Mr. Crawley makes his way upstairs just before two-thirty, knowing I have to pick Parker up from school. “Everything good up here?” he asks, stretching his hands over his head.
“Yeah, I was a little distracted today, but everything should be in order at this point. I got the shipment out an hour ago and got the inventory entered into the system.”
“Basically, you left me with nothing to do but sit here and look good,” he jokes.
“Well, sir, if I may say so, you do a damn good job of looking good. So, by all means, have at it.”
“Smartass,” Mr. Crawley says. “Have you heard anything from the Quinns today?”
“No, I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.”
“I think you’ll be hearing something soon,” Mr. Crawley says. “In fact, here, you’ll be needing this.” Mr. Crawley steps into the back room and returns within seconds, handing me a bourbon bottle.
“Why? What’s going on?” My heart pounds with curiosity, wondering what he knows … wondering if something happened that he isn’t telling me.
“Give your mom a call. Harold has decided to have a party tonight. I don’t know how or why, but if the man is making demands right now, we listen, right? Anyway, you’ll be there before me, and he asked that you bring this bottle with you.”
I retrieve the bottle from Mr. Crawley’s hand, feeling confused about the thought of a party. “Well then, I will get the information from my parents. Thanks for letting me know.”
“No problem. I’m sure I’ll see you tonight,” Mr. Crawley continues, grabbing my coat off the back rack and throwing it at me.
“Okay.” I don’t know what is going on or why neither Mom or Pops have called me yet, but it’s got to be something, I guess.
“Tell Parker I said hello, and I hope she did well on her spelling quiz,” Mr. Crawley says as I’m walking toward the back door.
“Will do. Thank you, sir.” He’s a good guy. He is like the grandfather of all grandfathers, type of man.
The moment I slide into the truck, I call Mom to see what’s going on. “Hello, Brett? Oh, I’m so glad you called. I’ve meant to call you for the last hour, but I’ve been running around like a chicken with my head cut off.” She’s out of breath and hearing all the chatter going on around her, I can tell she is in a public setting.
“I heard something about a party tonight. How …”
Mom chuckles. “Harold is having a good day, and he demanded a party tonight with his closest friends and family. They have invited us to go.”
“I have Parker, Mom. I can’t—”
“Brody has already offered to stay home and watch the girls. He’s a little more removed from this situation than you are at the moment. Harold specifically asked that you be there, so I think in this situation, we’ll let Brody sit this one out.”
Brody is always sitting these situations out. He can’t handle sadness of any kind, which most people wouldn’t know by the way he cracks jokes at every possible opportunity. We’ve referred to his issue as anxiety since we were kids, but in truth, his situation is not true anxiety. He just went through too much shit between the ages of fourteen and sixteen, and since then, he’s been sitting a good chunk of life out. And we have to go along with it because we’re a family. I get it. We’re not all cut out for everything life throws at us, but Jesus, no one has given me a free pass since I moved home. Then again, I should take the opportunity to be there tonight for Melody’s sake, so I’ll be grateful Brody has taken his normal loophole to escape the party.
“Um, okay. Does anyone need anything? What can I do?” I offer.
“I’m at the grocery store to get a few things to bring, but they’re having the party catered, so Marion said she didn’t need anything. I just can’t show up empty-handed, of course.”
“What time?” I ask.
“Six. I’ll text you the address for the Hospice center.”
“Okay, thank you. I’ll give Brody a call to figure out the logistics for the girls tonight. If you end up needing anything, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll see you soon.”
When the call ends, I feel baffled by the ups and downs I’ve been witnessing from a distance. I know he was doing so poorly yesterday that he requires hospice, so I’m not sure how he would be up for a party today. I wonder if Melody knows they invited me and, if so, how she feels about me being there. It doesn’t feel like my place to be a part of something so intimate, but if Harold invited me, I can’t say no.
I dial Brody’s number, waiting for him to pick up. It’s my day to get the girls from school, so I’m sure he’s at the warehouse with Pops. “Yo, bro,” he says, answering the call.
“Hey, how do you want to handle the arrangement with the girls tonight?”
“I’ll come to your house so Parker can get to bed at a decent time. Hannah doesn’t see the point in sleep lately, so it doesn’t matter where we are. I can be at your house at five-ish if that works for you?”
“Don’t you think this whole thing is a bit weird?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been dying before.”
“Bro, come on,” I say. Brody acts like he’s tough as nails, and nothing affects him, and most people wouldn’t know the truth by listening to the way he speaks sometimes, but I know him better than that.
“I don’t get why he wants a party, but if the man wants a party, he should get one, right?”
“Yeah. Hey, do you want me to call that sitter I’ve used a couple of times? I can see if she can come last minute and watch the girls, so you can go tonight too?”
“No, no, I’m good. I’m not going to a death party. Sorry, I can’t.”
“Brody,” I comment.
“Nope.”
“You’re a little heartless, don’t you think?”
My brother goes silent, as always. He’s learned to manage his anger over the years, but it took awhile for him to control his every thought and not run his mouth as he’d prefer. “Dude, don’t push—” he sighs. “I know you’re the big badass hero of the family and can handle everything like a damn superhero, but we’re not all cut from the same cloth, okay?”
“Okay, whatever you need. I’ll see you at five, or whenever,” I tell him.
Brody hangs up without saying another word, but I’m not surprised. He’s a man of few words.
I think I do a great job of acting like nothing bothers me but walking into the hospice center is making me feel sick throughout every inch of my body. I wonder how many people have walked into this place with dress slacks and a button-down shirt for a party. I’m betting there haven’t been many. I look like I could be going to a funeral instead than a party. Harold preferred class. He was always dressed to the nines when at The Barrel House. He insisted on top notch fashion from the good-old days, a style that unfortunately faded with time.
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 t
he 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.
Bourbon Nights (The Barrel House Series Book 3) Page 15