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

by Ryan, Shari J.

  When Melody strolled into the shop early this morning, I was surprised to see her, especially since she was toting muffins in a fancy container. She said her mom sent them in as a thank you for helping last night. I know she plans to spend most of her day at the hospital with Harold, but she seems to be stalling by the way she’s pacing around, glancing at each shelf. Though, I’d love to think she’s stalling just to spend more time with me, if I was her, I might put off facing the cold reality of losing someone I love.

  It’s Brody’s morning to carpool the girls to school, and he agreed to pick Parker up from The Barrel House so I could get started a bit earlier today. Brody makes a show upon entering through the front door, unfazed by Melody's existence even after going years without seeing her. It feels like no time has passed when he starts cracking jokes, and I’m embarrassed for my brother. Sadly, he wouldn’t care if I said that out loud, so I watch the show come and go and silently wait for him to leave.

  I kiss Parker goodbye and send them on their way as quickly as possible with the hope of having a few quiet moments with Melody.

  However, the moment we’re alone, I accept that the timing is not right. Despite knowing how much I would say to her if her life wasn’t splitting at the seams, it’s more important that I only provide coverage in her family’s shop. She needs to know she can trust me here and be where she needs to be. “I have everything under control here. I promise,” I say, watching her nibble on the tip of her thumb. She’s staring past me, lost in thought, just as she has been each time I’ve seen her throughout the last couple of days.

  “I know you do,” she says, fixing a bottle on one of the lower shelves.

  “Go to the hospital, and when you need a break, take one. It’s a lot and you have to be easy on yourself.”

  Melody tucks her long waves behind her ears as she parts her lips to release a heavy sigh. “Thanks for the advice,” she says with a small smile. Melody scans the back area of the store until she spots her jacket resting on a crate. “There it is.”

  “I can bring you guys dinner again tonight if you’d like?” My offer might be overkill at this point, but I would offer even if I had no interest in seeing her again today. Plus, I know Mrs. Quinn would see it as nothing more than a nice gesture.

  Melody slips her jacket on and pulls her hair out from beneath the collar, letting it sway against her back. She takes a few seconds to respond but shrugs before speaking. “You have a lot going on, I’m sure. You don’t have to worry about us too. I appreciate the offer,” she says. A firm no. Understood.

  With her coat on and her phone pressed between her hands, she walks up to me again, looking as if she has something to say, but with a long quiet stare, I assume she can’t find the words, or she is simply refraining from sharing what’s on her mind. Melody is impossible to read. She never was before. Regardless, there seem to be words written across her face, spelling out what she’s thinking.

  Pain. Just pain.

  It feels like an entire minute passes when I consider asking what’s on her mind, but I hold back. Instead, I reach for the phone she’s holding against her purse and slip it away. She doesn’t try to stop me, nor does she snag it back when I hold the display up to her face in order to unlock with facial recognition.

  Instead, a look of surprise passes through her eyes, but not in a negative way. I add my number to her contacts and place a call to my phone, so I have her number. I could have asked for it, but it feels like a line on the do-not-cross-list. “I have your number, and you have mine. I figured you still hadn’t added it to your phone from the crumpled receipt I handed you on the plane.” Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed, but my contact wasn’t in there. “Call me if you need anything, please.” Even if you want to talk, smile, or just need a hug. I can be all of that. I’m good at those things.

  Seeing how her moments of talking and silence are unexpected and sporadic, it’s hard to determine her mood, but it’ll keep me guessing, wondering, and now waiting for a call.

  “I will,” she agrees.

  “I’m going to check up on you later.” I shouldn’t have said that. I meant to leave the ball in her court. I can’t be pushy. I’m having trouble following the unspoken rules I’m familiar with in delicate situations, and I need to get a grip.

  “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.” Another surprising comment. I figured our exchange of words had hit its limit for the day, but now I know she sees me as a friend and not a pain in the ass, so that’s something. I’ll take it.

  “I know life can be a jerk sometimes. We all need to know someone cares, right?”

  A smile perks to one side—it’s a faint smile, but a smile, nonetheless. Her cheeks turn to a shade of pink and she brushes her hair behind her ear again, something I notice she does just after her cheeks become a little too warm. Maybe I’m not alone, feeling like there’s something between us, something that never went away from all those years ago. There’s a chance it’s not just me who had faith we’d find each other again.

  In any case, it’s time to be patient and wait on her. I did it once, and I’ll do it again no matter what the end game turns out to be.

  12

  When Harold first showed me around The Barrel House last summer, I was a little overwhelmed, especially thinking I was only there to help out when he was out of town during the couple of weeks he was on vacation. However, he had a way of teaching … it was as if he wanted to unload his knowledge onto me. Of course, I was interested. Coming from a family with a business who chars barrels for the purpose of storing bourbon, it was nice to see the other side of the process. I had been to The Barrel House hundreds of times before, but I kept my hands to myself and admired the machinery, wondering why there were so many machines to prepare a barrel full of liquid.

