Bourbon Nights (The Barrel House Series Book 3) Read online

  As I pull into the long winding driveway at my parents’ house, Parker runs out the front door in nothing but a t-shirt, a tutu, and leggings. The girl does not listen to me about running outside like this when it’s freezing out.

  I park the truck and hop out to grab the little cannonball running toward me at warp speed. “Dad!” she shrieks.

  “You are going to freeze your little butt off, missy. Why are you out here with no coat or shoes?” I ask, giving her a wet kiss on the cheek. “I missed you so much.”

  “I’m happy you’re home early,” she coos, squeezing her arms around my neck.

  “Me too.” Although the reason I’m home early isn't a good reason. “Pop-pop said you have to go to The Barrel House for a little bit today. Is that true?”

  I press my forehead against Parker’s and screw my lips to the side. “Yeah, princess. I have to go help out over there for a bit, but tonight, I’m taking you out for pizza and ice cream. How does that sound?”

  Parker’s weakness is pizza and ice cream. If that can’t make her happy, I’m out of ideas, but after being gone a couple days, I’m going straight for bonus points here. “Yes!”

  “Okay, let’s get you inside before you turn into an icicle.”

  “Dad, it’s like forty degrees. It’s not icicle material.”

  Parker has been arguing matters of weather with me since she was three. If she had things her way, she’d be running around in a bathing suit in negative degree snowstorms. She’s kind of like her mother, Abby, in that way. Neither the cold nor the extreme heat ever seemed to bother her. I couldn’t understand it, but I was jealous, especially during short deployments to the mountains or desert for cold and hot weather training. It sucked.

  I carry Parker inside the house, hearing Mom belt her name out from upstairs. “I’ve got her,” I reply.

  “Parker Lane Pearson, were you outside without a jacket again?” Mom shouts.

  “I didn’t have shoes on either,” she says with a giggle, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “Where’s Pops?” I ask Mom.

  “Oh, he’s in the garage fixing God knows what.” Mom takes Parker from my arms. “Let’s go get you packed up to head home, you crazy girl.”

  After the conversation I had with Pops last night, I’m curious about his current mood. He was upset, and it takes a lot to get him to that point. This is understandably a circumstance that could knock anyone off their feet.

  I make my way through the kitchen, inhaling the comforting scent of fresh bread. I don’t know how Mom has the energy to make bread from scratch three times a week, but she never misses a beat. The door to the garage is stuck as usual, but I yank with just the right amount of force to pry the thing open. Pops fixes everything in this house but will not grease up the door. One of these days, I’m going to do it for him. I think he prefers the door being stuck, though. It gives him a loud warning when someone is entering his territory. Why he needs a warning, I’ll never know, nor do I want to ask.

  “Who goes there?” he shouts, jokingly. He probably assumes I’m Parker.

  “It’s me, Pops.”

  I hear a wrench, or whatever metal tool he’s holding onto, fall to the cement ground. “Brett, you’re back,” he says, making his way around a stack of storage containers.

  Pops throws his arms around my neck for a hug as if I had been gone for a year. He slaps his palm against my back and squeezes me. “Thanks for coming home so fast.”

  “Anything for you,” I say.

  “My heart is broken, Brett. I can’t imagine going on without Harold. He’s my closest friend. It isn’t supposed to be this way, you know? We’ve been friends since we were Parker’s age, for Christ’s sake.”

  Hearing how long he and Harold have been friends puts things into perspective a bit more. Not that I didn’t understand where his pain was stemming from, but fifty some-odd years is a long time to be friends with someone, and then forced to say goodbye too soon.

  Abby and I; we were what I’d refer to as best friends, but it was only for four years. Though, it felt like a lifetime when she was no longer there with me.

  “I’m not sure what to say, Pops. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

  “The bastard called me and told me through a joke. Would you believe that?” I can believe it. Harold and Pops rarely exchange a serious sentence.

  “What did he say?”

  “Something like: ‘Someone forgot to seal my bottle. My shelf life is about to expire. Time to fly with the angel shares.’ I was trying to understand what he was talking about, but it didn’t take long before I solved his riddle. He was laughing about it. I don’t understand.”

  “What else can a guy do in this situation?” I ask Pops. “If he can laugh about it, it’s better that way.”

  “I suppose,” Pops says, taking a step back. He dips his hands into his back pockets and shakes his head. “This is awful.”

  “How is Mrs. Quinn taking the news? Did he say?”

  “Not well. Like the girls, really. They’re trying to be strong. They cry in private, but he hears them, and it’s breaking his heart. He’s more upset for their well-being than his own.”

  “I can’t say I blame them.”

  “Yeah, anyway, Harold appreciates you being able to take care of the shop right now,” Pops says. “I’d do it, but I wouldn’t be able to get the barrel shipments out at the same time.”

  “You don’t have to explain,” I tell him. “Are you able to handle things at the warehouse without me, though?”

  “Brody is going to put more time in and your cousin, Becca, too.”

  “Good. I’m glad everyone is helping out. It’s the least we can do. I’ll head over to the distillery after I spend a few minutes with Parker.”

  “That would be great. Harold asked me to have you call him when you’re heading over there. Do you mind?”

  I wish I could say I haven’t had to speak to someone shortly before they passed away, but I’m not so fortunate there. It isn’t to say I know the right words to use or give advice. I didn’t give proper words or advice the last time I spoke to someone on their deathbed. I’m not sure people have the opportunity to plan out those kinds of words. I’ll try to do the listening and do my best to keep my foot out of my mouth. “I’ll give him a call. No problem,” I tell Pops.

  “Parker was well behaved all weekend, as usual,” Pops says. “I love that kiddo. The quietest little spitfire I’ve ever met.”

  “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 t
o 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.