The last time I’ve seen a woman with so many freckles was my senior year of high school, but the chances of this woman being Melody Quinn is slim, so I’ll have to chalk her up to a doppelgänger. Although, maybe the idea isn’t so ironic considering Pops said she is flying home from South Carolina today too. It would still be a crazy coincidence, I think. Plus, it’s been ten years and that’s a long time to go without seeing someone, then immediately recognizing them.
Maybe it’s not her.
I may never know since they call her zone before mine and she makes her way onto the plane without a second glance.
A flight attendant announces my zone next, and I make my way through the gate and down the thin aisle between the rows, finding my assigned seat to be ironically—okay … not so much irony anymore … next to the woman I crashed into in front of the gate.
“What are the odds, huh?” I ask, tossing my bag into the overhead compartment. “I always wondered how the airlines decide on zone numbers. You would think we would be in the same zone if we’re sharing a row, right?” I sound like I’m out of breath from lifting a ten-pound bag over my head. Nice.
“It would make sense,” she says. The unsureness in her voice makes it clear she isn’t up for chit chat. Melody Quinn used to talk so much, we had to tell her to take a breath. It can’t be the same person. Plus, I’m sure she’d recognize me if we knew each other. She’d make some kind of expression that told me so, but she didn’t in the airport, and she doesn’t when she spots me taking the empty seat beside her.
I think I’ve stared at her long enough that she’s likely labeling me as a creep, but I need to know if I’m seeing things.
I strike up a conversation with Melody’s doppelgänger by commenting on her apparent apprehension for flying as she studies the emergency landing card.
“We won’t crash,” I tell her.
Her gaze floats to mine again and I’m jarred by the stark contrast between her dark lashes and light-colored eyes. The Melody I used to know never wore makeup, so I don’t know what her features would look like with dark enhancements against her lighter features. “I wasn’t thinking we might crash,” she says with a raised brow. “But thank you for the reassurance.”
I could ask for her name, but it’s a little soon and a bit forward. Plus, she’s deliberately ignoring me, which seems like the Melody I once knew. Her knee bounces furiously as her pink painted fingernails drum against the armrest. Maybe flying isn’t her thing. Flying wasn’t my thing either until they forced me into a helicopter, sans doors. There I sat with my legs dangling off the side while strangling the weapon in my hands. This flight is luxurious in comparison.
“You seem stressed out. That’s all,” I respond with regard to watching her read the instruction manual on how to use the oxygen masks that would fall from the ceiling panel in the case of an emergency.
“I am very stressed, but not because I’m flying,” she replies. Her response is short and pointed, highlighting her disinterest to chat. It’s time to stop prying into a stranger’s life. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume.”
“No Worries.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket with hope of distracting myself from the aftermath of the assumptions I attacked this poor girl with. I’ll mind my business and we can both go back to our normal lives at the end of the flight. No harm done.
“I didn’t think anyone still used Twitter,” she mutters under her breath.
She’s good. I didn’t even notice her look over at what’s on my phone, nor did I realize I was scrolling through Twitter. I don’t think I’ve been on this app in months. Why does she care what I’m doing on my phone? Maybe she wants to keep talking. That must be the reason. I’m not sure if I am at strike one or two yet with her, but I open my mouth once again.
“We will never see each other again after this flight, so tell me why you’re stressed out. I’m not one of those people who can digest a statement like that and pretend like it wasn’t said. I realize we don’t know each other, but sometimes a stranger is the best person to talk to, right?” Or do we know each other, and that’s why you’re continuing this conversation?
The woman replaces the emergency landing card back inside the pocket of the seat in front of her and rests her head back to stare out the window at the tarmac, taking a moment to pause before looking back at me. “First, tell me why your hands were shaking when you arrived at the gate?” she asks.
I think back for a minute, trying to remember why my hands would have been shaking. I don’t think I realized they were, but if so, it was likely because I thought I would miss my flight. Well, I suppose the call from Pops sent me through a loop too. Or maybe, too much caffeine. That must have been it.
“I had a rough night,” I say, fibbing a bit. It was a bad night after Pops’ call, but I don’t want to tell her I was shaking from coffee when she’s obviously distraught about something.
“Going home or visiting?” she continues with the questions.
“Going home,” I respond. “You?”
My response seems to make her think about the answer as if she hadn’t already decided. “As of twenty minutes ago, I’m going home.”
Twenty minutes? What could have happened in the last twenty minutes to be so influential in changing a permanent destination? Now, I want to know.
“What’s your name?” It’s a proper time to ask, far less creepy than it would have been if I asked five minutes ago. I think.
“Let’s not …” she says, taking her headphones out of her bag.
I should have figured. I just need to know if you’re Melody Quinn, but I’m going to sit here and keep wondering for the rest of the flight, and possibly after the flight too. Unless, maybe she recognizes me and would rather not start up the awkward catch-up conversation. I can’t imagine what a conversation like that would sound like after sharing a kiss, then never speaking again.
Hey, so … remember me? Yeah, we kissed like ten years ago. Before that, we kind of grew up together, but not really. Then, I disappeared for ten years, and wow, here we are. Weird. Nope.