  I let Harold’s words soak in and I saw the passion through his eyes, finding my sparked interest. I must have asked him a million questions over the course of just a couple days, but he happily answered each one with detail. I understood the reason for taking pleasure in watching even the most minute part of the process because each phase has an equally important role in the final taste of bourbon, a taste no one will get to enjoy for at least two years after it stills in a charred barrel. I don’t know why I’m so fascinated by the process of distilling bourbon, but there is so much science involved. With only a few simple ingredients of grains mixed with water, yeast, and sugar, a fermented product develops. I thought the importance of the distilling process ended there, but it doesn’t. It’s where it all begins. Every single environmental factor has an effect on the final taste; how the barrel was charred, the temperature of storage, the airflow, and duration of time—it’s all so easy to alter, even just slightly. It’s hard to understand how any barrel of bourbon can taste exactly like another, but Harold mastered this process.

  After Harold returned from his first weeklong trip, he winked at me and pointed his finger. “You caught the bug, didn’t you?” I don’t know what made him think anything different of me after just a week of helping in the shop, but maybe he recognized the exhaustion in my eyes. I hadn’t slept much. I wanted to watch the machines and make sure every single part of the first steps were running precisely the way he wanted. Otherwise, whatever I did during that one week could potentially change the taste of a slew of bottles filled with bourbon that no one would taste for at least a few years. I didn’t want a mistake to follow me around like that. More importantly, I felt enamored watching the production of a mash that would turn into alcohol. It was distracting and allowed me time to forget about my ongoing nightmares from the war. The patterns working through the mash hypnotized me. I could only think about the motion of the machines mixing paddles. There were no triggers in the basement of The Barrel House. It was a safe place to be alone.

  Did I catch whatever bug he was talking about? I told Harold I enjoyed every minute of the time I spent watching
the machines work their magic. Maybe it wasn’t a common statement to make.

  “No one knows it’s a fairly relaxing job, so we have to keep that between us, okay?” he said with a sly smile.

  “It’ll be our secret,” I told him.

  There were many nights after that week when I wished to be alone in that basement, watching the machines function on a repetitive cycle, never missing a beat as it created a void for me to stare into, forgetting everything else around me. I haven’t found something to offer that sense of comfort since then, really. It sounds odd, and it’s nothing I would share with anyone because I doubt they would understand, but I’m thankful for the time Harold spent teaching me how to make bourbon. I’ve spent the last year reading books on different practices and recipes to achieve particular tastes, for no reason other than intrigue. Now, I’m here, working in this brilliant man’s shop as he dies in a hospital bed. Did he always know I would end up here?

  Working here feels more natural than working with Pops at the warehouse.

  As I’m sweeping up the floor in the main room that holds the larger machines, I hear a landline ringing from the far corner. It’s Harold’s office, which I tend to stay out of even though he leaves the door open. I know the bills are stacking up, but I don’t want to touch anything without some kind of word from him or Mrs. Quinn. The phone doesn’t give up, making me wonder if he has an answering machine attached to the thing. I place the broom down against the wall and cross the open space to Harold’s office, flipping the light switch on the way in. I take a seat in his old leather rolling chair, feeling the springs plunge through a high-pitch squeal. It looks like the phone is from the eighties. I haven’t seen one of these box phones since I was a kid.

  “The Barrel House, how can I help you?” I answer.

  It’s a customer asking for hours, but not without a long-winded explanation of why he needs to know, mostly because he heard Harold is sick and assumed there would be a change in the opening and closing schedule. The long minute of chit chat invites my gaze toward the wall in front of me. There are photographs covering every square inch of the open space, from one side of the office to the other. The pictures aren’t in frames or in any particular order, just tacked up on a cork-board. My eyes fall on a picture of Melody from around the time I left for the Marines. She doesn’t look much different now, aged well, I suppose, but I remember her like that as if it was yesterday. Her smile was wide enough to show at least eight teeth on the top and bottom, and her freckles all scrunched together through her obvious happiness. I’d kill to see that smile again. She hasn’t smiled a real smile since I saw her for the first time the other day. I can’t say I blame her, but I can’t fathom what she must be going through.

  The customer thanks me for the answer that hasn’t changed since Harold set the times years ago and I realize I’m still holding the phone up to my year, scanning the photos long after the gentleman hung up on the other end. It seems like new pictures stopped coming in a few years ago, seeing the years labeled with a sharpie on the bottom corner of each one. I wonder if she’s smiled a real smile since the photos stopped being hung.

  I pull my phone out of my back pocket and bring up Melody’s contact information I saved to my phone this morning. A chuckle rumbles through my gut when I find the nickname: The Girl of My Dreams with her number beneath. She won’t see her number pop up in my phone, and there’s no sense in lying to myself about what she meant to me once, and what she obviously still means to me now. The words are beyond cheesy as I stare at them, but finally having her number in my phone feels like an achievement in this journey we’ve been making our way through.

  I wasn’t expecting to hear from her anytime soon, especially this morning or even this afternoon, but I’ve done nothing but wonder if she and the rest of them are okay.

