The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set : Complete Series, Books 1-4 Read online

  "Yet, you pulled into the driveway and saw the red flag down, but couldn’t bother to grab the mail, right?"

  Those words will lead to our nightly banter about who works harder and who works more. We didn’t always bicker and fight, but throughout this last year, I lost the strength to brush my feelings aside. "Melody, I worked all day," he says as if my comment was insulting his job.

  "As did I, Ace."

  There’s the snicker I was waiting for. "Okay," Ace continues.

  My attention is pulled back out the window where Gianna and Paulo stroll by for their nightly couple’s jog. I didn’t even know people could smile while running, but they do. They are just that happy. The sight of them redirects my attention to my ring finger—my empty ring finger.

  "What are we doing, Ace?"

  I grip the granite rim of the sink, watching my knuckles whiten. "Fine, I’ll get the mail since you have been so damn busy painting your nails today, or whatever it is you want to call your job." A screenwriting editor, but who’s keeping track.

  Ace stomps out of the kitchen, channeling the type of testosterone I might expect from the twelve-year-old boy I assume he once was. The clang of the screen door reverberates through the house, and I watch out the window as Ace makes his way to the mailbox. He retrieves the pile of envelopes and sorts through them. Once he’s gone through the pile, he purses his lips to release a long breath, probably hoping he can calm down before he returns inside.

  He places one letter on top of the stack, keeping his gaze fixed on the one envelope, but I can’t understand what could be so fascinating about a sealed letter. His stomps become weak, ambling steps as he returns inside. I debate asking if everything is all right because if I do, it would mean I’m giving into this stupid argument. But if I don’t ask, I’m acting like a twelve-year-old child too.

  "Babe, you got something weird in the mail."

  "What is it? A bill?"

  Ace walks back into the kitchen, still staring down at the envelope. He places the stack of mail down on the teak kitchen table, except for the one letter he reaches over to me. "It’s made out to you, but turn the envelope over."

  I do as he suggests, finding the words: ‘Please do not open until I’m gone’ written with red pen alongside the seal.

  It’s my dad’s writing, which makes my stomach gnarl. In a frenzy, I spin around until I spot my phone on the kitchen island. My hand is shaking when I search through my short list of Favorite Contacts for Dad’s number.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Ring. He almost always answers after the first ring.

  Ring.

  "How is my beautiful daughter?" Dad finally answers.

  "Dad?"

  "What’s the matter, sweetie? Is everything okay? You sound startled."

  "Why did you send me a letter with the words, ‘Please do not open until I’m gone’ written on the back?" I have never received a letter from either of my parents. We have phones. There is no purpose for a letter.

  "A letter?" Dad questions. "What letter?"

  "It’s your handwriting.” I’m feeling more concerned as the time passes. I hear him shuffling around and the sound of papers slapping together.

  "What in the world ..."

  "What is it?" I ask.

  "Your mother must have thought it was a piece of mail that needed to go out. Please don’t open the letter. I wasn’t ready to send the—"

  "Send what? Dad, what is this?" My heart is racing, pounding so hard it feels like I have the hiccups in my chest. "It’s back, isn’t it?" I’m not sure he can understand my last question as it comes up in gasping breaths.

  FIVE YEARS EARLIER

  I have circled this day on my calendar with red ink. After I used the red pen, I began analyzing the color. Red symbolizes blood, negative feelings, and anger. I should have used a blue pen or purple. That way, I would associate the marking with a calmer mood. I’ve questioned if my subconscious already knows the truth—the results, and it’s why I chose red.

  My chest feels heavy, and my stomach is full, but with pain. I figured I might be numb to it all by now, but I’m the one who is usually full of hope. I’ve tried to be the rock in our family. Inside, I’m falling apart, but I know I should be strong on the outside to support everyone else.

