The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball

by Ryan, Shari J.

  I slap my sister on the shoulder. "Don’t be a jerk."

  "I’m not a jerk," Journey says. "I even looked at his ring finger to see if he is married—for you, and it doesn’t look like he is, so, you’re welcome for checking."

  "Why does it even matter?" I press.

  "Well, I told you it’s because you’re clearly still in love with the nineteen-year-old boy you kissed ten years ago."

  "No, I’m not. I just got out of a serious relationship," I argue. "I wasn’t expecting to run into Brett now of all times."

  "A serious relationship where you played house while cooking, cleaning, and occasionally serving four-course meals on football Sundays. It’s okay if your mind and heart wander. It isn’t a sin."

  She’s insensitive. Though, her statement must be true because I’m not feeling the heartbreak or longing for Ace. In fact, I’m not feeling much about the last few years of my life at all. Part of me would like to forget it happened. I wasted precious time of my prime years.

  "Right now, I need to focus on Dad. That’s it, okay? I was uncomfortable running into him yesterday, but it’s good he doesn’t remember anything about us from ten years ago. Yeah, it’s fine and better off this way, right?"

  "Sure," Journey says, heading up the stairs.

  We have spent the last hour sweeping and dusting, and now I’m stocking the shelves with the boxes that needed to be unloaded. I can handle these tasks.

  Journey is cashing out the drawer from yesterday and counting out cash, making notes, and printing out reports from the computer. "I need to run down to the bank. Will you be okay for a few minutes? I have to unlock the doors now."

  "Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

  "Let me show you how to ring a sale through," Journey insists.

  "How do you know how to do all of this?" I didn’t think she ever spent time working here, or at least I wasn’t aware she did.

  "I’ve been helping here and there, especially around the holidays and whatnot."

  I’ve never offered to help. Instead, I moved down the coast and left everything behind to be a housewife for a man who had no intention of getting married.

  Journey shows me the process of scanning a barcode, hitting a couple extra buttons on the computer, and cashing out the sale. She points to one wall with both hands. "Seasonal." Then, she points to another wall. "Older, original." Her finger points toward the displays in the front of the shop. "And newer original. Got it?"

  "Yeah …" No. I never paid enough attention when Dad would go on and on about the different bourbons. It never struck my interest. I don’t know if it ever will, but I need to figure this all out.

  Journey unlocks the front door to the shop and leaves with the leather bag of cash hidden in a paper bag. I spin around, looking for my next task and spot a section of bottles twisted around. The labels aren’t showing like they should be. When I take a closer look, I see they’re all out of order too. I know Dad likes to keep the different variations organized, or at least I think he did. Of course, he would. He has always been very obsessed with organization.

  I begin to rearrange, alphabetize, and sort bottles by shape to make the shelves look more appealing. I’m also feeling grateful that a customer hasn’t come in during the time I’ve been here alone. I’m certainly not comfortable chatting about bourbon if someone were to have questions. Although, I think most of the customers are long-time loyal repeats.

  Brett makes it back to the shop before Journey does, and I silently scold her for forcing me to be alone with him. "The shop looks good," he says, walking in.

  "Thanks," I tell him, replacing the last of the bottles I had to arrange. "I’ve been straightening up. The bottles weren’t organized properly, and I think my dad likes everything to be in good order."

  Brett walks up behind me and inspects what I’ve been doing, moving one bottle to the side. "Did you organize these by date or—"

  "I alphabetized them." As the words come out of my mouth, I immediately realize I screwed up. I didn’t even notice the dates on the bottles. "Crap."

  Brett chuckles. "No worries, I can help you straighten them out. People often shop by the date, so we don’t want them mixed in together."

  "Right.” I should know all of this. I grew up in the back room of this place. He must think I’m a total idiot. "Hey, uh—sorry about the mom-comment to your daughter. I didn’t mean to overstep my bounds."

