The Quinns are all here, a few other faces I don’t recognize, and Mom and Pops look like they just arrived within the last minute since they’re taking their coats off a few feet to the right of the entrance. I’m not sure who else is coming, but at the moment, it appears to be a small gathering. Harold is sitting in a chair, upright, dressed in business casual clothes, and looking healthy and happier than the last time I saw him in the hospital the other night. It’s nice to see him this way. “Oh, hi, sweetie. Good, you brought the bottle. I completely forgot to mention it when we spoke on the phone earlier,” Mom says, walking toward me to kiss my cheek. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I’m always fine. It’s what I’m supposed to be without fail. I’m a machine with walls around my heart, unbreakable by anything tragic. It’s how my family sees me.
It’s not the truth.
I remove my coat and hang it on the hook by the door. Melody is across the room, clutching her arms around her body as if she might fall to pieces if she releases her grip. Harold calls her over and begins telling stories, instantly causing Melody’s cheeks to redden. I can’t hear much of what is being said until my name is mentioned.
“It was Brett’s doing,” Melody says.
“Well, of course. I gave the guy my best bottle. I figured if there was a way to make you enjoy the fine taste of bourbon, it would be that bottle.”
During the conversation I had with Harold just after I arrived home from my trip to South Carolina, he told me to take a bottle of the Quinn Pine from 2009 and bring it to Melody when and if I found a good time to do so. He said to me: “If there is any hope of my daughter, who intends to take over the family business, ever enjoying the taste of bourbon, it will be with this bottle and that year.” I guess he was right. I knew to grab that bottle for her last night with the hope it would buy me a few minutes of conversation with her. I didn’t know if we would have the opportunity to have any of it, but we did, and it was perfect.
Melody seems somewhat mortified to be in the spotlight of Harold’s story, and even more so when he asks her to tell everyone about the Quinn Pine 2009.
She sweeps her hair behind her ear and stares at her dad for a long minute before finding an empty wall to stare at. "I—ah—the caramel notes, they were strong and sweet. It was delicious," Melody says.
"Listen to my girl, using the right terminology," Harold says with pride.
“And the smokiness from the barrel—perfect blend," Melody continues, this time glancing over at Pops, knowing he is responsible for the barrel the bourbon was distilled within.
“Brett, do you have the bottle with you?” Harold shouts over to me through a weak rasp.
Everyone turns to look at me in the back of the room. “Of course, I do.” I grab the bag I left by my coat and pull the bottle out.
“Grab a few glasses, son,” Harold says.
I hear some fuss from Mrs. Quinn about Harold drinking, but I mind my own business and hunt down some glasses for the bourbon.
Speeches are being made—most of them sound like final words, maybe. Tears are falling, and the room full of people are trying their best to put on a brave face, but considering the pain in my chest, I can’t imagine what the Quinns must be feeling. Mrs. Quinn put a stop to the grim moment and told everyone to eat.
Melody’s back is toward me, and Journey appears to be consoling her as she pulls her sister toward the room’s exit.
At the same time, I see Harold waving me over. I’m not sure it’s me he’s looking at, but when I turn around, I notice I am standing in the area alone. A few calming breaths are all I can manage while walking across the room to stand in front of Harold.
“How are you feeling, sir?”
“Sir? We’ve been over this,” Harold says. “You call me Harold, and that’s it, you understand?”
“I’m sorry, old habits …”
“Yeah, yeah,” Harold jokes. “Look, I wanted to tell you that you’re doing a fine job with The Barrel House. I can’t explain how grateful I am that you’ve stepped up and are handling things so flawlessly around there. Mr. Crawley has been raving about you for days.”
“I’m doing my best. I wouldn’t want to let you or the shop down.”
“Brett, I have another favor to ask of you, but if it’s too much, I understand and will find another way—”
“What is it? You know I’m happy to help in any way I can.”
“I know, and that’s why you’re the perfect person for this job.” Harold glances around the room as if he’s searching for someone, but then glances back at me. “There’s only one benefit to knowing I’m going to die before it happens. It has allowed me a little time to finalize some things.” “Of course,” I respond, not sure what he means.
“My girls are going to have a tough time after I’m gone, and I hate to be the one causing them pain, but it’s out of my control. Anyway, I’ve spent some time writing them letters they can hold onto after I pass,” he says, taking in a deep breath. “You see, a few years ago when I was diagnosed with cancer the first time, I thought the world was ending right then and there, so I had these personalized bottle labels made up and stuck them to some of my favorite years of bourbon. Each bottle has a special message for each daughter, and I want them to receive the bottles throughout their lives when the time is right. Marion knows which bottle should be given at what time, but I was wondering if you could deliver the bottles to Melody when necessary?” My first thought is about what would happen if Melody doesn’t want to see me anymore. But the thought must have already crossed Harold’s mind. “I know what you’re probably thinking. You just reacquainted yourself with her this past week, and it’s been years since the two of you have talked, but I want you and Brody to be a part of my girls’ lives. I don’t know how or if it could work, but I trust you boys can look after them for me in whatever capacity you find suitable. Journey will be a little tougher to get through, but Melody, my sweet girl, needs a good messenger. I know this is asking a lot, but if there’s any way—”
“Harold, whether Melody wants to see me or not, I will make sure she somehow receives those bottles when the time calls. I’ll keep an eye on her. I can be like a brother if need be,” I offer.
