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

by Ryan, Shari J.

  “She’s something special,” I tell him.

  “I’m proud of you, son … in case I don’t say it enough to you.”

  When life is put in perspective, we say things that could be used as last words, if necessary. I guess it’s easy to see how all remaining chances in life can be lost in an instant.

  3

  Seven Years Ago

  When a person returns from a deployment, there are months’ worth of civilian life to catch up on—movies, television shows, insane sporting miracles, medical advances, and the revolving lives of friends and family. My unit arrived back on base a day earlier than planned. My parents and Brody are driving down to greet me at home after being gone a year, but I don’t want to tell them they’ll be a day late. I’ll give them a heads up when they’re about an hour away. Because of our early arrival, most of us don’t have friends and family waiting when the busses pull up. We’re all just happy to be home on U.S. soil, though. The friends and family are bonuses.

  I step out of the bus doors, shuffling my pack over my right shoulder when I’m attacked from the side. Arms swing around my neck, squeezing the air out of my lungs. “I get the benefit of knowing you would be here a day earlier,” Abby says.

  Aside from feeling winded by her deadly hug, I need a moment to calculate my thoughts after noticing her appearance. I drop my pack and scratch the side of my face. “Abbs, you’ve been sending me letters for the last year. Did you fail to mention something?”

  I’m not the type to ask a girl if she’s pregnant due to the off chance she ate too many bags of Doritos, but if she isn’t pregnant, she needs to see a doctor about what’s going on with her stomach. Abby wasn’t dating anyone, not that she mentioned. On the contrary, she has made her disinterest for relationships clear. I’m confused.

  “We have some catching up to do,” she says, tapping her fingers to her lips.

  “Ya think?”

  “He better be a good guy,” I tell her.

  Abby runs her hand down the length of her throat and sighs. “He might be, but um—I’m not sure who he is.”

  I shake the confusion out of my head and place my hands on her shoulders. “Abby, what are you talking about?”

  “It was my twenty-first,” she begins.

  “You don’t go to bars,” I remind her.

  “Yeah, well, I did that night. Then, I remembered why drinking at bars is a terrible idea.”

  I wasn’t expecting the shocking news. I wasn’t expecting life-shattering news moments after stepping off the bus from a deployment. “You don’t know the guy?” I repeat.

  “No,” she says, glancing down to her protruding stomach. “I know what you’re thinking, and I already think that way about myself, so you don’t have to say it.”

  I wouldn’t share my feeling of disappointment with her because this is out of character, and I don’t know what to say. “How many months along are you?”

  “Eight,” she says with a shrug.

  “How are you going to do this while enlisted?”

  “I am going to figure it out as I go. It’s all I can do. I’m not the first Marine to become pregnant. It happens.

  “Has anyone been around to help you?” I ask.

  Abby cocks her head to the side as if my question is ridiculous, which I realize is, but I wanted to know. “Like who?”

  “I don’t know, maybe whoever persuaded you to go out that night?” Anger was settling in, and I wasn’t choosing the right words to respond.

  “No, Brett. I didn’t ask for help. I don’t need help. This is something I was reckless about and I will handle it now.” Abby isn’t the type to make close friends with the other women. There are forceful personalities in her unit and most of them keep to themselves. She doesn’t fit in with the wives of Marines because they seem to treat her differently, so she flies solo if I’m not around to keep her company. “Okay, let’s pretend I’m not pregnant and you’re just coming home from a year-long deployment. We have lots of other things to catch up on, right?”

  “Of course,” I tell her without meaning it. I’m worried about her.

  “Did you get a response to any of your love letters?” Abby teases as we walk toward her car.

  I chuckle. “Not one.”

  “Maybe she didn’t get them,” Abby offers as a plausible reason.

  “I don’t know. I think she has a boyfriend. Brody mentioned something in a letter a couple of months back. It’s fine. I’m home and alive. Life is wonderful, right?”

