I need to start up the mash tub to mix the corn, grains, and water. Once I get everything going with this, I can take Parker to school while it starts up. There will be some cleanup when I get back, but hopefully not too much.
As I tear open another bag of kernels to pour into the machine’s mouth, I notice a distracting motion out near the stacked barrels. I glance over, finding Melody who appears unamused, and she’s with whom I assume to be her sister, Journey—the one trying to get my attention over the noise.
After a quick check to make sure the kernels have all made their way down into the tub, I walk toward the ladies since I can’t hear much over the sound of the machine.
“I thought you weren’t coming in until ten?” the other girl asks. It has to be Journey, but she looks different. Her hair is jet black and she kind of looks irritated at life, or possibly not feeling well. If she is Journey, I can understand the reason for the attitude because of what they’re going through with Harold. “Yeah, I thought I’d pop by for a few minutes, but I have to leave soon. I knew we had to get these kernels cleaned today and wanted to get a head start.”
“Oh,” Melody says. Her cheeks are red and she’s avoiding eye contact. I must have mortified her yesterday, but she sent that friend request too. I don’t understand.
I reach my hand out to the other girl. “Journey, right?”
Journey seems amused by my question, rolling her eyes for good measure. “Yeah, we spent some time together when we were younger,” she says with a smile filled with mischief.
“Sure, I remember you.” How can two people change so drastically over ten years? I’m still trying to understand how I didn’t recognize Melody at first. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Could be it. Melody’s insecure demeanor becomes more pointed as her eyes narrow in on me as if I said something wrong. Did I? “Well, we have an incoming shipment of water due around noon, so I might need a little help to get the path cleared. Things seem a little out of sorts here.” I don’t mean this as any offense to Mr. Crawley, but I know Harold keeps a tight ship, or so he likes to say, and nothing is where I recall it being when I was helping him here last summer.
“Why do we need an outside shipment of water?” Melody asks me. I don’t know if she’s quizzing me or serious. I’m aware neither daughter has a ton of experience running the distillery but I’d figure she’d know some key parts of running the place. Maybe not, though.
Whether she’s testing me or curious, I tell her, “It’s limestone water. We get an import from the Canadian distributor once a month.”
“Oh,” she says again, twirling a strand of hair behind her right ear. She does not want to be in my presence, it’s almost obvious. I wish I knew what I did to make her this uncomfortable. She seemed more confident on the plane than she is now.
“Do we need to do anything with the corn?” Journey asks after giving Melody a curious look, appearing to silently ask her what the problem is.
“Nah, it’s good for now.” The only thing they’d have to do is clean up the kernels that spilled out, but I’ll take care of that, so they don’t have to. I walk past the two of them toward the row of barrels where Parker is still reading. “Parker, we have to get going,” I call out when I turn the corner into the row. She stands up and packs her bag with her book and walks toward me with an eyebrow raised as if she has a question she’d like to ask. When she walks by me, I’m positive there’s something she needs to say. I feel like I’m slowly learning to understand the female psyche. That thought is laughable. I notice Parker dropped a paper out of her bag on the way and I lean over to grab it.
“Is she your—” Melody’s voice and question scare the crap out of me. I spin around, finding her a few feet away. Her cheeks are still red as she places the palm of her hand on her cheek. I would have thought the Pearson family knew about Parker. Mom gushes about her to everyone she speaks to, and Pops is worse sometimes.
“Yes, this is my little girl, Parker.” This ... as in … she was right here, but now she’s probably halfway to the truck, ready to drive off herself. “Oh, wow, I didn’t know—congratulations.” The congrats doesn’t sound very sincere, which tells me Parker is most definitely news to her. I can only imagine what she’s thinking, especially after giving her my phone number at the airport. I’m sure she is assumingI’m married with a child and looking to have a fling with a woman I didn’t recognize from ten years earlier—the girl I never forgot about.