Harold places his hand on my shoulder, pulling me toward him. “Melody doesn’t need a brother, son. She needs a good man. I will not interfere in her life or yours, but a dying man just knows some things and maybe those things are caused from the ridiculous medications I’m on, but something in my heart tells me there’s a place for you in her life … if you have the space in yours, of course. And I don’t mean that with any pressure. I’m just putting the idea out there.”
I’m at a loss for words, feeling like Harold is asking me to pursue Melody in a way I wouldn’t have expected him to do. She may not have any interest in spending more time with me, never mind anything else that could come from our messy, old friendship. However, if the opportunity to be with her were to come up, I would jump through hoops of fire to take the chance. I’m sure our parents have spoken, and I can only guess Pops has told Harold that I’ve always had a thing for Melody, but so much life has happened in between then and now. I don’t know how things might fall into place or if they ever will.
“However things work out, I will make sure she receives the bottles with your messages. I can promise you that.” If Melody finds a man to marry, and she’s happy, I’ll make sure he has those bottles and the instructions. If Melody has space in her life for me, I’ll be on the front lines, handing those bottles to her. “I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t,” Harold says with a wink. “And if the situation arises when you and Melody find a kinship, just know you have had and always will have my blessing. Again, I mean that with no pressure or guilt. I’m just covering my bases.”
Despite the discomfort of a conversation I have little control over, as well as the outcome, I’m flattered by his thoughts and words, and if the choice is mine, I’d take
his blessing and do whatever it takes to make Melody’s life as perfect as possible.
“Thank you, sir—I mean, Harold. I’ll remember your words.”
Pops slaps my back from behind and pulls me in around the neck. “Are you giving my boy all the trade secrets of bourbon?” he asks
“All of them,” Harold enunciates.
“I’ll let the two of you chat,” I say, taking a few steps back. Their conversation commences, and I turn around in search of Melody, knowing I need to talk to her about something other than what Harold just said to me. At the same time, I’m more aware now that there are moments that can’t be wasted.
I spot Melody and Journey by the exit and make my way over to them. “How are you both holding up?”
“Melody is in la-la land, and I’m trying to figure out how to walk out of this room tonight in one piece,” Journey says, answering for the both of them before walking away.
Melody’s face is flush, and I wish I could say the right thing to comfort her, but there’s no such thing as comfort at the moment.
The light chatter flows effortlessly between us until we notice our mothers chatting in the corner, looking at us as we look at them. “I guess a distraction is easier to focus on right now,” Melody says.
“Yeah, our moms seem to have a hidden agenda for the two of us, but—”
“The timing is ah—” Melody says with a blush of pink staining her cheeks.
“It sucks,” I say, finishing her sentence. We’ve already determined the timing thing, and it isn’t about to change. “I wish I could make this easier for you but—”
“No one can,” she says. “I wish someone could because I’m honestly scared out of mind. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to make it through this.”
I place my hand on her shoulder and sweep my thumb back and forth to comfort the evident pain. “It might not mean anything to hear this, but most people don’t realize their strength until they have to find it inside themselves at the most difficult moment.”
“I need a hug,” she says, choking on her words. Without thought, I wrap my arms around her and squeeze tightly, running my hand across her back. Her cheek is against my neck, flaming hot, and I can’t imagine the agony she must be going through for her body to react so intensely. I wish I could ease her discomfort. “Thank you.” Melody whispers into my ear.
“I’m here. I’ll be here. No matter what,” I respond.
19
I wish I had more time. Which is worse? To know or not to know.
Harold passed away in the middle of the night on Thursday. Something inside him knew that the time was near and he wanted his family and friends to be there with him for one last party and to say goodbye, on his last day on this earth. When my phone rang at six in the morning, I knew. Pops was on the phone, silent. The lack of words was like a familiar siren. “I’ll be over as soon as I get Parker up and dressed,” I tell him.
“Okay,” he utters before hanging up.
I scratch my hands over my face and pull in a deep breath before searching for Melody’s last text message.
* * *
Me: I’m so sorry. I know the words hold no meaning, but like I said last night, I’m here—no need to respond.
* * *
I lean my head back against my pillow as I drop the phone to my lap.
Being silent but present is what I’ve always been good at. I’m at the end of a row in the church, waiting for the family to follow the pallbearers carrying the coffin. Everyone stands when the doors open. A weakness floats through me as I watch the coffin being carried to the pulpit.
I blink, and the casket is no longer black, but one covered with the American flag.
