"Wow, you’re right on. It has the familiarity of vanilla and caramel notes. The smoky taste comes from the barrel. We char each barrel before pouring the ingredients inside. The cinnamon, though, the Quinn Pine is made with a high rye, which gives it a little touch of spice. It’s the reason why your dad saves it for the holiday season."
He sounds like Dad, gushing about flavors and notes, and hints of spices—statements I never quite understood.
I take another sip, closing my eyes again, trying my best to focus on the rich flavors. "I’m glad you’re sipping it this time," he says.
The statement yanks my attention away from the glass. "What do you mean?"
"The last time you had bourbon was at the holiday party all those years ago, right?"
"Yes …"
"I believe you had been gulping bourbon," he says, his brows angle in toward his nose, looking at me as if my stupid decision was cute rather than mortifying.
"Yes, I had gulped the bourbon. I was not familiar with the art of drinking.” I run my hand down the side of my face, still feeling the embarrassment from all those years ago. "For the longest time, when my dad talked about tasting the notes in the bourbon, I was almost positive he was talking about a written note, and I couldn’t figure out why he would want to taste them."
Brett had just taken a sip of his bourbon, but my comment makes him choke. He tosses his hand in front of his mouth, squeezes his eyes, and shakes his head. "Wow, well, uh—that’s pretty incredible," he says, clearing his throat. "And adorable."
"Gee, thanks," I huff.
"I don’t mean so, condescendingly," he corrects me.
I take another sip in place of a pause in the conversation. "I guess this isn’t the worst tasting stuff in the world.”
"I know bourbon is an acquired taste, but when you think about what went into producing this one glass, it’s kind of amazing. Your dad began preparing this very bottle ten years ago. It’s crazy to think about."
I reach across Brett and take the bottle within my hands and cling to it, wishing this bottle would offer me comfort. "Ten years ago, our lives were perfect."
"Mine wasn’t," he says.
I switch my gaze from the bottle to Brett’s eyes. "Why not?"
"There was this kiss," he says, his words slow and clear. "It made me want to change my future, but I had already signed papers—signed my life away."
My heart thumps and races, not knowing what kiss he is referencing. "A kiss? What kind of kiss could make you want to change your future plans?" I don’t know how I got the words out, but I don’t think I sounded as nervous as I feel.
"Just one kiss," he says, his gaze lazily falls to my lips, and my body tenses.
"She must have been some girl," I mutter, trying to breathe after the statement.
Brett’s lips curl into a small smile. "You sure are," he says.
"Me?" I question. "You must be confusing me for someone else."
He reaches his hand to my chin then tenderly sweeps the pad of his thumb against my bottom lip. "I wouldn’t forget my first kiss," he says.
A wave of tingles fills my face, then plummet through my body.
"Your first kiss?" I ask. "There’s no way. You were—well, I might have called you Mr. Perfect for a period of time. I was sure you had a gaggle of girlfriends following you around."
He chokes through a quiet laugh. "I went to an all-boys high school, played way too much baseball, and helped my dad out at the warehouse when I wasn’t doing homework or at practice. There wasn’t a lot of time for socializing."
"You were my first kiss too.” My words form from weak breaths.
"I had no idea," he says with a charming tilted smile tugging at the left side of his mouth.
"Liar."
Brett inhales with an expression of anguish and lowers his head between his shoulders. "I wish you were home for a different reason," he says. "I know your head is in a million places right now."
I close my eyes because, for the first time this week, my head was in none of those places. "You are a nice distraction.”
I shouldn’t be looking for a distraction. I should figure out how I’m going to grieve. He’s still alive yet, I feel like a part of him is already gone. "My mom must be wondering where Benji and I are. I don’t want her to worry." The painful picture of my current life regenerates all too quickly, and I tell myself I should not be thinking about kissing him again when I’m this much turmoil.
"Oh, good call. I don’t want her to worry about anything more than she has to." Brett chugs the rest of his bourbon, and I do the stupid thing I did all those years ago and follow his act.
"Oh—I thought you would not be gulping bourbon again any time soon?" His face contorts with a look of concern.
"I’ll be fine," I tell him after forcing the burning liquor down my throat.
Brett collects the paper bag and slips the glasses and bottle back inside before releasing Benji’s leash from the beam.
We’re silent most of the walk back to my house, but as we pass the neighbor’s garage, I feel the need to thank him. "It was sweet of you to check on me and—the bourbon. It’s a special bottle, so I hope it doesn’t go bad too fast."
"We’ll have time for more," he says, handing me Benji’s leash. "Good luck with everything tomorrow. Text me if you need anything, even if it’s just company."
I hold my focus on the green leash for a long moment, but my gaze flashes upward when Brett’s lips touch my cheek. "Good night, Melody."
Within the darkness from the low-lit street, Brett watches as I make my way inside. He doesn’t move an inch until I wave from the front door. He waves back, smiles, and my heart melts.
Until I turn around, finding Mom curled into a ball on the couch, crying her heart out.
15
I feel frozen, watching Mom break down on the sofa. Did something happen after I left the hospice center? Was she just coming to terms with reality?