  I take my keys, wrapping my hand around the purple rabbit’s foot I’ve had since my teenage days. I haven’t always used it as a key chain, but in recent months, I have found every form of good luck charm to put all my hope into. I spot the Target bag on my coffee table, remembering why I stopped by the store last night. We all might need tissues, and I’d rather be prepared than ask someone for a box. I purchased a pack of the mini travel pouches, so I drop three packages into my purse. God, I hope we don’t need these.

  The sky is blue on this blustery fall day. There are only a few leaves left on each tree around the apartment complex. The rest of the trees have fallen over the last week because of the rain and high winds. I don’t know if the leaves are prettier on the trees after they’ve changed color or if they’re more eye-catching while scattered across the browning grass. I’ve always preferred fall over the other seasons, but after today, it might become my least favorite season of all.

  The drive is short through the woods where little tornados of red leaves spiral and dance in front of my windshield as if they’re guiding me down the street. Mother Nature knows more than we do, and I wish I could read this moment as a sign.

  The changing of the leaves.

  A change.

  Fall is the transition from hot to cold.

  Hot to cold.

  I turn up the radio to drown away my unruly thoughts, but I’m not sure the heaviest metal band in the world could make my thoughts any quieter today.

  Driving in a daze from point A to point B feels timeless as I wonder how my brain knows to keep driving safely while my mind is in another world. However, I arrive, and I guess that’s what matters.

  Mom and Dad have just pulled into the parking lot, and I watch them from my rear-view mirror. Mom drove.

  Before the last six months, Dad always drove the car. They’re from a generation where the man drives, and the woman doesn’t have the desire to fight for the task.

  Journey whips into the parking lot next in her little black coupe, which accents her personality. We’re only two years apart, but different like night and day with our lifestyle decisions. She likes to sit back and wait for the world to bring her gifts, and I work fifteen hours a day to get further faster. Neither of us is wrong. She’s become a well-known photographer at twenty-four, and I’ve landed a job with a movie channel to edit screenplays while living in our own apartments down the street from Mom and Dad. We have both threatened to leave the area many times before, but I’m glad neither of us did. Dad needed us this past year.

  I’m the last one to join Mom, Dad, and Journey as we all silently walk into the medical facility.

  While standing between two sets of glass doors, in a state of purgatory as it feels, Dad stops walking and turns to face Journey and me. Tears are in his eyes as he wraps his arms around both our necks, pulling our heads into his chest. "I love you, girls. My girls. Everything will be okay, one way or another. Do you understand?"

  Journey, who has never been big on emotions loses a tear first. She clenches her dark-lined eyes, and more black makeup filled tears fall as she wraps her arms around Dad and me. Mom’s cool hand then falls upon my back; the four of us quiver and cry quietly in between the unknown outside and the news awaiting us inside.

  The four of us have always made comments about our luck. Since Journey and I grew up in a time when divorce was prevalent, we know we are fortunate to have two loving parents who always paint a picture of a healthy relationship. Our family dynamic differs greatly from what I had seen and gone through with my closest friends. Our situation often made me feel like we were escaping the jaws of death. We were all healthy, we never needed much, and we were an exceptionally
happy family.

  It turns out, we were also a target for disaster.

  The fifteen minutes we had been waiting, felt like hours, but now we’re being escorted into a room with oversized windows, which offer us the view of a lake with colorful reflections of some surrounding trees that haven’t lost their warmth yet. I keep my focus on the scenery, while we wait for the doctor to startle us with what will probably be an abrupt knock on the wooden door.

  As I assumed, the sound of his fist makes my chest hurt, and my throat feel tight. My stomach no longer feels like it’s in a knot, but now feels weak like I’m going to be sick.

  Dr. Manapple walks in, dressed in a white coat; pristine and starched, his almond brown pants have a perfect crease down the center from his knees to his ankles, and his toffee-colored loafers are so polished they reflect the ceiling light.

  "How is everyone doing today?" he asks while folding Dad’s files under his arm.

  How does he think we’re all doing? The four of us are nearly green with worry.

  "What’s the verdict, doctor?" Dad asks, sounding stronger than he must be feeling.

