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

by Ryan, Shari J.

  “Don’t worry about the Barrel House, I have everything under control here,” I say.

  Without blinking, Melody unties the apron she has around her waist for hosting the tasting and places it on the bar stool behind the small table.

  Journey hands over her coat and wraps her arm around Melody’s shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “Thanks, Brett. We’ll keep you updated,” Journey says on the way out. Once they’re both out of sight, I feel like I’m the one who’s seen a ghost.

  The silent panic, the frozen beat of a heart, shattering news that can’t be comprehended in the time needed. It’s all too familiar to me. I wish I could take the pain away. I wish no one would ever have to feel so helpless.

  On base, when someone was sick or if someone passed away, we would all join forces and help the surviving family, spouses, and children. We knew what they needed. Most of us were good at offering emotional support even when not wanted. But, no matter how much effort is put into helping someone in their time of need, it’s never enough to take away the inevitable pain of grief.

  9

  Brody picked up Parker from school today and brought her to Mom and Pop’s for her Tuesday night taco party. We carpool a couple days a week to lessen the load since we’re both playing double duty in the parenting game. I’m not sure if I’d call our situation irony, but I never expected the two of us to end up as single dads. Brody’s story is a little different and a bit more conventional than mine, but those details don’t matter during the shuffle every day. It’s nice to have each other to talk to, complain, and question what higher power decided we would make good single dads of girls. Brody seems to be at his wits end most days, but his fuse is an eighth of the size of mine and Hannah is twice as difficult as Parker, for now at least. Hannah is always well behaved for me, so I don’t see a lot of what he talks about with her attitude, but Brody knows all about attitudes and the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Hannah is a mini version of Brody and it’s funny watching him parent her sometimes.

  I was about to head to our family fiesta night when Mom called me as I was locking up The Barrel House.

  The questions about Melody and Journey are endless and she’s hardly taking a breath to allow me a minute to answer. Mrs. Quinn must have told Mom what was going on with Mr. Quinn.

  “Are they all at the hospital now?” Mom asks.

  “I assume so. They left the shop a few hours ago and I haven’t heard anything, but I’m not exactly expecting to hear anything either.”

  “Those poor girls,” Mom says, gasping for the air she needs. “I should bring them some food.”

  The thought crossed my mind, but I don’t want to be intrusive at such a sensitive time. “I can do that. I just didn’t want to overstep my bounds.”

  “I don’t think you’re overstepping,” Mom says. “Leave it with the nurse’s station if nothing else. They should know we’re all thinking about them.”

  I have been. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.

  “Yeah, I’ll do that. Save me a taco and tell Parker to start her homework.”

  “Her homework is already complete. I’ve done this a time or two, Brett. You don’t give me much credit.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you when I’m on my way back from dropping off food at the hospital.”

  “Take your time. If they need help with anything at home or whatever, please lend them a hand.”

  “I was planning on offering.”

  “I know you were, my unsung hero.”

  “Mom,” I stop her.

  “You are. You can be my hero even if you don’t want to be anyone else’s.”

  “I’m not a hero. It’s not something I want to be called.” I tell her this every time she toys with the word.

  “Well, we can all think what we want, but my heart is full, watching the kind of man you have become. I don’t think I tell you often enough.”

  Her words come from a place of love, but it’s like nails on a chalkboard with how frequently she feels the need to tell me how wonderful I am. She sees me much differently than I see myself and that will never change. I don’t think she understands the guilt associated with the word hero.

  I grab some subs at the pizza shop near the hospital, hoping none of them are gluten-free or vegetarians. Otherwise, I’ll just be a shitty, nice person. I wonder if food is allowed in the hospital. I should have looked up the restrictions, but no one seems to be giving me a weird look as I walk by with a large white paper bag that smells like pickles and onions.