  Abby wraps her arm around my back and presses her cheek into my arm. “I’m glad you’re back. I missed my bestie.”

  I get my pack settled in the trunk of Abby’s car and hop into the passenger seat. “Seriously, Abby, how are you going to do this alone?”

  “Like I said. I’ll figure it out. You don’t need to worry.”

  “How does Lindsay feel about all this?” Lindsay is her barrack roommate. I don’t think Abby can stay in the barracks with a baby, but I don’t know what she has arranged at this point.

  “Well, she doesn’t want to get an apartment with me, but I can understand why. I’m looking for a one-bedroom place. I’m sure I’ll find something soon. They have moved me to the top of the waiting list.”

  “That’s good,” I tell her. She’s eight months pregnant and somewhat calm for a person who could go into labor within the next few weeks. Maybe she’s putting on an act. I want to jump in to help her, but she’s not the kind of girl who seeks sympathy or accepts charity.

  My heart skips around in my chest as I dial Harold’s phone number. He answers on the first ring, sounding better than I was prepared for.

  “Harold, it’s Brett Pearson.”

  “My saving grace, you mean,” he replies with a chuckle.

  “I don’t know if I would go that far, but you know I’m always happy to help.”

  “Your kindness is much appreciated, son,” he says.

  “Well, I’m heading down to The Barrel House as we speak. Is there anything in particular you need me to check on?” I ask.

  “Yes, I need sales numbers from yesterday. An inventory of Quinn Pine so we can release that in a few weeks, and there should be two shipments going out today.”

  “You got it,” I tell him.

  “Also,” he says, clearing his throat. “Melody, you remember my daughter, don’t you?” He doesn’t need to ask, but it’s been awhile since we’ve all been around each other.

  “Of course.”

  “Well, she just insisted on heading to the shop. Melody is grieving uniquely, and she has an intense determination to take over the business. However, my sweet daughter, one of the loves of my life, she knows nothing about bourbon. How I failed to teach her nothing throughout the years is beyond me, but so be it,” Harold says through laughter. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know where her heart is and the current goals she has in sight.”

  “I’ll be sure not to step on her toes, sir.”

  “Oh, you’re misunderstanding me,” Harold replies with a hearty chuckle. “By all means, step on her toes. She needs more than a few lessons about bourbon if she wants to help a customer, never mind help with the family business.”

  “I understand,” I tell him. This should go over well. Melody Pearson was as stubborn as could be and after my unknowing run-in with her today, I’m positive that personality trait has only grown stronger through the years.

  “Also, I asked her for a bottle of Red Apple. If I’m dying, I better drink the stuff up, right?”

  The dying jokes. I’m sure they are to be endless with him. “Could you make sure she leaves with a bottle for her old man?”

  “I can do that, yes,” I tell him.

  “Her mind is not on the straight and narrow and I suspect she will walk into more walls than usual in the coming weeks. I love my little girl, but when she is upset, she can’t think a straight thought if her life was to depend on it.”

  Melody was always clumsy when we were kids. I guess
that hasn’t changed much either. I always found it adorable because she’d laugh at herself after a crash into a sturdy object. “I can imagine she’s going through a lot too,” I say, trying not to say too much or too little.

  “A lot more than I can explain to you, but I’m sure seeing you will put a smile on her face.”

  I’m not so sure about that.

  “We can hope. Well, I will call you when I have your sales information and an update on everything else. Does that sound good?”

  “Sure does. Thank you for what you’re doing, Brett. I appreciate it.”

  “Anything for you, sir.”

  When the call disconnects, I realize Melody will probably be pissed when she sees me. I don’t know if she recognized me on the plane, but if she didn’t and thinks I might have recognized her and said nothing, this will be a disaster.

  It’s best if I play dumb too.

  I think.

  4

  I’m getting lucky, finding a parking spot on the street in front of the old fire station where The Barrel House has taken up residency for longer than I’ve been alive. There’s a small lot around back, but I don’t think it would be appropriate to let myself in through the back entrance if Melody is already here.