  Dr. Manapple lowers his head for a moment before looking up at our four sets of wide eyes. "The margins are clear. Your numbers look great, and the blood work is clean. Mr. Quinn, the chemotherapy worked. There is no evidence of the disease left in your body."

  I didn’t mean to fall to my knees, but I should have been sitting in a chair when receiving this news, knowing how my body reacts to stress. Journey is quick to lift me back up and hug me as we both cry into each other’s shoulders. "He’s okay," she whimpers, pulling me over to Dad and Mom, who are holding each other so tightly, it looks as if they have a fear of gravity separating them.

  "Thank you, Doctor," Dad utters. "Thank you."

  "I’ll want to see you in six months for a checkup, Mr. Quinn. I’ll let you have this moment with your family. Congratulations, sir."

  "We’re going to Europe, Hawaii, and Australia. Anywhere you girls want to go, we will go see the world and live as if there is a tomorrow … because there is a tomorrow. The doctor said so. I have a second chance, and I will not take it for granted," Dad cries.

  "We had five years, sweetie," Dad reminds me.

  "I shouldn’t have moved to South Carolina," is all I can think to say.

  "Yes, you should have moved there. You are living the life you desire with Ace. This is your chance to have the perfect life you always talked about."

  I can’t help but look at Ace while Dad is saying these sweet remarks. He’s flipping through the mail, no longer concerned with the letter. "I’m not happy,” I confess.

  I should not have told Dad I’m not happy. My happiness doesn’t hold a flame to finding out his cancer is back.

  "What?" Dad questions.

  "How bad is the cancer?"

  There’s a pause. A long pause. "It’s bad, Melody, it came back with a vengeance and spread everywhere. My CT scan was lit up like a Christmas tree." Christmas. Will he make it another Christmas? I didn’t come home last Christmas, and it could have been our last. "He told me to make my end-of-life plans. It could be a week or two months. There’s no telling how long I have left."

  I clap my hand over my mouth, trying to stop the wretched sounds threatening to escape my throat. "I’ll be home tomorrow.”

  "Melody—"

  "Dad," I cry into the phone. "There has to be something we can do." I spin around, feeling frenzied and lost.

  "Melody, you don’t need to stop living—" How can he tell me this when he’s about to stop living?

  "I will be home tomorrow, Dad."

  2

  "When will you be back?" Ace asks.

  I can only blink when he asks me this question. "I don’t know, Ace. I mean, should I ask my dad how long he thinks he’ll be alive for?" I’m sure he can sense my sarcasm.

  This is our airport goodbye conversation.

  "I’m sorry I can’t go with you," he says.

  He didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask him to come.

  "Take care of yourself," I tell Ace.

  He wraps his arms around my shoulders and presses a weak kiss to the side of my temple.

  I feel nothing.

  "Ace, I’m not planning to come back to South Carolina. Ever."

  This was not the time to start this conversation, the one I had been dreading for over a year. I decided a year ago, things with Ace and I would never offer me the kind of life I want. I couldn’t find the right time to say goodbye, and I kept hoping he would realize our relationship was stale. Still, the days kept moving by with the usual routine, and nothing changed.

  Ace chuckles in response as if my statement is a joke. He combs his fingers through his chocolate-brown, overgrown, wavy locks and stares at me with confusion. His icy blue eyes sink as he comes to realize I’m serious. My silence is louder than any other response.

  "What did I do?" His question is quiet and sadly sincere.

  This moment shouldn’t be about him or us. My dad is dying.

  "It isn’t what you did. It’s what you didn’t do," I explain. Ace should understand what I’m saying.

  "Fine, we’ll get married. As soon as you come back, we’ll go to the courthouse and make things official. Is this what you want?"

  I want my dad to live.

  My head shakes from side to side almost as if involuntary. "I’m sorry, Ace. It has been four years, and we have already settled into this married-couple-rut without the marriage. It will not work."

  Ace’s gaze falls to the space between his neon yellow jogging shoes and my burnt-sienna riding boots.