  I haven’t been to a hospital since Parker was born. Seeing the hospital from that point of view is much different than being sick, hurt, or watching someone suffer. Suffering. I can’t cope with the thought and understanding of what it means to suffer because I know the truth. I’m not nervous to see Harold, but it’s the feeling of helplessness I’m dreadful of. It’s like seeing a guy on the side of the road, wanting to help him up, but there’s a barrier and all I can do is watch him lay there alone, slowly dying.

  Mom sent me a text message with the room number Harold is in. It’s just a few feet away and my heart feels like it’s in my throat. I pause before approaching the door; I turn off my emotions and feelings, press my shoulders back and lift my chin, just as I’ve been molded to do. If no one else can sense my fear and angst, they will not feel the same.

  As imagined, Harold is hooked up to monitors and has tubes running across his body and pale face. I knock on the door, waiting for the invitation to join them. Melody, Journey, and Mrs. Quinn are all sitting around Harold—Mr. Quinn. I guess I stopped calling him Mr. Quinn last year when he demanded so. He said if I was going to be helping out here and there in the shop, I’d need to call him Harold rather than making him sound like an old man. However, I was raised to address my elders by mister, misses, or miss.

  They all look surprised to see me. So surprised, they don’t actually tell me it’s okay to come in. I assume it’s all right, though. “I thought you ladies might be hungry,” I say, walking in closer to Harold’s bed.

  I place the food down on the rolling tray and reach my hand out to shake Mrs. Quinn’s hand. I’ve been home for two years now but haven’t run into her once. The times I was working at the shop were when they were on vacation or Harold was giving me the rundown. I haven’t seen her since the last time I saw Melody; I guess. She looks much the same as I remember; her coffee-brown hair is short and cut sharply around her chin. Her eyes look a bit tired, the hue a dull blue compared to the vibrancy I recall. Mrs. Quinn was always a ray of sunlight, happy and outgoing—full of life. She and Mom are a lot alike in that way, which is why they’ve always gotten along so well. Mom has aged gracefully, but Mrs. Quinn appears a bit older than she is with a few extra worry lines on her forehead and creases forking out from the sides of her eyes. She looks worn down, as if life has taken its toll on her. I can’t imagine it has.

  She takes my hand and smiles, reminding me of the warmness she emits with just a friendly gesture. “It’s been a while, but I’m Brett Pearson,” I tell her, worried she might not recognize me like one of her daughters who is currently pretending not to notice me.

  “You look just like your father,” Mrs. Quinn says. “Goodness. You’re all grown up now. It’s been years since I’ve seen you. I’m not sure I would have recognized you if we passed by on the street. It’s amazing what a decade can do.”

  I’ve been told the military can change a person’s appearance. It’s hard to recognize it in myself but seeing as neither Melody nor Mrs. Quinn found the resemblance of the eighteen-year-old they saw last; I must have changed. I have a jawline now, I guess. Then there’s the stubble I prefer not to shave and the short hair. My hair was always hanging over my forehead and ears as a kid. I’m also closer to two-hundred pounds versus the one-fifty I was when I left for boot camp. Thankfully, it’s muscle rather than beer, but it could have easily gone the other way, especially since I do look just like Pops.


  “Age does that I guess,” I say, running my hand down the side of my face. I have yet to look over at Melody because I feel like we’re back in high school pretending neither of us exist. I wish I understood why she is so uncomfortable around me.

  “Brett is that you?” Harold mutters through his partially closed lips. I didn’t realize he was awake. It’s nice to hear his voice. I’m glad he’s awake.

  “Yes, sir. Just closed up the shop and wanted to check in to see how you are doing.”

  I can sense Journey’s glare burning down my side. I can only imagine what she thinks of me since Melody won’t look up.

  “I’m doing great,” Harold says, trying to shrug his shoulders. “They said I can try running a few miles tomorrow if I’m up to it.” Harold releases a phlegm-filled laugh before settling himself down. “Tell me, did the water shipment arrive today?”