“Fair enough,” I say to her. “You know … you look like someone I once knew.” Someday, I will gain the ability to think before I speak. I had this minor issue under control while enlisted, but after falling back into civilian life, I have apparently lost my filter again.
The look on her face screams the word, “creep,” and I think I’ve said the last of all words on this flight.
“It’s the red hair. You know one redhead, and you think you know us all,” she responds.
Is that true? I can’t remember being friends with another redhead, but if I had been, I don’t think I would confuse Melody and that person unless they were twins. Like her sister. They used to look like twins, but when Journey got older, she started coloring her hair. After her changed appearance, they didn’t look so similar. With that thought, I guess she could be Journey with her natural hair color. However, I think Journey would recognize me, and would have called me out by now.
The other possibility is that I’m just losing my mind. Although, the action of losing something would mean the process is already in motion, but some days I’m sure that I lost my mind on the battlefield in the middle of Afghanistan.
After a few more unfiltered comments that got me nowhere, the woman falls asleep in her seat, giving me the opportunity to take a few more glances in her direction. Her left hand falls from her phone and lands on her lap. No ring. I’m almost positive I heard Melody was engaged or married. Another check mark in the “Not-Melody-Quinn” column. Then, I notice a cluster of freckles on her knuckle. They’re in the shape of a heart. Weird.
“You’re into romance novels?” she asks, making it known she’s awake and admiring the book in my hand, but she can’t see the cover with the way I’m holding it up. I had the book out, so it didn’t look like I was staring at her the entire time she was asleep, like I actually was.
While hoping I don’t sound lam
e; reading a book about a particular process of distilling bourbon, I respond with, “All of them. You should see my collection at home. It’s embarrassing.”
She doesn’t believe me, thankfully. “I bet,” she says with a modest smile inching toward one cheek.
We’re about to land, which means there are only a few minutes left to figure out if this woman is Melody. If I don’t, I might forever wonder.
As she’s repacking her carryon bag with a few belongings, I take a minute and search around my coat pocket for a piece of paper. Lucky enough, I not only locate a receipt for some random coffee shop I went to yesterday, but I find a pen too. We’ll go with fate on this one. I scribble down my phone number and leave off the crucial identifier, being my name.
I can only assume if she is, in fact, Melody Quinn, she recognizes me too. If so, maybe she’ll call me.
The plane cruises around the tarmac for a long ten minutes before parking in front of a terminal. “It was nice to meet you,” she says, tossing her bag over her shoulder.
“Likewise. Hey, totally random, but I want to do the old-fashioned thing and give you my number. You are welcome to toss it in the trash if you think I’m crazy, but on the slim chance you don’t think I’m nuts—”
If a woman approached me with her phone number after exchanging less than ten minutes worth of conversation, would I blink in slow motion, smile, grin awkwardly, or turn around and walk away from what might be a crazy person?
I’m calling it a win when she takes the paper from my hand and offers what I can consider another hint of a smile.
That’s it. I tried. I failed. Well, I guess I didn’t fail, fail—because I didn’t really try, but the look on her face says: see ya.
By the time I reach the baggage claim, I come to the full-blown conclusion that I’m delusional and shouldn’t have given the girl my phone number based on the fact that she looks like Melody Quinn. Yet, I’ll be damned … because a few yards away, I spot Melody’s mother and sister, Journey, who are waiting by the front sliding doors of the parking garage exit.
It’s true. I was sitting next to Melody Quinn for the last four hours—the girl who ruined all other women for me; the one I compare every other woman to, and the one who made me crazy enough to buy forty different brands of shampoo until I found the one that smelled like her hair on the night of our one and only kiss.
Melody is not home for an enjoyable reason.
She’s not home to reminisce with old flings.
Instead, she’s hugging her mom and sister, falling apart as tears run down her cheeks—because she just found out her dad is dying.
2
How quickly I can forget about frigid temperatures when I’m down south for two days. I packed my coat in my luggage, and I’m not unpacking to dig it out, which means I need to make a run for the parking garage. Of course, I had to park as far away as possible, and my truck feels like an ice cube when I slide inside. I swore I’d never go back to North or South Carolina, yet here I am bitching about the cold.
Once I get the truck heated up to a point where I can move my arms around, I head for Mom and Pops to collect Parker. Their house is about forty-five minutes away from the airport, which gives me a long minute to think about the last few hours and the reality of the Quinn Family’s lives. I wonder how he just found it, or if he had symptoms earlier that he didn’t pick up on or pay attention to. I can’t imagine getting a short timeline like that after a doctor’s visit. Plus, he’s been through this once before. Their family is as close as mine. It’s unimaginable.
As I pull into the long winding driveway at my parents’ house, Parker runs out the front door in nothing but a t-shirt, a tutu, and leggings. The girl does not listen to me about running outside like this when it’s freezing out.
I park the truck and hop out to grab the little cannonball running toward me at warp speed. “Dad!” she shrieks.
“You are going to freeze your little butt off, missy. Why are you out here with no coat or shoes?” I ask, giving her a wet kiss on the cheek. “I missed you so much.”