I kneel beside her and rest my hand on her trembling shoulder. "Mom," I utter.
She pulls in a deep, shuddering breath and pushes herself up, running a tissue beneath her eyes. "I’m sorry," she says.
"You have nothing to be sorry about," I say, trying to soothe her. "Did something happen?"
Mom shakes her head as another tear skates down her cheek. "I’ve been in shock for the last couple of weeks, and it’s breaking me now."
"It’s okay to cry," I tell her, rubbing my hand over her tense shoulder.
"It’s not supposed to be like this," she says through her wheezy breath.
"No, it’s not, and it’s not fair."
Mom lifts herself from the couch, steadying herself by the armrest. "I need to go to bed," she says.
"I’m going to stay with you, okay?"
She presses her lips together with an attempt to form a small smile. "Okay," she says. I follow her upstairs and give her a few minutes to get ready for bed, while I do the same. The question of what hurts more: losing the love of your life or losing a parent plays through my head, but she’s been with Dad since they were twenty, and it has been a lot of life.
I turned on the TV in their room and put on some reality show, which will hopefully bore her to sleep or distract her until she falls asleep. The silence has never been her friend when going to bed at night. It’s when the thoughts are the loudest.
I curl my arm around Mom’s back and rest my head on her shoulder until I hear her breaths elongate. Knowing she’s asleep will help me sleep, but knowing she’ll wake up with a clear mind for less than sixty seconds before reality hits her again, makes my heart hurt for both of us.
I can count the minutes I slept last night, but I’m sure it didn’t add up to a full hour. I must have watched six solid hours of trash TV, possibly without blinking.
Mom stirs just after six, and I wait for her to wake up before moving or talking. "The worst part is waking up," she says.
"You forget for a short minute."
"I know,"
I tell her.
"The unknown is almost too much to bear," she says.
I notice she skips the process of ironing her outfit, curling her hair, or putting on makeup. I’m not much better, though my morning regimen isn’t as consuming as hers.
We take one car today. I drive Mom’s Lexus as she stares out the window, her eyes lost in the blur of trees we pass. Holiday jazz is playing faintly on the radio, but it’s hard to hear beneath the heat pouring from the vents. I wish I had the right words to offer her some semblance of peace, but nothing can offer a positive light on what we’re about to face today.
"You went for a long walk with Benji last night," she says through a winded sigh.
"Brett was waiting on the front step when I got home. We took a walk together.”
Mom deliberately turns her head and leans back into the seat, glancing at me with a half-smile I notice from the corner of my eye. "Tell me something good, Melody."
"He brought an old bottle of Quinn Pine and told me to try it because Dad poured his love into the ingredients ten years ago, and it was something he wanted me to understand about Dad’s passion. It was very thoughtful.”
"The timing is terrible," Mom says. "But, take the friendship and support for now. Let those ingredients sit for a while, sweetie."
"I was thinking the same.”
Mom places her hand on my knee. "I love you, honey. We will get through this, somehow, some way."
"I know.”
We pull into the new parking lot—the space in front of the hospice center, finding Journey’s car already parked in one of the first spots. "I guess she didn’t sleep either.”
"It’s hard to sleep when you know you’re running out of minutes," she says.
The hospice center has a homier feel than the hospital, and also fewer reminders of medical intervention. The decor offers the slightest bit of comfort as we walk through the hallway toward Dad’s room.
I don’t think either of us was expecting to see Dad sitting up, laughing with Journey, though.
A moment of hope, is that what we were getting?
"Dad? You’re up and talking!" I announce as if he doesn’t already know.
"Things aren’t so bad today," he says. There is still a weakness in his voice, but his smile—the smile he’s always worn—it’s intact.
Mom rushes to be by his side and hugs him tightly, peppering kisses all over his face. "I’m so happy to see you’re up today," she tells him.
"They’re taking good care of me here," he says.
"That’s wonderful.” With a small sense of hope lifting some of the heavy weight from my chest, I take a seat on the edge of his bed.
"I think we need to have a family meeting, though," he says, clearing his throat.
I’m sure I can speak for the three of us by wanting to say: let’s just enjoy this time, but we need to hear him out. "Well, we’re all here, sweetie," Mom says, gleaming while staring into his alert eyes.
"We can’t control what happens tomorrow," he begins. "But, I need you three to promise me you will keep living on, for me." It’s hard to agree when I want to say there’s no way, we can promise such a thing. "Journey, you are going to become a world-renowned photographer, and Melly, your TV and movie scripts will hit the big screen, I know it," he says looking between Journey and me. "Marion, you’re still young, and I don’t want you to be alone for the rest of your life."
"No, Harold, I don’t want you talking like this," she argues.
"I know you don’t want to hear this, but I need you to know it’s okay if you find someone who makes you happy. I want you to be happy, but when your day comes, when you’re ninety-nine and three-quarters, I get you back. Are we clear on this?” Dad is smiling, joking as if this is a hypothetical joke. How can he see so clearly? How can be this okay?
Mom’s gaze drops to their entangled hands. "I don’t know, Harold."
"You don’t have to. I just want you to know how I feel."
"I appreciate your love," she says, sounding heartbroken.