  “Yes, sir. I have everything settled.” I offer a smile, hoping to ease his worry about the shop. It’s the last thing he should be concerned about right now, but I can understand him trying to keep his focus on something other than his illness.

  “Thank you, son.”

  Son.

  Maybe that’s his subtle reminder to stop calling him sir. “If these two give you any trouble, you need to let me know, okay?”

  Oh, boy. They might as well just throw me out of the room. Both of the girls are going to have daggers out for me if Harold doesn’t stop talking to me this way. I can sense the fury they aren’t doing a great job at hiding.

  “Oh, we’ll all be just fine.” I take the opportunity to glance over at Melody, catching her gaze. “Right?”

  She chokes and clears her throat before sitting up straighter in her chair. “Yeah, everything is under control,” she says, sounding as if she’s questioning me, or maybe Harold.

  “Thanks for bringing us food,” Journey says.

  “Yes, thank you,” Mrs. Quinn follows.

  They both sound sincere, easing my concern that Journey might hate me too. “Of course. Is there anything else I can do to help you guys out right now?” I’m sure this is the time where they say thank you for offering but there’s not much else I can do for them. I can move it along and leave them to their privacy. God, I haven’t been this uncomfortable in a long while.

  “Where’s your daughter?” Melody speaks up. Her question surprises me, not so much because of the context, but because it sounds accusatory, like I left Parker on the side of the road somewhere so I could bring them dinner.

  “You have a daughter?” Mrs. Quinn questions.

  There’s no way Mom didn’t tell her about Parker. My mom can’t keep much to herself, let alone the mention of a grandchild.

  “I told you about this incredible guy right here,” Harold follows. I guess he knows. Maybe Mom and Mrs. Quinn haven’t spoken as much as I thought they might have over the years. That’s too bad. They used to talk daily.

  “Yes, ma’am. She’s seven, but my mom is probably feeding her millions of cookies as we speak, so she’s perfectly fine. I just won’t get her to fall asleep tonight, but help is help, right?”

  Mrs. Quinn looks partially enamored by what I’m saying and somewhat confused at the same time. I feel very out of place, as if ten years have definitely passed without a fleeting thought of each other.

  Mrs. Quinn shakes off her longing stare at me and follows my brief explanation of Parker with a change of topic, which is definitely welcomed at the moment. “One of us needs to go home and let the dog out,” she says, looking back and forth between Journey and Melody. Mrs. Quinn’s mind must be in a million places. I can’t imagine what she’s going through.

  “I’ll go,” Melody offers.

  “I can go let the dog out if you’d like. It’s no problem,” I say. I’m sure Melody would rather stay here with Harold as long as she can tonight. If I recall, their house is on the way home for me anyway, and it’s no trouble.

  “You are too sweet,” Mrs. Quinn replies, sounding as if she might take me up on the offer.

  “That’s okay, I can rush home and take care of him,” Melody speaks up a little louder than last time.

  “He’s offering,” Mrs. Quinn argues with her daughter.

  “He’s already doing enough,” Melody mutters and stands from her seat.

  The tension in this room is almost unbearable.

  “Brett, don’t forget to bottle up the Quinn Pine next week,” Harold says as if he hasn’t reminded me a dozen times in the past day. By the groggy look on his face, I might assume he’s forgotten the other reminders.

  “I would never forget something so important,” I say to Harold, stepping toward him to say goodbye.

  “I’m running home to let Benji out. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Melody spouts off. She swoops over to Harold’s side and kisses his cheek before nearly knocking me over while rushing by.

  “Do you need a car, maybe?” Journey asks Melody.

  Melody’s cheeks burn her signature hue of rose petal red. “Yeah, uh—” Journey tosses a set of car keys over to Melody. “Thanks.”

  Melody is gone before I can blink again, and I’m standing here with three gawking mouths and six wide eyes, likely wondering why Melody ran out the door as if she were on fire. “She’s not taking this very well,” Mrs. Quinn says. “Plus, she can hardly breathe when you’re around, but don’t tell her I said that.”