  * * *

  Me: Hang in there.

  * * *

  The second I hit send and re-read what I typed; I picture the poster of a cat hanging from a wall by its paws. I couldn’t have said anything more thoughtless, really. I used to have game, way back when. I’ve since lost it all. If I were her, I might not respond. In fact, I place my phone back into my pocket just as it buzzes.

  She replied.

  * * *

  The Girl of My Dreams: Brett?

  * * *

  Maybe placing a nickname in her phone for myself too wasn’t the right move, but I thought it might make her laugh when she saw it pop up. I don’t know what she’s thinking at the moment, but she isn’t confused by who: “Your Teenage Crush,” is. It’s good to know there is only one of us.

  * * *

  Me: You’ve now confirmed my age-long question. :)

  * * *

  Again, maybe not the time for jokes. Most likely, definitely not the time for even a hint of a joke.

  * * *

  The Girl of My Dreams: Are you always this cocky?

  * * *

  I can’t say a woman has ever called me cocky. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not because maybe I’m too nice and too much of a “girl-dad,” and it’s the actual reason I’ve been single for so long, but as much as I’d like to play the role of a cocky guy—former Marine, I can’t pull off the attitude unless I’m pissed about something.

  * * *

  Me: Nah, just trying to distract you.

  * * *

  Staring at my phone and waiting on a response for a long several minutes does nothing but reassure myself of how big of an idiot I am to be sending her pointless messages when she’s sitting by her father’s deathbed.

  I suppose she didn’t need a distraction.

  The afternoon crawls by almost as slow as the morning had, but the boredom falls upon the empty storefront I’m manning with no one else here to run the floor. Machines don’t bore me but staring at a clock after completing all the daily tasks here, it isn’t my idea of a good time.

  The buzz of my phone pulls me out of my trance, and for a second I have hope that Melody has chosen to respond to my text from earlier, but it’s Mom instead.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  “Hi, sweetie. How’s the shop?”

  “Everything is fine here. I’ve got it all under control.”

  “Harold appreciates what you’re doing. I hope you know that,” Mom says.

  “Of course.”

  I sigh while staring at the minute hand tick once more to the right. “I ran into Marion in the hospital as your father and I were going to visit Harold. The poor thing. She is not doing well at all, as I would imagine. I offered to bring dinner over tonight. She suggested I bring you, Brody, and the girls over as well. I think the thought of having company cheered her up for a quick second.”

  I think about it for a minute because I already offered to bring Melody dinner tonight, and she rejected the idea, so I feel like this might be pushing my luck. “Maybe, just you and Pops should go over tonight,” I tell her.

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I know you’d love to see Melody. Plus, Parker told me so.”

  I close my eyes and release a heavy breath. “Do you get all of your gossip from a seven-year-old?”

  “Brett, she didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.”

  “That’s impossible and ridiculous. I ran into her for the first time a couple of days ago after going a decade without contact. Let’s be realistic here.”

  Mom huffs into the phone. “Okay, well, whatever the case … you’re single. She’s single. You once adored her, and she was always so bashful around you. I don’t know, sweetie, maybe timing was never in your favor, but now—”

  “Timing is not in our favor right now, Mom. Come on, let’s focus on what’s at hand here. Harold is losing a battle. Melody isn’t running out of days to find a man to marry, and I have my hands full, as you know.”

  “Fine,” she groans. “Take away all my fun.”

  “I don’t think the Quinn’s are having much fun right now,” I say, being serious about the reason she
wants to bring dinner to them tonight.

  “Brett, you know that isn’t what I meant. Just forget I said anything, okay? I’m sorry.”

  “No apology needed, Mom. Melody is a great woman, and I’d be lucky if she was interested in me. However, I have Parker, and she’s single, never married. Even if this wasn’t the worst possible time to consider asking Melody to spend time with me outside of her dying father’s shop, I don’t think she’d be interested. Let’s forget about whatever idea you have floating through your head.”

  “Brett!” She snaps. “I already said: forget it, you don’t need to keep harping on the subject. I said I’m sorry for bringing it up, and I am. So, let’s move on, but meet us at the Quinns’s house by seven-thirty. I can bring Parker if you want to go to the gym first. Maybe you could let off some of that pent-up steam you’re taking out on me.”

  Jesus. “Okay, Mom. Thank you.”

  “Okay, I’m going to go. I’ll see you soon. Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” I say with an unintended high-pitch tone. Thankfully, she hangs up before hearing the way I sound, and hopefully she will forget about our conversation. I understand she has strong feelings about the fact that Parker doesn’t have a mother figure in her life. I also know it’s technically my fault at this point for not moving forward. But I will not join every single dating site out there so I can find some random profile that matches up with mine. Plus, this town doesn’t exactly offer many new faces on a regular basis. If I’m going to meet someone or be with someone, it’ll happen. If not, then it is what it is, and I’m fine with that too. Mom doesn’t see it that way, though, and the odds are not in my favor that she will give up on her pre-planned fate for me.