Will Dad even make it to Thanksgiving?
"It’s whatever," Journey adds in. "No biggie. I’m still waiting for my big break."
"It’s coming, sweetie. I can feel it," Mom says.
The four of us continue to munch on our sandwiches in silence, but as Mom and Journey focus on their food, I have a side-eye on Dad, who is inconspicuously feeding parts of his lunch to Benji under the table. I consider clearing my throat, but when I stop to think, I realize Mom thinks she’s helping Dad by feeding him, and Dad can’t stomach the food. It’s best to let this go.
"Did that guy show up at the shop?" Journey asks Dad.
Guy?
"I’m not sure. I haven’t heard from anyone yet. I’ll call him in a bit," Dad says.
"What guy?" I question.
Dad slips a sliver of a potato chip into his mouth. "A supplier has a guy who will watch over things for the time being."
"No," I argue. "I told you, I will take care of everything at the shop. It’s a family owned business. It should stay that way."
Dad presses his lips together, bringing focus to the slight purple-hue outlining his mouth. He looks sick.
"Melody, what are you talking about?" Journey asks, stabbing her coleslaw with a fork.
"We need to take care of The Barrel House while Dad can’t.” I’m making it sound like he will able to take care of it again someday when we all know it isn’t the case.
"We don’t know a thing about bourbon," Journey says, her voice flat and lacking emotion.
"We’ll learn," I say, gritting my teeth.
"You don’t have to control everything," Journey continues. "Dad has a plan. Just let it go."
"No, I will not let it go. Don’t you care? Papa passed the store down to Dad and now—"
Everyone at the table looks up at me, I’m sure wondering if I plan to finish my sentence.
"Well, good luck. You don’t even know the difference between red wine and white wine. How are you planning to run a bourbon shop?" Journey scoffs. This is why we don’t always get along. I love her more than anything, but she has never grown out of the typical big sister act of pushing every one of my buttons to get a rise out of me.
"Girls, enough," Mom says. Now I feel like I’m a twelve-year-old being scolded at the kitchen table. "Your father doesn’t expect either of you to take over the shop or step in to help. We both know you have your own lives and careers, and the last thing we would ask of you is to uproot your life to run the shop."
Dad is already losing everything. I can’t bear the thought of the business going with his failing body. Journey and I grew up in the back room of the shop, since Mom spent many years helping Dad run the place. It’s the only bourbon shop in a hundred-mile radius, and the place is never empty.
"Remember the time Journey went missing in the back of the shop, and it took us three hours to find her?" I ask, keeping my focus locked on my pile of untouched coleslaw.
Dad tosses his head back with laughter, and Mom places her hand on the side of her face, trying not to laugh, as well.
"Who falls asleep in a wooden barrel?" I ask, joining in with Dad’s laughter.
"Are we done?" Journey asks. Her chair scrapes against the wooden floor, and she snags her plate and glass, then brings it to the sink. After a quick rinse and a clatter from the glass dropped into the dishwasher, we are left with the wind of Journey’s existence. She still stomps up the stairs like a child, and her door slams as loud as it ever did when we were younger.
"She’s not taking this well," Mom says.
"None of us are," I retort, my brows furrowing with aggravation. “It doesn’t mean she needs to be acting this way. We should be doing what we can to make Dad comfortable, not stressing him out."
Dad clears his throat. "I’m still alive. I’m right here, and I can talk for myself, Melody. We’re all going to deal with this in our own way, and we need to support one another."
My heart hurts, and I didn’t know my heart could physically hurt. It feels heavy like my body is using all its strength to keep it beating.
"Why don’t you go take a breath," Dad suggests.
"Mind if I go check on The Barrel House? It will give me a minute to catch my breath."
Dad nods his head and grins. "If that’s what will give you a moment of peace, I will never say no."
"Do you need anything while I’m out?" I ask.
"Bourbon," Dad jests.
"Harold," Mom scolds. "I don’t think you—"
"I’m already dying, Marion," Dad says through a sigh. "Bring me back a bottle of the Red Apple."