  "No worries," he says. I figured he might fill me in with more details now that Parker isn’t here, but he doesn’t. He begins resorting or un-sorting what I had already sorted.

  "Do you remember me at all? Like—"

  Brett glances over his shoulder at me with a raised eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

  I will not spell it out. "Never mind."

  "From our odd encounter on our flight? Yeah, of course I remember you," he adds in.

  I intertwine my fingers in front of my waist and look away from him. "No, I mean from years ago."

  "Hmm," he says, sighing at the same time. "Vaguely, maybe."

  The kiss was vague, maybe. That’s it. I can only imagine how many women he has kissed if ... forget it. I leave his side and make my way around to the register, seeing a calendar taped to the area of the counter customers can’t see. Tuesdays have tastings between ten and twelve. "There’s supposed to be a tasting today," I tell Brett.

  "Yeah, we have a little time. It’ll only take a few minutes to set up." Of course, he already knew.

  "Coffee!" Journey shouts as she bursts into the shop. Now I know why she has been gone for so long.

  "What happened to the shelves?" she asks, watching Brett fix my apparent mess.

  "Me. I happened," I tell Journey.

  "All you had to do was sit here and look pretty, Mel," Journey says, walking over and stroking the side of my face as she places the recycled cup holder down on the counter.

  I jerk my face away. "Funny."

  "I try," she says. "Okay, if you don’t want to just be pretty, can you grab a bottle of Quinn Apple Red, Quinn Original 2014, Quinn Peak 2011, and Quinn Pine 2012? We’ll need those for the tasting."

  I head into the back room looking for the inventory boxes, finding all of them quickly. I shuttle them out to the front and place them down on the counter.

  "The sample glasses are in the sliding cabinet beneath the register," Brett says.

  I know Dad has always done tastings in the far-left corner of the shop, so I bring everything down to the small empty mahogany bar table and begin setting up the displays. I catch Brett peeking over at me as I do so, and I wonder what’s going through his mind, and if he’s assuming I’m screwing something else up.

  "I’ll be right back, I need to get more receipt paper.” Journey disappears into the back room.

  "I remember you, Melody," Brett says without turning his head away from the shelves he’s organizing.

  "Yeah, from all the way back to yesterday. Good memory," I jab.

  "No, I remember you from when we were kids, all the shop holiday parties, and the last holiday party we were both at all those years ago."

  My heart flutters in my chest as I glance over at Brett. "You do?"

  "Yeah, didn’t you try bourbon for the first time?" His question accompanies a silent laugh and a nod of his head.

  8

  It seems like a slow morning with very few people walking through the front door. My samples have been sitting out, and I’ve been waiting to offer my best fake smile, but so far, no luck. The only thing I can focus on is the resentment I have against Brett for either poking fun at me or dismissing the memory I have held onto for way too long.

  The backdoor swings open, and Journey hustles toward me, faster than I normally see her move. "We have to go," she says.

  "What’s going on?" Brett asks. Concern fills his eyes, and his chest is moving up and down heavily.

  "Dad collapsed. Mom just called. The ambulance took him to the hospital."

  Shock quickly takes over my body. I�
��ve been down this road before, the news shouldn’t affect me, but it keeps coming in fresh waves of pain. Brett’s hand reaches for my shoulder. His touch pulls me out of my cold stare toward the back of the shop. "Why don’t you get going? I have everything under control here," he explains calmly.

  I remove the waist-line apron I tied on for the tasting and place it behind the bar table. Journey hands me my coat, and I follow her in a daze as we rush out through the back. "Is this it?" I ask her, knowing she has no more of an answer than I do.

  She doesn’t respond. Journey is focusing on the road, but her skin is pale, and her eyes are red.

  I count the stoplights. It’s the only thing I can focus on besides the pain running through my body. I know there are five stoplights before we arrive at the hospital. I’ve counted them before, sometimes wishing there were a dozen more to drag out the time between knowing the truth and not knowing the inevitable.