  Oh God.

  “Mom,” Journey scolds her. “It’s been ten years. Relax.”

  Ten years and nothing has changed.

  “I remember Harold telling me about your daughter now, how you’re raising her all alone. You’re a wonderful man, Brett. You truly are. No wonder your mother is so proud of you. We just spoke for the first time in years and I can’t seem to recall the reason we ever stopped speaking.” Mrs. Quinn looks lost as she speaks, almost as if she doesn’t know what she’s saying, or she’s just filling the silence with whatever thoughts come to her mind.

  “Life happens, but I’m sure you two have time to catch up,” I say, trying to find a way to ease my way out of this room.

  “Of course,” Mrs. Quinn says.

  “Oh, Brett, Melody is going to need a ride. I gave her the wrong keys. Oops.” I look over at Journey in time to catch a wink and grin, the same wink and grin she used to give me every time Melody ran away from me when we were teenagers.

  “Do you want me to give her the correct keys?” I offer.

  “Nope,” Journey says. “Thanks for helping with the dog and Melody. Have a good night.”

  It’s all coming back to me—the dynamics of this family. Journey and Harold are one of a kind and Melody and Mrs. Quinn share their traits. They were always comedic with the way they carried on.

  “I’ll go rescue her from the parking lot, I guess,” I say, pressing my lips together. “I hope you feel better, Harold. Mrs. Quinn, please let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

  “Thank you, Brett. You’re too kind.”

  With that, I take my opportunity to leave and hurry down the hallway toward the elevator with hope of catching up with Melody before she’s roaming through a dark parking lot trying to unlock a car without a proper key.

  I turn the corner, finding the elevator doors closing. I slip my hand between the doors, triggering the motion detector. As the doors reopen, Melody comes into view, standing in the left corner of the elevator holding her arms tightly around her body. Her beautiful eyes are screaming for help, but her lips are clamped shut, firmly holding in the sob heaving through her chest.

  10

  The elevator seals us inside the confining walls. I have my gaze locked on Melody’s face, but she is staring past me toward the metal doors. “I’m sorry if I overstepped my bounds. I figured you were hungry. I know hospital food isn’t great.”

  Melody’s eyes dance around as if she’s searching for another place to focus on aside from me, but the elevator isn’t moving fast enough to give her the opportunity to avoid me ei
ther. “You didn’t overstep,” she says, finally locking eyes with mine. The light color of lime encircled with an olive contrast between the whites of her eyes and her dark lashes. Every look she gives me, is piercing and feels as though she has the power to control my thoughts and feelings with her stare. I can hardly recall the words I was about to speak.

  “Thank you for thinking of us, Brett.”

  Acting much like Melody, I’m forced to look away, feeling as though I’m falling into a daze I can’t snap out of. . I blink for a long second, remembering my thoughts. “I know this isn’t the best time to ask, but did I somehow make you angry? I wouldn’t want to be the source of added stress.”

  I need to know. I can’t think of what I might have done to trigger her mood swings but they are all over the place and I don’t want to be the cause.

  “Nope.”

  Her answer does not add up to the truth, or at least that’s what I’m assuming. “Is it because I know my way around The Barrel House?”

  “Nope.”

  The doors could open at any second. I don’t know what the delay is, but I’m itching to break out of this confinement. “Are you just angry in general?” That’s it. The only other question I can come up with.

  The doors finally open and grant us our freedom. Melody walks past me, speeding up to make a point of wanting some distance. She has no way to get home, I remember. “Melody, wait up,” I call out. She doesn’t acknowledge hearing me, but the hallway leading to the front exit is fairly empty and my voice echoes off the walls. I catch up with her just before she steps outside onto the curb. “Will you stop,” I say, reaching for her arm.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be touching her or stopping her from going where she wants to go, but I must. I tighten my grip and pull her back. The loose strands of her hair spill to my hand and feel like feathers skating across tattered skin.