"Girls, I’m sorry I can’t walk you down the aisle when or if you get married someday, but your mother will do so, and I will be there for every important moment of your lives. The letters you haven’t read—the information inside will keep me with you." I haven’t been able to imagine the words written on the paper within the envelope. There are only so many ways to say goodbye and I love you. "Whatever you do with The Barrel House, is the right decision. This is your life, your lives, and I want you to do what makes you happy, not what made me happy."
"Dad, we can’t—"
"Melody," he interrupts. "If you keep it for you, only do so if you find a passion in the art of making bourbon. Otherwise, you will be running a distillery and a retail shop filled with a product that doesn’t bring you happiness, and I know it’s not what you want in life."
"You are a part of the shop, and it isn’t something we can let go of.”
"I am a part of you, all of you, whether or not you are in the shop," he says. "And if you sell it to Bill—you know they’re like family. It’s close enough. He will be there to help or take over ... whichever you prefer. We have a deal, he and I."
"A deal?" I ask.
"When a person has lived long enough, they become wise, and though I know no one knows how life will unfold, Bill and I—we’re on the same page." I don’t understand what he’s talking about, and I think he knows this. However, Mom is smiling, which tells me she knows what he’s talking about. "Life will unfold as it should. Embrace it."
A startling raw cough burns through Dad’s lungs, reminding us of the reason we’re having this conversation and where we are. "I love you, Dad."
"I love you," Journey adds.
"We all love you so much," Mom utters.
"Our love will outlive all of us. Never forget," he says.
We take turns hugging him, staring into his eyes, memorizing the parts of him we will yearn to remember someday.
"Oh, and one more thing," he says. "I understand there will be grief, but don’t let your life or opportunities pass you by while you’re adjusting to a new normal. Promise me this?"
The three of us cannot repeat the words: we promise. We nod and stare at him with a lack of understanding, but also the love we have for what he wants.
"Okay, the family meeting is over, but the next order of business is ... I planned a party for later this afternoon because I’d rather celebrate my life while I’m alive, okay?"
Typical Dad. He will never give up the chance to miss a gathering. "Marion, I need some things from home; dressy clothes, and a comb—my hair is a mess. Girls, we need to find a caterer—I’m requesting prime rib for all. Oh, and we need the Quinn Pine. The party is at five sharp. Don’t be late."
"Harold," Mom says, taken aback. She shakes her head as if trying to clear her thoughts. "I—okay—who do you want at this party, sweetheart?" Mom runs her fingers over Dad’s head.
"You know who I want here," he says.
"Are the nurses okay with this?" Mom continues. Her look of concern is soothed when a nurse walks in.
"Harold is feeling better today. It’s a good day for a party," she says. "We’ll arrange a private space for your guests," the nurse says.
"You are very kind," Mom tells her, taking the woman by the elbow to have a quiet conversation with her in the hallway. Journey follows the two of them out to hear what’s going on, but Dad takes my wrist.
"Hold on, my youngest. Look at me," he says.
It’s hard to look him in the eyes, knowing these moments can’t last forever, but I will do so until I can’t. "Did you know I met your mother when she was only sixteen?"
I shake my head with subtlety. "I didn’t know you were so young.”
"Well, sometimes our young hearts have knowledgeable souls. I know you want the white picket fence, a perfect neighborhood, children, and someone who loves you as much as you love him. You’re going to have the same.” He taps his finger against his temple. "I
know this."
"How could you know something like this?” I ask, trying to be gentle with my pessimism.
"We’ll call it a father’s intuition," he says. "Don’t go looking too hard for what might already be in front of you." Dad places his hand on my cheek, his eyes wide and knowing.
"I won’t look too hard.”
"That’s my girl."
"Brett brought me a bottle of 2009 Quinn Pine last night," I tell him.
Dad places his hand on his chest. "Be still my heart," he says.
"Don’t say those words, please," I respond, chuckling for his sake.
"And?"
"I tasted the caramel notes, a hint of vanilla, the hint of cinnamon, and I kind of enjoyed the smoky aftertaste."
"2009 was a damn good batch. We didn’t get many bottles from it, but it was the best. Wait—notes," he says as if my words just calculated.
"You used to think I was drinking paper, do you remember?"
I smile because it was a long-lasting jab of humor in our family for years. "I remember."
"It’s all in the notes, sweetie." I place a kiss on his head and hug him with all my might, embracing the warmth of his fatherly hold. "Remember this. I’ll always be around when you need me."
16
The hospice nurses offered us some space to host Dad’s life celebration. I’ve told myself to pull it together … for him, and to avoid thinking about the reason for this so-called-celebration. We have all rallied together to offer Dad his wish. We dressed for the occasion and got the crowd together, as he requested.
The staff helped with some decorations, and if I didn’t know better, they could fool me into thinking life is normal for the moment. I’ve considered the thought of a miracle too. Dad has been so lethargic and having difficulty breathing for the last couple of days, but now he seems alert and lucid. Maybe the last few days were a fluke—a silly cold, or something simpler than the cancer eating away at his body at an unexpectedly rapid rate.
The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball Page 13