  There’s a spot up front near the emergency entrance. The parking lot is usually full, but not today.

  I spot Mom’s car a few spots down. Our house is closer to the hospital than the shop. She must have followed the ambulance. We run inside, and though I’ve been here many times before, I feel lost not knowing what room Dad’s in, but Journey thinks quicker in emergencies. She’s already at the administration desk asking where we can find him.

  The mixed scents of ammonia and bleach hurt my stomach—it’s the combination of the two smells that scream hospital. People are staring at us from chairs lined in the open area of the lobby, and I wonder how many panicked people run through this sliding door on a daily basis. Do we all look the same? Frenzied, panicked, and heartbroken.

  Journey books it for the elevators, and I follow. My heart is pounding against the inside of my chest, making me feel like I’m skipping breaths as I move through the long hallway.

  The elevator doors open almost right away, welcoming us with an array of digital advertisements displayed above the buttons on both sides of the doors.

  Journey hits the number three, and we wait, both watching the advertisement for flu shots and happy children running around outside through green grass, all of them with large smiles stretched across their faces. The grass isn’t usually green when people get the flu here. It’s the only thought I can conjure.

  A set of double doors open and we are inundated with various beeps and intercom pages. There are so many monitors hanging from the ceiling, the sight puts an airport lobby to shame. The patient’s vitals are in the place of the arrival and departure times. I want to stop and look for Dad’s name, but Journey continues at a fast pace before stopping abruptly at the nurses’ station.

  “Can I help you?” A nurse asks as we rush by the central nurses’ station.

  “We’re here for Harold Quinn," Journey asserts. “He’s in room 304.”

  The young nurse in front of us has short blonde hair pulled into a low stumpy ponytail, the loose strands of her hair frame her empathetic eyes and enhance her blushing cheeks. She offers a slight smile as she stands from her chair and places her light pink manicured fingers, which match her complementary-colored scrubs down on the countertop where Journey is white-knuckling the edge from the other side. "Are you both family members?"

  "Yes, we’re his daughters," I speak out.

  "Okay," she says, sounding breathy but upbeat at the same time. "The doctors are checking him over and running a few tests, but I can let you in to see him very shortly. He’s in good hands."

  "So, he’s still alive?" I ask. I don’t think I should ask this, but it’s the only question I have.

  "Yes, he’s alive. We will take good care of him. There is a waiting room on the other side of this wall," the nurse says, pointing in the opposite direction of which we came. "If you want to have a seat in there, someone will come to get you when you can visit."

  "Thank you," I offer, hardly making a sound through the tightness in my throat.

  Journey and I make our way around the corner, finding Mom in the waiting room, in the farthest chair, near the windows. She's staring through the wall as if it's a window rather than a solid fixture. Mom appears lost by the lack of focus in her eyes. I don't think she even notices us walk in or sit down next to her, so I place my head on her shoulder and take her hand in mine.

  "I’m trying to be strong," she utters. "I know it’s what your dad needs and what you both need, but I’m losing this battle."

  "You don’t have to be strong," I tell her. "No one can expect us to be strong right now."

  "That’s what he needs—your father," she continues.

  "What happened, Mom?" Journey asks, kneeling in front of Mom’s bouncing knees.

  "He said he had to use the bathroom. I tried to help him get up from the couch, but once he was up, it looked like all the blood drained from his face and he fell to the ground. I’m thankful he missed hitting the coffee table, but it was only by an inch."

  "Maybe he’s just weak," I offer as a hopeful response to what happened. There is no hope. He’s a ticking clock without a time.

  It feels like we have been sitting in this cold empty waiting room for hours without a word. I keep telling myself: no news means good news, but then I remember the truth.

  We have taken turns checking in at the nurse’s station, but they don’t have an update.

  Every time a doctor enters the waiting area, my stomach twists into a knot, then he or she walks right by us. This time, the doctor has made eye contact with Mom, though. She’s walking toward us.