“Thanks,” I say. Parker turns back around the corner just in time to catch the tail end of our awkward conversation and crosses her arms over her chest, gesturing for me to get moving.
Melody glances down at Parker and smiles. “You’re adorable. You must get your pretty looks from your mommy.” Oh man. She doesn’t know a damn thing about my life, and I need to get Parker out of here before this conversation goes any further.
“I don’t know, maybe,” Parker responds with a hitch in her voice. I don’t know how a seven-year-old little girl is strong enough to deal with the pain that I see in her eyes most days.
“Well, I’m sure your mom thinks you look like her,” Melody continues.
I shake my head and mouth the word, “No,” to Melody, hoping she will get the hint to stop.
“Sorry,” Melody mouths back, but she doesn’t know what she’s apologizing for. I can’t explain it now, not with Parker here.
“Anyway, if we don’t leave, we’ll be late for school. First grade doesn’t tolerate tardiness these days,” I say, wrapping my arm around Parker’s shoulders.
“Dad,” she groans. “We’re never late.”
With that last statement from the peanut gallery, we leave the scene and head upstairs and out the back door. “That’s the girl,” Parker says.
“Parker, enough.”
“The one on your phone yesterday. Why are they at the shop?”
“That was Melody and Journey, Mr. Quinn’s daughters.”
Parker scrunches her nose and looks up toward the sky. “Hmm, they don’t look like the picture Mr. Quinn showed me once.”
“They’re older now.”
“They don’t know about Mom?” Parker asks. I’m sure she’s wondering why Melody was saying what she did.
“I guess not. I can tell her if you don’t want to,” Parker says.
“No, that’s not something you have to do.”
“She should know.”
“Why is that?” I ask my seven-year-old daughter who seems to know something I don’t.
“It’s obvious she likes you, Dad.”
“I will not let you spend any more time with Hannah if you keep talking like a teenager. You don’t even know what that means, Parker.”
“Yes, I do. Men and women fall in love and live happily ever after, and sometimes men and other men and/or women and other women fall in love and live happily ever after too.” Maybe she’s just watching too much Disney.
“You’re right. I’m glad you’re so well versed in what’s important.”
“Someday, I’ll meet someone and fall in love and live happily ever after too, in our palace, of course, in Disney, you know with flowers everywhere and talking birds.” There’s my seven-year-old.
“You will,” I tell her. If daddy doesn’t kill him first. “My only wish is for you to be happy in life, but you need to be an adult to fall in love and live happily ever after.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re an adult and Melody is an adult too, right?”
“Okay, why don’t we go over your spelling words on the way to school?”
Parker groans. “Always avoiding my questions.” And that is Hannah, not Parker speaking.
8
After dropping Parker off at school, I take the long way back to The Barrel House so I can clear my head. Everything has been running soundly for the last couple of years. My routine with Parker has been the same, day in and day out for the most part. I wanted that for her. I figure the fewer disruptions, the easier time she’ll have adjusting to life as it unwind
s in front of her. I feel this incoming storm coming toward us, inching closer each day when she realizes how much she needs a mother. I’m afraid I’m just not making the cut. I’ve been torn as to what direction to take in my life and be able to fulfill Parker's needs at the same time. I don’t intend to replace her mother with anyone, but if I’m lucky enough to have a relationship someday, it has to be with someone that will be good for Parker too. Of course, there’s never a guarantee that a relationship will work out and I don’t want Parker to get close to someone, only to have them ripped away from her. I can’t let her get hurt again.I’ve avoided taking risks because of Parker, leaving me to a single life I didn’t plan to have. I’m not the type to be content with missing out on the experience of having a wife and a typical family, but I question if it’s a selfish desire on my behalf.