"You got it," I respond, lifting my plate with the uneaten sandwich.
"The doctor said it’s about quality of life, Marion. Bourbon is a great quality of life."
"You can take my car, sweetie. Your father’s truck needs gas. I haven’t had a moment."
I can’t help but watch my two parents stare at each other with broken grimaces. It hurts to imagine what is going through their minds, knowing everything in this moment is temporary.
4
Our town, Lakebridge is small. There are less than two thousand residents, but after living close to Charleston in South Carolina, I felt a longing for the small-town feel. I haven’t been around in almost four years, except for a few holidays, but nothing has changed. The town store still has the same group of older women sitting on a bench out front, likely chattering about the daily town gossip. The sandwich shop, on the other side, has a small line spilling out the front door, and then there’s the coffee shop that closes at noon every day.
On the other side of the street is the old fire station, now used as a distillery to run The Barrel House.
Papa started The Barrel House in Kentucky when he was about my age, but when he met Grandma and found out she was only visiting Kentucky, he picked up his shop and moved it up here to Vermont. A good old-fashioned love story. Years ago, someone engraved their story on a plaque inside the shop for any bourbon connoisseur who questions the validity of an "old" distillery being in New England, since the Northern states are still new to running distilleries.
I pull up on the side of the street into a space behind an old beat up mint green Chevy. Mr. Crawley’s truck—I can’t believe the thing is still running.
The quick honk of Mom’s car as I hit the lock button on the key fob attracts a few stares from outside the sandwich shop and the town store. "Melody Quinn?"
I don’t recognize the voice, but I’m not sure anyone’s voice would sound familiar after being gone for years. I slip my faded leather bag over my shoulder and spin around in search of the person calling my name. I spot Erin Daniels. How could I not recognize her voice? She’s running toward me with her arms stretched out. She’s a hugger—the kind of hugger who squeezes so tightly I can’t lift my arms to hug her back. "It’s been years, Mel. I heard you took off and got married to some hot Southern stud." She pulls away and snatches my left hand up to inspect. "Oh."
"We didn’t get married," I say, laughing, feeling awkward as I sweep a fallen strand of hair behind my ear.
"Oh, but you moved down there, and—" Her face scrunches, and she makes this weird, awkward grimace. "Anyway, are you home for a visit?"
I glance over my shoulder toward the firehouse. "No, I’m in the process of moving home. I was heading into the shop.” I point across the street as if she doesn’t know which is my dad’s shop.
"I haven’t seen your dad in there recently. Everything okay?"
For a long pause, I stare at her long natural blonde waves blowing in the passing breeze, but as I refocus on her questioning eyes, I blurt out, "No, actually. He’s dying,"
I didn’t mean to say it in such a way, but it happened, and now her hand is covering her mouth, and her eyes close. She shakes her body as if she’s trying to break away from the news and wraps her arms back around me. "Mel, I’m so sorry. I—I don’t know what to say."
I try to back out of her embrace and shrug. "There’s not m
uch to say. Life isn’t fair sometimes, right?"
"I will make your family meals. I’ll start a meal train. What can I do? Please. There has to be something." Erin Daniels is the head of every organization in our town. She has been since we were old enough to elect a student president. She’s organized, selfless, forward, loud, and I don’t think she sleeps.
"Gosh, thank you, but my mom has been cooking as a form of therapy. It’s keeping her mind occupied."
"Oh, of course. Your mom is a wonderful cook—winner of every bake-off in this town," Erin chides.
"Well, if you need anything—coffee, a friend, I’m here. What’s your number?"
I close my eyes to collect my thoughts because my mind is full of so many other things that my phone number isn’t forming on its own. "It’s 323-344-5768. It was nice to see you, and thank you for the offers.” She thumbs the numbers into her phone, pinging my phone with her number.
"There. Call, please." She places her hand on my shoulder and tilts her head to the side with an empathetic smile. "Take care of yourself, Mel."