  "Are you the Quinn family?" She looks like a different type of doctor. While still wearing a white coat, but she’s also professionally dressed beneath, complete with heels. Her dark hair is in a tight French twist, and she’s wearing a bright shade of lipstick, making her eyes appear bright and cheerful.

  "Yes," Mom says, her voice choked.

  "I’m Dr. Lynne." She reaches for a chair, lifts it and places it in front of Mom before taking a seat. "I know you are all aware that your husband—your dad—has a timeline, and I’m sure you have been told that every case we treat is different as it’s hard to predict how long someone has left," she says, taking a breath to pause. "Until particular symptoms present themselves."

  This is it. The timeline, whatever it was before ... it shrunk.

  "What does this mean?" Mom asks, trying to sound put together and hopeful, regardless of the negative responses we will likely hear.

  "He’s showing signs of dyspnea, which means he’s having a hard time breathing. This has caused him fatigue and the weakness you may have noticed over the previous few weeks. As of now, we must keep him on high levels of oxygen, but also keep a close eye on him for the next few days to make sure further ventilation methods aren’t necessary."

  I want to understand everything the doctor is saying and pretend like the outcome will be in a few days when they can send him home with an oxygen tank like I’ve seen people walk around with. "If the oxygen works?" Journey says. "Can he go home in a few days?"

  I guess we have the same thought.

  "It’s hard to say. Dyspnea can be a precursor to other issues, which is why we want to keep a close eye on him right now."

  "Can we see him?" Mom asks, crossing her hands over her chest as if cradling her poor heart.

  "Yes, of course. Harold is in room 625. If you have questions, please contact me," she says, handing Mom a business card.

  "Thank you for updating us," Mom says, placing the card in the side of her purse. Her hands are shaking so hard, she has difficulty sliding the card in, so I reach over to help.

  As Dr. Lynne leaves, the three of us stand, ready to find Dad’s room. "Girls," Mom says. We stop and look over, waiting to hear what she has to say. "He’s a fighter, and he’s not giving up until he has to. Just know this."

  Dad’s room is full of machines, odd noises, and lots of cords, but he’s awake and alert. "You’re all here," he says, struggling to smile. "This is all I had to do to get my family in one room?"
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  "Dad, you’re being ridiculous. Of course, we’re all here.” I lean over and kiss his head.

  "I always wanted to take a ride in an ambulance. I guess I can check it off my bucket list," he says, trying to laugh through a small cough.

  "Dad," Journey groans. "Really?"

  "I didn’t say I wanted to confined to a bed," he says, pointing at her. "You take what you can get, right?"

  It hurts to think about laughing, but he’s trying to cheer us up when he’s the one suffering. "Right," I agree with him.

  "Wait, if you two are here. Who’s helping Brett in the shop?"

  "Harold, will you stop worrying about the shop? It’s fine," Mom scolds him.

  "Brett seems to have everything under control," I add before looking away to roll my eyes.

  "Well, that’s good to hear."

  After a while, the alertness Dad had when we first walked in fades into a state of exhaustion. We take the cue to pause our conversations and claim the few seats around his bed while we silently watch him rest.

  I study every freckle on his face as if I had never seen them before. His hair he has is a mess, and I hate it. He never leaves the house without combing every strand it into place. His hands are covered with bruises too, and I hadn’t noticed them before. I wonder why.

  Journey is thumbing through her phone. Her legs pulled up to her chest as she hides her face behind her long dangling waves of hair.

  Mom has a Home and Gardens magazine open, but her eyes are glossy, and I don’t think she is reading the words in front of her.

  A nurse comes in to bring Dad his dinner, and I watch as he struggles to lift his arms to feed himself. "Do you want help?" I ask him.

  Dad raises a brow. "I think I can manage," he croaks out. He still seems determined to take care of himself.

  I’m sure Dad wishes Benji could be here to eat the food he’d rather drop off his fork, but he needs the sustenance.