I wonder what Abby would tell me to do. She was always trying to set me up with women. Playing matchmaker was a hobby of hers and I was her favorite playing piece. She was awful at this hobby, had no knack for matching people up. It became a joke after a while. I think she just wanted the entertaining stories at the end of the night when I would come home and tell her how ridiculously awful my date was. Unlike me, Abby had a plan of staying single and loved the thought of doing so. I still don’t understand, even knowing the background of her life that led her to feel such a way. I think if I had been in her situation, I would want the opposite, but I never judged. Maybe somewhere deep inside she knew her life wasn’t going to be that long.
There’s an empty parking spot out front of The Barrel House. Knowing Melody and Journey are inside, I feel the need to walk in the front door again rather than the back way. I don’t want to come across aggressively in this situation and I’m not sure how fragile their feelings are toward me being in Harold’s shop, helping out.
When I walk inside, the bell above my head announces my presence, but Melody doesn’t turn around to see who is walking inside. She continues straightening bottles on a shelf she looks to be cleaning or organizing.
“The shop looks good,” I announce, giving Melody another hint that I’m here.
“Thanks,” she says without turning around. “I’ve been straightening up. The bottles weren’t organized properly, and my dad likes everything to be in good order.”
I inspect the neat rows she’s created, squinting at the year mark on each bottle, realizing they’re no longer in order by age. Shit. “Did you organize these by date or—”
“I alphabetized them,” she says then lifts her hand up to her mouth. “Crap.”
With hopes of not causing further embarrassment, I offer a friendly laugh, hoping to ease her concern. “No worries, I can help you straighten them out. People often shop by the date, so we don’t want them mixed in together,” I explain.
Melody’s cheeks burn red once again and I’m enjoying how easily she’s affected by our conversations, even if it is out of embarrassment. I recall this trait when we were younger, mostly after she began avoiding me. Each time we’d pass each other, her cheeks would blush with the darkest shade of red I’ve ever seen on someone’s cheeks. It was adorable then and I can’t say I don’t feel the same now.
“Right,” she says, keeping her gaze on the disorderly array of bottles. “Hey, uh—sorry about the mom-comment to your daughter. I didn’t mean to overstep.”
I’m still wondering what she must be assuming about my situation with Parker, especially if she truly doesn’t know my history. “No worries,” I reply. I’m not sure it’s appropriate to dive into those details. She has enough on her plate, and I don’t need to bring her down with my past woes. Plus, she hasn’t exactly asked, so maybe she isn’t wondering. I reach up to the shelf in front of me and begin resorting the bottles by year, but she takes a step back while I’m doing so.
“Do you remember me at all? Like—”
Do I remember her? What kind of question is that? Well, a deserving one I suppose after neither of us supposedly recognized each other while sitting together on a four-hour flight. I could ask her the same question though. I don’t think I’ve given her the impression that I don’t know who she is, or who she was.
“What do you mean?” Maybe I’m confused by her question. Is she asking if I remember who and what she wanted to be someday? Because I do.
“Never mind,” she follows.
Melody’s words are loaded, and there is obvious frustration in her voice too. I’ll play this out carefully because I don’t know what is going through her head. “From our odd encounter on the flight? Yeah, of course I remember you.” Maybe my statement is more of a mind game than a one-step at a time introduction to our past. Maybe she doesn’t remember me from when we were younger. Not that I’m claiming to be unforgettable, but I guess it’s possible that she’s truly confused as to why I’m acting as if we didn’t sit together on the plane ride to Vermont.
“No, I mean from years ago.” Well, there we go. She remembers me, and I remember her. This conversation has turned into a grade-age teasing match. Why would she think I’d forget who she is? We’re both acting childish.
“Hmm,” I reply with a sigh, intending to play into the back and forth of what is so awkwardly obvious. “Vaguely, maybe.” Too far? Maybe.
Melody sweeps her hair away from her face, and the muscles in her cheeks clench. I can’t tell if I’m aggravating her or winding her up to play back. “There’s supposed to be a tasting today,” she says, changing the subject. Is this a move in her playbook or does she want to end this conversation? How am I this stupid with women?
“Yeah, we have a little time. It’ll only take a few minutes to set up.”
