and with only a second to breathe, our lips reconnect. My hands tremble as they wrap around his neck, feeling the short-shaved ends of his hair tickle my knuckles. I have forgotten about life outside of this moment and I want to stay here for this reason alone. Brett kisses my bottom lip, then my top lip, and pulls away to stare down i
nto my eyes. "That kiss has been bottled up and aging for quite a while," he whispers.

  I manage a smile, feeling the muscles in my face stretch in a way I haven’t felt in weeks. "There she is—the woman with the million-dollar smile."

  "It feels like I haven’t smiled in so long.”

  "If a kiss can bring a smile to your face, I have no problem filling that role in your life until you learn how to smile on your own again?"

  His words make my cheeks burn, and I press my teeth into my bottom lip. "I might be okay with this.”

  "By the way ..." he says. "Becca is my cousin. In case you were curious." Brett winks as if he knows what thoughts were going through my head.

  "I wasn’t curious," I lie.

  He narrows an eye at me, calling my bluff. "Well, good."

  "So, labels," I say, turning around, grabbing a stack.

  "Yeah, not those," he says.

  "They’re Quinn Pine," I tell him. "Isn’t that what we are shipping?”

  "They’re Quinn Pine 2013 and 2014. You’re holding Quinn Pine 2015."

  I close my eyes and shake my head. "I am going to make so many mistakes, and I apologize for it now."

  "I have no issues correcting every single mistake you make," he says, reaching for the right stack. I turn and tilt my head to the side, giving him a look of distress, but his response is another kiss. "But I guess it means I must make you smile again after." He sighs and turns away from the labels, walking back toward the shop door.

  I place my hands on my cheeks, trying to cool them down before Mr. Crawley sees the red hue likely outlining every freckle on my face.

  "Are you two all set up front here? I have to go fill a few barrels downstairs?" Mr. Crawley asks.

  "Yeah, we’re good," Brett says. "I plan to get her settled with shipments and the computer system in a bit."

  "Next week, I’m teaching you the art of making bourbon, young lady," Mr. Crawley says, pointing at me with a wink as he walks out the back door.

  "I suppose I should learn about that too," I say.

  "It could help, a little, maybe," Brett says, pinching his fingers together in front of his crooked smile.

  Brett unloads the first crate, pulling the bottles out one at a time. "These are the 2013s," he says, pointing to the lid off the crate where there is a date stamped next to Dad’s scribbling words of Quinn Pine.