  I’ve been staring at myself in the rear-view mirror, debating on an appropriate look of shock for when I see Melody, but I’m an awful liar.

  Relief fills me when I spot her helping a customer as I walk in through the front door. The relief is short lived as I hear her stumbling along her words to answer a customer who is looking for a bottle of The Barrel House’s infamous Quinn Pine—a seasonal special.

  At this moment, I am damned no matter what I do next. I will either embarrass and surprise her or allow her to become embarrassed on her own then, surprise her.

  Hey, it’s me, the guy you sat next to on the plane and didn’t recognize for four hours—you know the jackass who kissed you then left town ten years ago? Yeah, Brett Pearson here; winner of all winners at your family’s business to serve and help.

  “Quinn Pine, Quinn Pine,” Melody mutters to herself, sweeping her finger along the bottles on the top shelf before making her way down to the next row. “Where are you?”

  Her cheeks are burning red, an easy telltale sign with Melody. It has always been easy to tell when she is embarrassed. I believe redheads have a knack for showing their feelings through color on their cheeks easier than most. Her skin is so fair. She’s already embarrassed, which means I have nothing left to lose.

  “Oh, we won’t have that until the first of the month,” I answer the customer on behalf of Melody.

  Slow and seemingly unsure, Melody twists around in her knee-high chestnut-brown boots, taking one good, long look at me. Her eyes widen with wonder.

  “Ah great, I’ll have the Quinn Maple for today,” the customer continued, blind to the awkward stare Melody and I shared.

  I reach above Melody’s head and grab the Quinn Maple for the gentleman. “Here you go,” I say, handing him the bottle.

  “Thank you,” the man replies, bringing the bottle up to the register. Melody scurries around to the back side of the counter and waves her fingers over the keyboard as if she’s about to perform a magic trick. Her eyes dance around the register’s monitor and I’m almost positive she doesn’t know what to click first.

  I helped Harold last summer when he and Marion went on a cruise. Journey was busy with work, and Melody was living in South Carolina. I had everything running smoothly by the time I left. It feels like it was just yesterday.

  “Uh, one minute. I need to go find Mr. Crawley,” Melody tells the customer. She spins around in search of the man who normally tends to the distillery downstairs.

  “I can help,” I offer. “Twenty-four, ninety-five.” I make my way around the back counter where Melody is still fumbling around with the cash register. I give her my best empathetic look, silently asking her to move so I can ring the man’s order through. The purchase is complete within a minute and the man is quick to offer his gratitude with a promise of returning soon for the Quinn Pine. I hold my focus on the customer walking out the front door, waiting for the wrath to begin.

  The door isn’t even completely closed when the word, “You,” escapes her pretty lips.

  I twist to face her, responding with the only logical thing to say: “You.” Between the one word and whatever I’m supposed to say next, my mind goes blank and something stupid spills out. “Do you work here?”

  I don’t know why I thought playing dumb would work in this situation. However, she could have been playing the same game with me, and I’ll never know.

  “This is my dad’s shop,” she says, announcing it as if I’m an intruder. Does she think I’m some random person? She could think I’m stalking her if she doesn’t recognize me. How could she not recognize me? How could I have been so uncertain about her yesterday? What the hell is wrong with me? “The better question is, do you work here?”

  Do I work here? I suppose yes and no. Her father asked me to help, so I would think she’d be aware, but I’m not sure what to think right now.

  “You’re Mr. Quinn’s daughter?” What? Why would I ask that? Obviously she’s Harold’s daughter. She’s Melody. I guess playing dumb is just the easiest thing for me to do since I seem to do it so well. “I knew you looked familiar.” I more than knew. I was questioning it for hours while sitting next to you on the damn plane.

  “Yes, one of them,” she responds, but her words come out as a question, confirming she has no clue who I am. If she does, she turned into a talented actor. Unless maybe she is Journey, but I doubt her personality would change so drastically over the years.