The drive to town cleared my head a bit, allowing me take a deep breath before walking into The Barrel House, which is nice since I haven’t figured out how to take in a lung full of air since I arrived home. My chest is too tight, and it hurts too much.
I cross the paved street over to the original cobblestones the town kept from the eighteen-hundreds. When I pull the black iron door open, the smells hit me at once, reminding me of a place that represents home. Cedar and spice. It’s like a warm blanket in front of a fire type of scent.
"Melly-Bean," Mr. Crawley shouts as I walk through the door. "I didn’t know you were in town."
With a forced smile, I make my way toward the checkout counter in front of the one wall of exposed brick they kept from the firehouse on this floor.
Mr. Crawley has always reminded me of Santa Claus with his long white beard, rosy cheeks, and thick black-framed glasses. He also has a comparable figure to go along with the jolly personality. Always smiling.
Before responding, I walk around to the back of the counter and wrap my arms around his neck, inhaling the remnants from the pipe he smokes before work every day.
"I know, sweetheart," he says.
I’ve known Mr. Crawley my entire life. He oversees most of the machines downstairs, but I suspect he’s been running the whole show with very little help since Dad has been out of commission.
"I’m home for good, so I will be helping you out in here," I tell him.
Mr. Crawley snickers and runs his hand over the top of my head. "Melly, we both know you don’t have an interest in the world of bourbon."
"I’ll learn what I need to.”
"What about your editing career?" he questions. Mr. Crawley’s wife was an English teacher before she retired. When her time freed up, she would help Mom with some bookkeeping here. But when I was struggling with my English classes in high school, Mrs. Crawley would spend hours helping me, right here in the back room of this shop. She made me find a love for the technicalities of the English language.
"The beauty of editing is I can tend to it any time of the day.”
"You sound like my Virginia; God rest her soul." Mr. Crawley’s wife passed away from a heart attack two years ago. She was too young at sixty-eight. Dad tried to make Mr. Crawley retire afterward, but he told Dad he needed to be here to keep his mind going, or he would rot on his couch for the rest of his life.
"She was my inspiration," I remind him.
"You make me proud, kid.”
I turn away and walk toward one of the nearest displays of bottles and begin straightening them out, so the labels all face outward. "Your dad hired a guy to come run the store, Melly," he says, sounding cautious as if there’s a chance I didn’t know.
"I know," I tell him. "It’s a family business, though, and I need to make sure it stays this way, right?"
"What about your sister?" Mr. Crawley asks while scribbling a note on the back of a scrap of receipt paper.
I shrug. "I don’t know if Journey feels the same way I do, but it doesn’t matter. I can handle it if she doesn’t want to."
Mr. Crawley’s eyebrows arch as he continues jotting down whatever he’s writing. "Well, Mr. Pearson is due in at any minute, so I’m sure he’s the one you want to chat with about how to keep the business afloat."
"Mr. Pearson? Dad’s friend, the one who supplies the barrels?" I ask.
"Yes, ma’am."
Dad has been friends with Mr. Pearson for as long as I can remember, but I haven’t seen him in years. He has a truck deliver his shipments once a month, but I know Dad meets up with him once every few weeks to discuss business over dinner, but it’s only the two of them.
The bells above the door jingle as a customer walks into the dim orange glow, which offers the shop a warm feeling. Dad hung flickering Edison bulbs in two rows down the center of the ceiling. The lights look like old gas lamp flames.
"Thomas, how are you doing, my good man?" Mr. Crawley greets the customer.
"Better than ever," the middle-aged man responds.
"What can I do for you today?" Mr. Crawley asks.
"I can help him," I offer.
"Perfect," Mr. Crawley says. "I’ll be right back." Mr. Crawley takes off through the back doors, and I hear the thud of his feet against the steps going into the cellar.
The customer, Thomas, glances down at me. "Great, thank you. Have you stocked the shelves with the Quinn Pine yet?"
