Brett seems uncomfortable for the moment and takes a second to glance around the foyer, spotting the same family portrait I was staring at a few minutes ago. A smile tugs at his lips. "We’re lucky to have good families, huh?"
"We are."
"Out of all my friends' parents, your parents are the only ones who stayed together aside from mine. It' has been sad watching their generation fall apart."
"I’ve always thought the same, but I guess luck can’t go on forever."
I think Brett forgot about my situation for the brief second he spoke his thought out loud. "Yeah. Hey, have you eaten anything since you left The Barrel House today?"
I close my eyes and shake my head. "I’m not very hungry."
"You need to eat something," he says, walking past me, back into the kitchen, which he apparently knows his way around. "Your mom keeps a stocked fridge like my mom, huh?"
"Always."
I follow Brett into the kitchen and watch as he pulls out lunch meat and cheese, then circles around until he sees the bread box. "Sit down," he says.
"Are you always this demanding?" I ask, pulling out a seat from the table like he demanded.
"When someone needs help, yes, I am. Sit."
"I don’t need help, Brett."
"That’s bull. You will need to be a lot more convincing to stop me from making you a sandwich."
I don’t have the energy to argue, and my stomach has been screaming at me for the last hour. Plus, it’s kind of nice, someone offering to do something for me after I’ve spent years being the giving person for someone else.
"Mind if I make myself one too?"
"Knock yourself out.”
"You’re so kind," he responds, opening the drawers in search of a sandwich knife he finds rather quickly.
"I try."
Though I’m in a daze as he slaps together two sandwiches, I realize I am staring at the tattoos peeking out beneath his cuffed sleeve on his left arm. Then there’s the definition of muscles in his arms—they flex and tighten with each move he makes. I wonder what kind of job he had in the Marines. "Were you ever deployed?"
"Twice. The first time to Afghanistan and the second time to Okinawa in Japan. Once I got back from Japan, things changed a bit."
"Oh," I reply, wondering if he’ll elaborate.
He doesn’t. Instead, he brings over two plates with sandwiches, places them down, and returns to the counter to clean up his mess.
A man who cleans up after himself. They do exist.
As Brett sits down to eat his sandwich, Mom comes through the front door. I hear the release of her belongings fall to the bench, and the buttons from her coat hit the wall as she places it on the hook. Her keys are the last to clamber as she drops them in the glass bowl on the entryway table.
Black smudges line the slight bags beneath her eyes, and her face is pale. She looks like she’s past the point of exhaustion. "I’m glad someone is eating up the lunch meat. I was starting to think it was a waste," she says. "Brett, I can’t thank you enough for everything you’re doing. I called your mother to thank her for watching your daughter so you could help us as well. Elizabeth and I are planning to have lunch tomorrow. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her. It will be nice to catch up."
"She’s been worried about you. I think she tried calling a couple of days ago," Brett says.
"Yes, she did, and I just—"
"No excuse needed. She knew," he says.
Brett seems to inhale his sandwich within a few bites, takes his plate to the sink and cleans it before replacing it in the cabinet where he found the dishes. Mom gives me a look and smirks with an approving look. Except I wasn’t seeking approval.
"I’ll get out of your hair now. Oh, Melody, Mr. Crawley called me earlier. He’s feeling much better. So, he’ll be back tomorrow, which means I can keep an eye on the shop. If you need to be with your dad ... I have—"
"I’ll stop in," I interrupt him.
"Whatever makes you comfortable," he says. "In the meantime, if either of you need anything, call me. Do you still have my number?" He’s looking at me with a question in his eye. Maybe he’s wondering if I have the piece of scrap-paper with the number he handed me as we were getting off the airplane.
"It’s in my coat pocket.”
"Good. Try to get some rest. I’ll see myself out." He nods his head with a quick smile and leaves, making sure to give a dog-friendly goodbye to Benji on the way.
Mom sighs as the door closes. "You know what I hate," she says.