  “I’m Brett Pearson. Our dads go way back.” I’m speaking to her as if she has amnesia now. I should take a minute to think before talking. She knows who Brett Pearson is and that our dads go way back.

  “You’re Mr. Pearson’s son,” she says, her jaw falling ajar. She had no freaking clue who I was. Unbelievable. Either I became a hell of a lot uglier or grew into my body. I’m hoping for the latter half.

  “One of them, yes.” Brody and I look alike but have two distinctly different body shapes. I’ve always been tall, lean and broad-chested, while Brody is a little shorter and built like an athlete. Although, again, I suppose anything can change in ten years, except height. I wouldn’t expect her to remember our precise height difference.

  “Are you Melody or Journey?” She has to be Melody. I know it’s her; I’m positive.

  Her eyes paralyze me as she stares into mine with a look of wonder, or something deeper that I can’t comprehend. “Melody,” she says after what feels like hours.

  We have confirmed she is Melody, and I am Brett.

  What may have only been ten years for me might have been a lifetime for her. However, I feel as though I have lived two lifetimes in the last ten years. Kissing her that night—it still feels like only yesterday and I can’t make much sense of what’s happening.

  “The younger one who doesn’t plan to let the family business go,” I tease. Melody closes her eyes and turns away as if she’s upset by what I said. I don’t want to cause her any distress, but it seems almost unavoidable. “Well, I won’t get in your way,” I tell her. “I’m only here to help.”

  Melody doesn’t respond or turn back to face me. I’ve made her uncomfortable, which is likely from the way I’m staring at the register with what must be a blank expression. I don’t understand, no matter how many years went by, how she could have forgotten about me.

  “I have a job for you, Melly,” a voice booms from the back door. I grin at the sight of Mr. Crawley. I haven’t seen him in a few months. The man never changes a bit. He’s a happy old soul with sad eyes.

  “Mr. Pearson,” he greets me. “It’s been a while, kid. How have you been?”

  “Busy,” I reply. I’ve been working a ton of hours with Pops and juggling Parker every other hour of the day. There isn’t much downtime.


  “So, I’ve heard,” Mr. Crawley says. “I see you’ve reacquainted yourself with Melody. It must be years since you two have seen each other, huh?”

  Mr. Crawley remembers us being friendly, but Melody doesn’t seem to have the same recollection. I must be forgettable. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s been a long time.” Without a response from Melody on the subject, I think it might be best if I give her some space, so I head toward the back where Mr. Crawley has his hands gripped around each side of the door frame. I receive a look from him, one with his lips twisted to the side and his eyebrows turned into each other. He shakes his head and glances over to the back of Melody’s head.

  “Poor thing,” he mouths.

  “She isn’t doing well, I assume?” I whisper in response.

  “She seems a little scattered, maybe in shock, I suppose.”

  Melody turns, finding us muttering beneath our breath, so we stop. “I don’t know the password to the computer,” she says.

  “I’ll create one for you,” I respond quickly, hoping she doesn’t speculate about our private conversation.

  Her eyes narrow as her head cocks to the side. “Does my dad know you have this kind of access?” By the stiff strain along her jaw, Melody must be irritated by my depth of knowledge for the shop, but I’m not sure how to avoid any of this.

  “He does. He walked me through it … ”

  Melody slaps her hands down on the counter. “Well, it looks like you have everything under control here, so I’ll—” She points toward the front door and lifts her brows to follow. “Unless there’s something you need help with?”

  Mr. Crawley clears his throat and pushes away from the door. “The labels,” he says.

  It’s a crappy job. Boring and monotonous. I doubt that’s the kind of help she’s here to offer. I’m sure she’d rather keep her mind busy. “I can do the labels if you’d rather get back to your dad,” I say. The moment the words come out of my mouth, I realize she’s probably here to take a breath from the situation with her dad. I’m guessing the shop would be a second priority if she felt the need to be by his side. Everyone handles grief in different ways. I’m aware some can only tolerate it in small doses.