“I’m happy you’re home early,” she coos, squeezing her arms around my neck.
“Me too.” Although the reason I’m home early isn't a good reason. “Pop-pop said you have to go to The Barrel House for a little bit today. Is that true?”
I press my forehead against Parker’s and screw my lips to the side. “Yeah, princess. I have to go help out over there for a bit, but tonight, I’m taking you out for pizza and ice cream. How does that sound?”
Parker’s weakness is pizza and ice cream. If that can’t make her happy, I’m out of ideas, but after being gone a couple days, I’m going straight for bonus points here. “Yes!”
“Okay, let’s get you inside before you turn into an icicle.”
“Dad, it’s like forty degrees. It’s not icicle material.”
Parker has been arguing matters of weather with me since she was three. If she had things her way, she’d be running around in a bathing suit in negative degree snowstorms. She’s kind of like her mother, Abby, in that way. Neither the cold nor the extreme heat ever seemed to bother her. I couldn’t understand it, but I was jealous, especially during short deployments to the mountains or desert for cold and hot weather training. It sucked.
I carry Parker inside the house, hearing Mom belt her name out from upstairs. “I’ve got her,” I reply.
“Parker Lane Pearson, were you outside without a jacket again?” Mom shouts.
“I didn’t have shoes on either,” she says with a giggle, covering her mouth with her hand.
“Where’s Pops?” I ask Mom.
“Oh, he’s in the garage fixing God knows what.” Mom takes Parker from my arms. “Let’s go get you packed up to head home, you crazy girl.”
After the conversation I had with Pops last night, I’m curious about his current mood. He was upset, and it takes a lot to get him to that point. This is understandably a circumstance that could knock anyone off their feet.
I make my way through the kitchen, inhaling the comforting scent of fresh bread. I don’t know how Mom has the energy to make bread from scratch three times a week, but she never misses a beat. The door to the garage is stuck as usual, but I yank with just the right amount of force to pry the thing open. Pops fixes everything in this house but will not grease up the door. One of these days, I’m going to do it for him. I think he prefers the door being stuck, though. It gives him a loud warning when someone is entering his territory. Why he needs a warning, I’ll never know, nor do I want to ask.
“Who goes there?” he shouts, jokingly. He probably assumes I’m Parker.
“It’s me, Pops.”
I hear a wrench, or whatever metal tool he’s holding onto, fall to the cement ground. “Brett, you’re back,” he says, making his way around a stack of storage containers.
Pops throws his arms around my neck for a hug as if I had been gone for a year. He slaps his palm against my back and squeezes me. “Thanks for coming home so fast.”
“Anything for you,” I say.
“My heart is broken, Brett. I can’t imagine going on without Harold. He’s my closest friend. It isn’t supposed to be this way, you know? We’ve been friends since we were Parker’s age, for Christ’s sake.”
Hearing how long he and Harold have been friends puts things into perspective a bit more. Not that I didn’t understand where his pain was stemming from, but fifty some-odd years is a long time to be friends with someone, and then forced to say goodbye too soon.
Abby and I; we were what I’d refer to as best friends, but it was only for four years. Though, it felt like a lifetime when she was no longer there with me.
“I’m not sure what to say, Pops. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
“The bastard called me and told me through a joke. Would you believe that?” I can believe it. Harold and Pops rarely exchange a serious sentence.
“What did he say?”
“Somet
hing like: ‘Someone forgot to seal my bottle. My shelf life is about to expire. Time to fly with the angel shares.’ I was trying to understand what he was talking about, but it didn’t take long before I solved his riddle. He was laughing about it. I don’t understand.”
“What else can a guy do in this situation?” I ask Pops. “If he can laugh about it, it’s better that way.”
“I suppose,” Pops says, taking a step back. He dips his hands into his back pockets and shakes his head. “This is awful.”
“How is Mrs. Quinn taking the news? Did he say?”
“Not well. Like the girls, really. They’re trying to be strong. They cry in private, but he hears them, and it’s breaking his heart. He’s more upset for their well-being than his own.”
“I can’t say I blame them.”
“Yeah, anyway, Harold appreciates you being able to take care of the shop right now,” Pops says. “I’d do it, but I wouldn’t be able to get the barrel shipments out at the same time.”
“You don’t have to explain,” I tell him. “Are you able to handle things at the warehouse without me, though?”
“Brody is going to put more time in and your cousin, Becca, too.”
“Good. I’m glad everyone is helping out. It’s the least we can do. I’ll head over to the distillery after I spend a few minutes with Parker.”
“That would be great. Harold asked me to have you call him when you’re heading over there. Do you mind?”
I wish I could say I haven’t had to speak to someone shortly before they passed away, but I’m not so fortunate there. It isn’t to say I know the right words to use or give advice. I didn’t give proper words or advice the last time I spoke to someone on their deathbed. I’m not sure people have the opportunity to plan out those kinds of words. I’ll try to do the listening and do my best to keep my foot out of my mouth. “I’ll give him a call. No problem,” I tell Pops.
“Parker was well behaved all weekend, as usual,” Pops says. “I love that kiddo. The quietest little spitfire I’ve ever met.”
The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball Page 49