There’s probably a long list at the moment. "What’s that?"
"The quote, ‘Everything happens for a reason.’ I can’t see a reason for your father being sick, but the side effects of him being sick—it’s changing our lives, and our lives will not be over when his ends. We need to remember this.”
10
I don’t know how I slept for a solid five hours, but exhaustion must have taken over my spinning thoughts and worries. However, the three seconds between my eyes finding the light spilling in through my blinds and the contact I make with my phone, causes my heart to stop. What if I missed a call from the hospital? Would they have called me? Maybe Mom didn’t hear the phone either. The three of us are on the call list if something happens.
My phone has an empty display, and my racing heart slows to a normal pace. I feel like I’m living in this warped time-zone where life is dangling between the unknowns.
It’s only seven, but I can’t sit around. I must keep moving, or I will break down.
A shower doesn’t offer much relief, but I do what I can to make myself look human before heading downstairs, finding Mom in another baking frenzy.
"I’m making muffins," she says. "They’ll be ready in a minute."
I’m not hungry, but I don’t want to say this after she’s been baking for God knows how long. I see at least three Tupperware cases stacked between the toaster and fridge.
"Where are you bringing all of those?" I ask.
"You’re bringing one to the shop, and I’m bringing the other two to the hospital. The nurses have been so kind."
"Are you allowed to bring food into the hospital?"
Mom waves her hand at me as if she’s shooing me off. "Oh, I don’t care about their stupid rules. They’re just muffins."
"Mom," I say.
"Melody, please, have a muffin, then bring these to the shop before you head over to the hospital. Also, you can take Dad’s truck today if you don’t mind filling up the gas tank."
Mom places a small white dish down onto the apple red placemat, then places a muffin down, followed by a coffee cup.
"You don’t have to wait on me hand and foot," I tell her, taking a seat at our old family table, the one where I etched a heart into the soft wood when I was fifteen. I got in a lot of trouble for doing this, but Mom has strategically had it covered with various placemats since then. I slide the placemat over an inch, exposing the scratches and trace my finger around the uneven heart, trying to remember why I would do such a thing.
Mom returns to my side with the carafe of coffee and fills my mug, then tops it off with a little cream. "You and your crush at fifteen," she says, watching me trace the heart. "Oh my, you were in love with that boy since you were old enough to realize boys weren’t as gross as you once claimed. Of course, you never admitted to it, but I knew."
“What boy?" I question.
"You know I’m talking about Brett," she continues. "Every time our families were together, you stared at him with shimmering eyes. Your father and I both knew."
I hardly remember when my crush started, and I don’t recall Brett being the reason for this heart on the table, but it seems like something I would do. "How do you know he was the reason I scratched this heart into the wood?" I ask Mom, breaking off a crumb of the muffin.
"You said you were in love, and ‘love can make a person do crazy things.’ I couldn’t even get mad at you because it was so adorable."
"I’m pretty s
ure you got mad at me for destroying our kitchen table.” I do remember the scolding and getting sent to my room.
"Well, I had to teach you it was wrong to destroy furniture, but I didn’t stay upset for too long," she says, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.
I take another few bites of the muffin, feeling my stomach twist and turn each time I swallow. I don’t feel hungry at all right now.
"When are you going to the hospital?" I ask her, feeling the long seconds tick by. It seems as if I knew the timer would beep and interrupt my question.
"As soon as this last batch cools, I’ll be heading over."
Mom takes the top container of muffins and places them down on the table. "These are for the shop."
"Are you okay?" I ask her, wondering how she’s holding up so strongly.
"No, but what choice do we have right now?"
I force the rest of the muffin down my throat and chase it with a few gulps of coffee. The moment I push my chair out from the table, Mom collects my plate and mug. "I can do the dishes, Mom."
"I have it under control.” She hasn’t stopped moving since I got downstairs, and it’s making me dizzy. Maybe this is her trick, too—just keep moving.
