I need to be strong. I need to help and do what I came here to do. My family needs me. "Okay, put me to work. What’s going on with the shop?I assume you haven’t been working, right?"
Dad smirks and pushes away from the banister, shuffling toward the family room.
The indentation on the worn-leather couch shows where he’s been spending most of his time. I guess he’s finally getting used out of his seventy-two-inch television he had to have, then couldn’t figure out how to operate.
He eases into the first cushion against the armrest, and I take a seat on the ottoman across from him. Mom and Journey are making a ruckus with dishes in the kitchen, but Dad doesn’t seem to notice as he leans back with a look of comfort. Benji hops up on the couch, which Mom has never allowed before, and rests his head on Dad’s lap.Even the poor dog knows something’s wrong.
"What about your editing work?" he asks.
"I can do it at night," I respond, having already thought this answer out.
Dad struggles to lift his slipper-covered feet to the space beside my lap. "I didn’t want to assume you would want to take over the shop. You and Journey have your own careers to look after, and just because I have spent my life doing what I love, doesn’t mean you have to love it too," he explains.
"But the shop is yours, and it was Papa’s before then. I can’t just let it close."
"Sure, you can," he says. The look in his eyes does not match the words coming from his mouth.
I shake my head, telling him no. "Let me take over." Dad cocks his head to the side and squints one eye as if he’s trying to figure out why I suddenly care so much about his shop when I never took an interest before. "It will get my mind off Ace. It will be a new chapter for me, and it’s what I need."
"You still refer to bourbon as a cough medicine," Dad says, chuckling through a guttural cough.
"I’ve hired someone to run the shop until I figure out what to do with it," he says.
"Well, tell whoever this person is, you don’t need him or her anymore," I suggest. "I’ll take over."
Dad clasps his hands over his belly and drops his gaze from mine. "In my will, I have left you and Journey The Barrel House, but it’s your decision whether you sell it or keep it. The distillery is worth a few good pennies, so it’s something you two need to think long and hard about, sweetie."
"I will talk to Journey, and we’ll figure things out.”
A faint smile tugs at Dad’s lips. "My two beautiful Irish daughters who can’t stand the taste of whiskey or bourbon," he snickers, tugging at a strand of my golden-copper hair.
"Does Journey know about this?"
"No, I didn’t want this to be a burden on either of you right now."
"I’ll talk to her.”
"Kiddo, look at me." Dad leans forward and takes my chin in his hand. "Let’s not worry about anything else right now. I want to enjoy my time with you, okay?"
I nod in agreement, but in my head, I know I can’t let this business down. This has been his life, his passion aside from us. He took it over from his father when he died, and I will not let him down. I can’t.
"We’ve made some sandwiches," Mom shouts into the family room from the kitchen.
"I don’t have it in me to tell your mother I don’t have an appetite," Dad says as he reaches for my hand to help him up. Mom lives to cook for Dad. His big belly shows the love she has fed him over the years. "She’s been cooking up a storm for weeks. I think it’s the only thing giving her some peace of mind."
I help Dad to his feet, holdinghis hand as we take slow stepsacross the oriental carpet toward the kitchen. "If you don’t have an appetite, how are you getting the food down?" I ask, glancing over at him.
Dad winks.
Mom has plated four sandwiches with potato salad and coleslaw. It’s quite a spread for a weekday lunch. Dad even has a blended green drink in front of his place setting. "What’s in the drink?” I ask.
"Kale and some other healthy ingredients—it will give your dad some energy."
"It tastes like rotten lettuce," Dad says with a curled lip.
"Did you hear that one of Journey’s photos will be a featured imagein the Vermont Travel Guide?" Mom asks me.
I slurp in the tomato slipping out of my mouth, then wipe my face with the linen napkin Mom placed beside each setting. "No, I didn’t. That’s incredible!" I haven’t spoken to Journey in over a month. I think we had started an argument about who was making what for Thanksgiving, and I believe she hung up on me. We have always bickered a lot about useless stuff, but we let a few weeks go by, and it’s like nothing happened.