  "I love you, Mel."

  "I know, but we aren’t on the same page, and right now ... I need a clear mind to focus on my family."

  When Ace’s eyes lift and lock on mine, I know this is the moment—the final goodbye. He leans forward, kisses my cheek again, and turns his back toward me.

  I’m not big on considering regrets, but I moved to the suburbs of Charleston because Ace didn’t want to live in New England any longer or endure the extreme seasonal changes. I went along with it because I was in love, and I thought it’s what happy couples do for one another.

  It’s been four years without a promise of a future, only the lifestyle of a fifties housewife while working odd hours of the day. I enjoyed caring for the person I love, and I may have been patient, but in my heart, I realize our relationship is not the path to my idea of a perfect life.

  "Flight 342 to Burlington, Vermont will now board zone one." I glance at my ticket, focusing on the red letters spelling out zone two.

  I feel like I’m free-falling from one failing life to another, and my body seems so weighed down, it hurts.

  "Excuse me," a man says as his carry-on case nudges mine. "I didn’t think I would make it to the gate on time." He’s out of breath, and his hand is shaking as he studies his boarding pass. He’s probably around my age and seems to be as stressed out as I feel.

  I straighten my case and force a half-smile. "No problem. At least you made it, right?"

  Do I sound as miserable to others as I do to myself? Probably.

  The man checks his pockets, looking like he might have forgotten something. He doesn’t look up as he releases the handle on his case and pulls out his phone to check the time, or so it appears. "There was miserable traffic in the city I wasn’t expecting today."

  His obvious anxiety encourages me to keep me focus on the ticket agent as I come up with a cordial response. "Yeah, I like to arrive everywhere way too early, so I seemed to beat the rush hour traffic." I just sounded like a snot, but my words roll off my tongue like they usually do. "However, that doesn’t always happen. I’m late more often than I’m not. It happens, right?" I should stop talking now.

  "Flight 342 to Burlington, Vermont, boarding zone two." I double-check my ticket and pull up the handle of my carry-on, taking my place in the back of the line.

  It isn’t long before I claim my seat on the smal
ler than assumed commuter plane. I’ve never been a big fan of the three-seater rows on each side of the aircraft. After the one flight when an attendant needed to redistribute the weight of passengers to make sure the plane flew smoothly, I decided I would attempt to fly on the larger planes. However, there weren’t many flight options available with such short notice this time of year, and oddly enough, a small plane had the only available seats left.

  I shove my carry-on into the overhead compartment and claim my seat next to the window. I can take a three-hour nap; this won’t be so bad. I didn’t sleep at all last night, and I should be exhausted, yet part of my brain feels wired. I open my right hand after clenching my "lucky" rabbit’s foot. I stare at the matted, purple fuzz and close my eyes for a brief second to make a wish: please work one more time, I pray before slipping the old key chain back into my pocket.

  "What are the odds, huh?" The man who knocked his case into mine says as he claims the other spot in the overhead compartment. "I always wondered how the airlines decided on zone numbers. You would think we would be in the same zone if we’re sharing a row, right?"

  "It would make sense," I say, pulling out the laminated emergency landing card from the seat pocket in front of me.

  "We won’t crash," the man utters while getting comfortable in his seat.

  I continue staring at the words on the emergency landing card, then glance over, watching as the man scrolls through his Twitter feed. If he is, in fact, around my age, I’m surprised he isn’t scanning Instagram or Snapchat. Twitter seems old-school these days.

  "I wasn’t thinking we are going to crash," I inform him. "But, thank you for the reassurance."

  He lifts his gaze from his phone and studies me for a moment. His eyes are the color of cinnamon but have speckles of gold shimmering from the sun glowing in through the window behind me. His hair is combed back, slicked without a strand out of place, and he has a small freckle in the center of his top lip. I didn’t look at him too closely after our minor crash encounter at the gate but seeing him clearer now, I can’t help but feel like he has a familiar look to him. Maybe he has one of those common-looking faces.