I collect the muffins and stop Mom from opening the fridge door a fourth time in the last two minutes. I wrap my free arm around her neck and squeeze. "I love you."
"I love you too, sweetie. I’ll see you soon."
When I’m halfway to The Barrel House, I stumble across a thought, wondering if Mom purposely gave me a reason to stop by the shop, and it isn’t for the sake of kindly bringing baked goods. It’s the same feeling I got last night when Journey only gave me the house keys to Mom and Dad’s. I must believe it was pre-planned since she had no issues getting into her apartment last night with whatever key she held onto along with the Jeep key.
Why are they pushing me to be around Brett? Especially now, of all times. I still have Ace calling me, and my mind is focused on Dad.
I claim the parking spot beside Brett’s truck. I wonder if his daughter will be here again today since it’s early and before school hours. I also wonder where Journey is this morning because I haven’t heard from her. Though, she’s probably scared to talk to me, knowing I’m smart enough to see the trap she organized last night.
The lights in the back room are on along with the lights in the front of the shop. I head there first, finding Brett counting cash from the register. "Good morning," I say, announcing my presence.
"Hey, you," he says. "Did you get some sleep last night?"
"I did," I respond, walking toward the counter to place the muffins down. "My mom made muffins and told me to bring them over."
Brett places the tens back under the clip of the drawer and glances over at me. "Your mom was up early enough to bake all this?"
"I believe it is her way of coping. She likes to feed people, so—"
"Well, I like to eat," Brett says, reaching for the Tupperware. "Parker, would you like a muffin?"
I spot Parker on the floor beside his legs, reading the same book as yesterday. She has on a baby-blue tutu, leggings, and cowboy boots. I think her style is adorable. She moves her bookmark, marking where she stopped. "What kind are they?" she asks, graciously.
"Blueberry," I tell her. "They’re pretty delicious."
Parker stands up, presses her hands onto the countertop, and rises to her toes, peeking at the muffins. "Okay, I’ll have one."
I spot a roll of brown paper towels beneath the register and tear a sheet off for her to use as a plate.
The snaps from the Tupperware lid echo between the walls as I remove the top and retrieve a muffin. "They’re still warm too. Even better.” I place it down on the paper towel and grab the wooden stool from behind her. "Here you go."
Parker climbs up on the stool, her tutu spilling off the sides. "Thank you, Ms. Quinn," she says.
I find myself smiling at her even though she’s focused on the muffin. "You can call me Melody.”
"Daddy says it’s respectable to refer to everyone as miss or mister," she explains.
“That’s true,” Brett says, replacing the stack of twenty-dollar-bills back to its spot. "But Melody is different. It’s okay if someone tells you to call them by their first name," he explains to his daughter.
"Okay," she says, shrugging her shoulders before refocusing on the muffin.
"She’s so polite and well behaved," I tell Brett, keeping my voice low, so Parker doesn’t hear me.
"Yeah, she’s a good girl. It’s almost as if she makes this parenting thing seem too easy sometimes, which makes me wonder how badly I’m screwing up."
"Well, I don’t think you’re messing anything up. She seems perfect."
"For today," Brett responds.
His comment is odd, but I won’t press for an explanation when she’s sitting right beside him.
"Do you need me to stick around so you can take her to school?" I offer. He didn’t ask, but no one else will be watching the main shop area if Mr. Crawley is downstairs.
"Oh, thank you, but my brother is coming to pick her up. We take turns bringing the girls to school."
"Meaning, I should leave and go face the cold hard truth of my life," I mutter.
It’s not that I don’t want to be at the hospital; it’s killing me to watch Dad slowly fading away. There isn’t even a miracle to pray for—there is no positive outcome. It’s just suffering.
Brett closes the cash drawer, a blunt ding following his action, and he turns around to face me. "No one wants to watch what you have to watch. It’s not fair, and what I’m about to say ... you might not understand or like, but you’re getting time with him, and some people would give up their last breath for those moments.”
