Bourbon Nights (The Barrel House Series Book 3) Page 6

  Mom’s words burn a hole into my mind now that it’s out in the open, but what choices do I have? I can stay and be the friend I promised to be, or I can walk away to protect my heart from pain. Pain is pain. I can deal with it. I can’t deal with the thought of hurting someone though.

  I vowed to never hurt a soul out of fear, so I’ll sit here until my daughter falls asleep each night and make sure that anyone who walks into my life, plans to pull up a chair and sit next to me. I have a heart to protect, one that is broken, more than anyone should experience in their lifetime, let alone a seven-year-old.

  7

  It’s rare to wake up without being tapped on the shoulder first. Today is no exception. Parker is awake most mornings at six a.m., about an hour before I’d like to get up, but when she’s hungry, she will set off alarms to get me moving. However, I beat her time today and woke up twenty minutes before she did, leaving her with a confused look as she walked into the kitchen.

  “Why are you up before me? And dressed for work?”

  “Well, we need to go to The Barrel House before school so I can check on the machines.”

  Parker’s eyebrows furrow. “Machines?”

  “It’s called a distillery, and there are some machines that need to stay maintained so they can run properly.”

  “You know how to do that?” Parker sounds like she needs coffee with the way she’s talking to me.

  “I do and thank you for the boost of confidence.”

  “You kick the dishwasher sometimes,” Parker grumbles.

  I do. The damn thing has broken four times in the two years I’ve had it. It deserves a swift kick. “Okay, anyway. I’m going to make you breakfast and then we can get moving.”

  “Why are you so happy this morning?”

  “Am I usually miserable in the morning? What are you talking about?”

  “You never wake up early to go to work, and you’re never dressed before me. Actually, you even remembered to brush your hair without me reminding you and did you put something smelly on?”

  I’m staring at my daughter, questioning where her thoughts are headed. “It’s called cologne and I wear it all the time.”

  “No, you don’t,” she says.

  “Oh, it’s that girl, isn’t it, the one I saw on your phone?”

  “You are seven. Where do you come up with this stuff?”

  Parker shrugs off my question. “Hannah. I don’t know.”

  I must send dear uncle Brody another shout out, requesting that he ask Hannah to stop oversharing pre-teen conversations with my seven-year-old. I’m glad the girls are close. They’re cousins, but Hannah doesn’t see Parker as if she’s three years younger and it worries me sometimes.

  “Eat your Lucky Charms,” I tell her, placing the filled bowl down on the kitchen table. “I’m going to find you some clothes to wear.”

  “Not blue, purple, or green today. I’ve already worn those colors this week.”

  “I think I got it,” I tell her, heading up the stairs to her bedroom. About two years ago, Parker declared she will only wear jeans or leggings if paired with a tutu of a bright color. I thought it was a phase. I was told phases come and go with young children faster than we can remember sometimes. However, Parker has failed to forget about this desire, and I have spent more money on tutu’s than I care to think about. When I ask her why she loves them so much, she says they make her feel like a secret princess. I don’t know what that means, but I just roll with it. All I know is, we own every single colored tutu known to man. Today, we’ll go with hot pink. I believe it’s been over a week since she’s worn this one.

  I grab her white converse high-tops, a white long-sleeve shirt, and her jean jacket. Thankfully, this outfit will make her happy and hopefully offset the fact that I didn’t brush her hair out after she got out of the shower last night—that can be our one nightmare before school today. There’s always one, and it’s different every day.

  “Perfect,” Parker says with a mouthful as I carry her clothes into the kitchen.

  “Do you want me to wait until you’re done eating to brush your hair or do you want me to get it over with?”

  “No way. Wait. I’ll brush it.”

  This is how it starts every morning. I let her try to do her own hair, but the second the brush gets stuck, she gives up. I’ve considered letting her go to school looking like an animal to teach her a lesson, but I don’t think she’d care. It will just look like I’m not taking care of her, which is my biggest fear.

  “You won’t even feel it. Let me just fix it while you’re eating. You can watch a video on my phone, okay?”

  Parker sneers at me with her nose scrunched up and her eyes pinched, a face Abby made whenever she was jokingly angry with me. “You look like your mom when you do that,” I remind her.

  “Good,” Parker says.

  I place my phone down onto the table next to the bowl of cereal and Parker reaches for the bait, scrolling through my apps looking for Netflix. It’s my moment of opportunity before she screams about the knots. I spray in the detangling conditioner and pull the brush through, squeezing my hand around the roots to lessen the pull. I got a slight groan out of her but worked out all the snarls without the normal scream. Knowing the worst part is over, she ignores the rest of the process and focuses on the movie she found.

  After knotting the second braid, I wonder how I got to a point in my life where I consider myself talented for being able to braid Parker’s hair. I don’t recall learning, just doing it out of necessity as her hair grew out.

  “Okay, whenever you’re ready, we have to get moving.” The morning blues seem to have disappeared now that she has eaten, and my sweet daughter has replaced the grump that was sitting here a few moments earlier.

  Within just a few minutes, we’re in the truck and heading to The Barrel House.

  “It’s still dark,” Parker says.

  “I know, it’s early, but Mr. Quinn needs our help, so we’re helping, right?”

  “Why does he need our help?”

  It was a question I intended to avoid but forgot without the proper amount of caffeine pumping through my blood at this ungodly hour. “He can’t be at work today, that’s all.” I wish that was all.

  Bringing Parker anywhere is easy so long as she has a favorite book to read. I settled her in a nook by one of the machine’s downstairs in The Barrel House, but the sounds were too loud, so she moved between a row of barrels.

  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 unwinds 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.

&n
bsp; 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.