Melody pinches her lips together and nods her head, understanding, but obviously has more thoughts swimming through her mind. Maybe she hates me. I wouldn’t blame her, I suppose. It would explain why she never wrote back to any of the letters I sent her when I was in Afghanistan.
The bell above the door screams, startling me into turning around in search of who is throwing the front door open. Journey. No surprise there. Although, she has coffees in both hands and looks to have kicked the door open.
“Coffee?” she shouts, moving across the shop to the back counter where she places the recyclable cupholders down. “What happened to my shelves?”
She was quick to notice the mess that Melody was calling organized.
“Me,” Melody answers.
“All you had to do was sit here and look pretty, Mel,” Journey tells her. I walk away from their little banter and tend to the register that needs to be cleared from last night.
“Okay, if you don’t want to just be pretty, can you grab a bottle of Quinn Apple Red 2013, Quinn Original 2014, Quinn Peak 2011, and Quinn Pine 2012?” Journey asks Melody. “We’ll need those for the tasting.” I guess Journey knows more about what’s going on here than Melody, or so it seems. I think Journey has helped out in the shop from time to time, living in town still. Melody has been gone for so long, I can understand why she wouldn’t be knowledgeable about what’s going on in here.
The sample glasses are in the sliding cabinet beneath the register,” I add in.
Melody seems frazzled, spinning around in search of the bottles Journey just spat off. “I’ll be right back,” Journey says, disappearing into the back room, leaving Melody and me alone once again.
Melody slaps her hands over her face and exhales loudly. I feel bad, seeing how frustrated she obviously is. No more games. It isn’t the time. I walk over to a nearby shelf where I can grab one of the bottles for the tasting.
“I remember you, Melody,” I say.
“Yeah, from all the way back to yesterday. Good memory,” she says, snapping at me. Maybe I deserve that comment. I wasn’t trying to play her for a fool or pretend I forgot her. I can’t read whatever is going through her mind and I was being cautious. Too cautious.
“No, I remember you from when we were kids, all the shop holiday parties, and the last big bash we were both at all those years a
go.” It was the party where one kiss would unknowingly dictate all future kisses for comparison. I didn’t just forget. I never forgot, or stopped thinking about it, or her.
“You do?” she asks, sounding shocked by my statement. She must take me to be quite an asshole for thinking I’d forget about that night. I’m not sure what I did to give her such an impression.
I remember many details, all of them, in fact, from those few minutes we spent together. “Yeah, didn’t you try bourbon for the first time?” It was the reason for her sudden confidence to approach me after walking past me without so much as a glance for years. I’m not big on bravery found through inebriation, but I would rather have known she didn’t hate me as opposed to having feelings for me but not having the courage to say so. I’m grateful to have known the truth. I just wasn’t so grateful about the timing.
“That’s what you remember?” she replies.
I give her a quick wink. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to rehash.”
Seemingly flustered, Melody walks away from the conversation toward the back of the shop to set up the taste testing. Everything I say to her feels like the wrong thing. What else should I talk about? It’s been ten years and now we’re working together while her Dad is losing a battle with his life. Nothing feels like the appropriate thing to converse about, so I’ll continue cleaning up the bottles on the shelves while she handles the sampling. Maybe less is better for her. I can keep quiet.
However, she is the one who sent me the friend request last night. She’s confusing the hell out of me, and I’m pretty sure I’m making things a lot worse for her.
My spinning thoughts take up much of the next hour until Journey flies out from the back room. I forgot she was still here. “We have to go,” she shouts over to Melody.
“What’s going on?” I ask, realizing it’s probably none of my business, but with the frenzied look on Journey’s face, I can’t help but question.
“Dad collapsed. Mom just called. The ambulance took him to the hospital,” Journey tells Melody. Shock fills Melody’s eyes, her face bleeds of all color and she wraps her arms around her waist as if she’s in pain.
The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball Page 53