It’s a fair point, but I can argue. "When it’s quick, the person dying doesn’t suffer, only the loved ones. But, when it’s slow, everyone suffers. Right?"
Brett folds his arms over his chest. "Without closure, there are everlasting questions."
I can’t help but look into his eyes and study them as if there is a meaning behind his statement—one written within the golden hues of his beautiful eyes, but all I see is a dark flicker as he breaks our stare. "I’m taking a wild guess, but it seems like you’re speaking from experience," I say, glancing past him at Parker, who hasn’t moved an inch.
He shakes his head and slashes his hand against his throat with a blank expression, silently asking me to stop.
The bell above the front door rings and a man who looks strikingly like Brett, but with a lighter shade of brown hair, walks in like he’s walked in here a million times before.
"Melody, do you remember my brother, Brody? Brody, this is Melody Quinn. In any case, it’s been enough time that Melody wouldn’t recognize you with the beard you won’t shave." As if it must be some family joke, Brody smooths the beard between his fingers and grins.
"Where’s Hannah?" Brett asks.
No sooner from the name slipping out of his mouth does the door thrash open. "Dad, I’m going to be late. Let’s go," she snaps.
Those are some strong family genes there. Hannah was graced with the good-looks from her father and Brett, but by the dark glint in her eyes, she must have the attitude of a typical tween girl. I’m guessing she must be ten or eleven.
Brody glances down at his watch and shakes his head. "Wow, it’s been a whole fifteen seconds since I left the truck, and I’m already in trouble." The sarcasm is clear.
Brett squats down in front of Parker and sweeps a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. "It’s time to go with Uncle Brody to school, kiddo."
Parker brushes the crumbs for her muffin onto the napkin and throws her trash away. She then grabs her backpack and wraps her arms around Brett, pressing her cheek into his side. "Love you, Dad."
"Love you too, sweetie." Brett leans down and places a kiss on her head, then helps her slip the straps of her backpack over her shoulders. "How do you spell: timely?"
As Parker walks
toward Hannah, she spells out: "T-I-M ... E-L-Y"
"You will ace the spelling quiz today, I know it!"
"I hope so," she says, crossing her fingers.
"I’ll quiz her on the way to school," Hannah offers.
"Thanks, Hannah-Banana," Brett teases.
Hannah stops dead in her tracks and turns toward Brett. "No," she snaps. "We’ve been over this."
Brett holds up his hands in defense. "My bad."
"Is she too young to give coffee? I feel like it could help this morning moodiness," Brody says.
"I think she’s too young," I tell him.
"I thought so." I won’t inform him her attitude will probably get worse as she gets older, but I’m sure he’ll figure it out on his own.
Brody takes the girls out of the shop, and now it’s just Brett and me, shuffling around. I have no real agenda of what I should or could do here to help, but I also know I need to get going, and I’m stalling.
"I have everything under control here," he says. "I promise."
"I know you do.” I’m just stalling as I straighten a bottle on the shelf.
"Go to the hospital, and when you need a break, take one. It’s a lot, and you have to be easy on yourself."
"Thanks for the advice.”
"I can bring you guys dinner again tonight if you like?"
"You have a lot going on, I’m sure. You don’t have to worry about us too, but I appreciate the offer."
I’ve been holding my phone with a death grip as if the grim reaper will make my phone ring at any given moment, but Brett reaches out and takes the phone from my hand, turns it around, holds it in front of my face so the facial recognition unlocks and taps his fingers on the screen. Within seconds his phone rings. "I have your number, and you have mine. I figured you still hadn’t added it to your phone," he says with a coy wink. "Call me if you need anything, please."
"I will," I agree, with a slight nod.
"I will check up on you later."
"Thanks for trying to be a friend. I don’t have many people in my life who would care so much aside from my immediate family."
"Well, I know life can be a jerk sometimes. We all need to know someone cares, right?"
The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball Page 9