Relatives and close friends of Harold’s, including Pops, are replaced with Marines in their dress blues. Tears from swollen eyes become frozen, still faces.
Abby had no family aside from Parker and me.
Harold’s influence has filled up an entire church, and I’m grateful to see love rather than loneliness. However, what cannot change is the look on Melody’s face as she and Journey clutch Mrs. Quinn’s arms. Her eyes are glossy, and her cheeks look raw. Her hair is up in a neat ponytail, covered with a piece of black lace. I place my hand over my heart because it hurts for her—for all of them. Melody glances in my direction as she walks by, and I mouth the word, “hi,” knowing it’s all she can afford to hear or see on top of everything sprawled out before her.
She mouths “hi” back before her lips quiver and then returns her gaze toward the front of the church.
The service is kept short, each daughter saying a few words. The congregation is released to a receiving line where we offer condolences before moving on with our lives, as the Quinn family takes their last few moments inside the church, guarding the man that they loved more than anything.
I offer Mrs. Quinn and Journey a hug, and my apologies for their loss. As I reach Melody, I wrap my arms around her, and she clutches her hands against the back of my shirt, holding onto me as if she needs me to be here for her. Her body shudders against mine as tears trickle between our cheeks. “Take time. Sit and let it all sink in before you move forward. Let your tears run dry. The world will wait for you. It’s the only way.”
Melody nods her head against my cheek. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I release my arms from around her warm body and head toward the exit.
There was no one to hug at Abby’s funeral, no one except Parker. No one told me to let it all sink in and cry until the pain lessened, but it’s what I did. I cried for Parker. I cried for myself. I cried for Abby, and until the tears ran out, it was the only way to accept the new reality.
It took weeks. It took until the time I was approached to become Parker’s legal guardian per Abby’s will. They granted me full custody and offered the opportunity to legally adopt her. Nothing happened overnight, but the day a judge declared me to be Parker’s adopted father, was the first day of my new life—the day I had promised Abby I would do whatever it would take to show Parker the happiness she deserves. Parker and I made a pact that we would push forward together and experience all the fun life can offer, no matter how big or small. The more fun and happiness we could experience, the closer we’d feel to Abby because her personality was like the sun—warm and embracing. Parker and I needed to be that way too, as that would be the way we would keep Abby alive in our hearts, forever. Things are always easier said than done, and we have rainy days when it’s difficult to find the sunshine, but we’re in it together and we always try our best. Nobody can ask for more.
20
Two-and-a-half weeks later
My heart stops when Melody walks through the doors of The Barrel House today. I haven’t sent her texts or checked in on her because I would have been contradicting my own words to her. Taking the time to be alone or with her mom and Journey and having space to be with her thoughts and memories is the only way to heal. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure she’d want to step back into this shop since it’s surrounded by reminders of Harold, but she’s smiling. Her cheeks are pink; her hair is done; she’s wearing leggings, a long denim shirt, and knee-high brown boots. Melody is the definition of beautiful, and I’d say so out loud if she wasn’t approaching after weeks of mourning.
We hardly have time for small talk when I’m interrupted by a delivery of barrels pulling in downstairs. I’d much rather stand here and help Melody with what she might need, but she appears to be okay and it looks like she plans on sticking around as she removes her jacket and hangs up her purse. After I finish unloading the import of barrels and return to the storefront, I notice a difference in Melody’s mood. She’s frazzled and pacing around the store, rubbing her hands together slowly as if trying to loosen the tension. I could stop her or ask what’s wrong, but instead, I find myself watching the result of her erratic thoughts until she locates a pad of paper and a pen. She rushes it up to the front counter and begins jotting down some notes before spotting the stack of boxes
ready to be shipped out today. Her eyes light up when she thinks there’s something she can be doing.
“Are those shipments ready to go, or do they need labeling?”
“They need labels,” Mr. Crawley answers from the opening between the shop and backroom. He likely saw me staring at Melody rather than answering her question a little faster.
Melody walks behind the front counter and searches through a few bins for what I assume to be labels. “Hmm,” she says, checking a couple more places. “Where can I find those?”
“You know what, I’ll show you where the supplies are. How about that?” I ask. I don’t want to step on her toes or make her feel like I know more about this place than she does, but I can’t sit here and watch her spin in circles trying to figure everything out either.
She wraps a few loose strands of hair behind her ears and glances toward the back room. “Okay, good idea.”
I lead her into the back, where we have bins for labels and other supplies needed for shipping. Her eyes dart from bin to bin and from wall to wall, seeming more lost than she was before. Maybe this is all too much too soon. “What were you doing before you moved home, for a job, I mean?”
She slides a bin out from the wall and peeks inside. “I was a script editor. Well, I am a script editor,” she says without looking up. “I’m just working at night right now while I get things sorted out with the shop. I like to keep busy anyway, so it’s totally fine.”
The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball Page 62