I twist on my heels and scan the top shelf in front of me, searching through the labels. I get to the bottom shelf, but still don’t see what the man asking for.
The bell above the door chimes again. Crap, there’s another customer, and I can’t help this one. Feeling anxious, I start my search at the top shelf again, "Quinn Pine," I repeat. "Where are you?"
"Oh, we won’t have that until the first of November," I hear from behind me. However, the person speaking is not Mr. Crawley.
I turn around, finding a familiar face, and I’m caught in a deadpan stare.
"Ah great, I’ll have the Quinn Maple for today," Thomas says.
The familiar man speaking for me reaches above my head and grasps a bottle from the top shelf. "Here you go," he says to Thomas, handing him the bottle.
"Thank you," Thomas continues, likely noticing the awkward stare between this familiar man and me. I shake my head a bit to re-center my thoughts and rush around the counter to ring up the bottle. Dad got a new register.
This purchasing system has a password. "Uh, one minute. I need to go find Mr. Crawley,” I inform Thomas, heading toward the back door.
"I can help," the familiar man says. I don’t know this familiar man’s name, and I wish I did. He makes his way around the counter and types in a password, scans the bottle with the hand scanner thing, and rings up the total. "Twenty-four, ninety-five."
Thomas hands familiar guy his credit card, and the purchase is completed within a matter of seconds. "I’ll be back in a couple weeks for the Quinn Pine," Thomas says, waving before exiting the shop.
"You.” It’s all I can say.
"You," he repeats. "Do you work here?"
"This is my dad’s shop," I explain. "The better question is, do you work here?"
"You’re Mr. Quinn’s daughter? I knew you looked familiar."
I shake and nod my head at the same time, weighing the odds of seeing this man again.
"Yes—one of them," I respond, staring at him as if I’m looking through a piece of glass.
"I’m Brett Pearson. Our dads go way back." I know you. I remember you, very much so, now.
"You’re Mr. Pearson’s son," I state the obvious.
"One of them, yes."
Part of me is trying to figure out if this is some weird set up, but I think it would be far too much work to set up a chance encounter on a plane from Charleston, South Carolina.
There was only one flight going from Charleston to Burlington that day, but
still.
"Are you Melody or Journey?" Brett asks. He doesn’t remember me.
"Melody.” I should feel grateful he doesn’t remember me.
"The younger one who doesn’t plan to let the family business go," he says with a small smirk.
I close my eyes and turn away because I need to collect my thoughts and take a moment to pray, he doesn’t remember me the way I remember him.
"Well, I won’t get in your way," he says. "I’m only here to help."
Mr. Crawley comes back upstairs with a stack of labels. "I have a job for your Melly," he calls out as he drops the stack down on the counter.
"Mr. Pearson," Mr. Crawley calls out as he spots Brett. "It’s been a while, kid. How have you been?"
"Busy," Brett says.
"So, I’ve heard," Mr. Crawley replies. "I see you’ve reacquainted yourself with Melody. It must be years since you two have seen each other, huh?"
"Yeah," Brett says. "It’s been a long time."
Brett walks toward Mr. Crawley, leaving me with a whiff of his mildly spiced cologne a sight I should avoid admiring. Brett is clearly dressed to impress by wearing a light blue dress shirt, tie, and gray slacks. Dad is the only one who dresses professionally since he mostly just oversees the working parts of the shop. More often than not, he is—was—on the front floor conversing with the customers, teaching them about bourbon. But because Mr. Crawley works with the machinery most of the day, he doesn’t tend to wear anything too fancy.
"I don’t know the password to the computer," I tell them.
"I’ll create you one," Brett says.
I don’t think I like this. "Does my dad know you have this kind of access?" My words sound snippy, maybe more so than they should.
"He does. He walked me through it over the phone the other day," Brett says.
Why didn’t Dad ask me for help?
"Well, it looks like you two have everything under control here, so I’ll—" I point at the front door. "Unless there’s something you need help with?"
Bourbon Love Notes Page 4