"Mind if I go check on The Barrel House? It will give me a minute to catch my breath."
Dad nods his head and grins. "If that’s what will give you a moment of peace, I will never say no."
"Do you need anything while I’m out?" I ask.
"Bourbon," Dad jests.
"Harold," Mom scolds. "I don’t think you—"
"I’m already dying, Marion," Dad says through a sigh. "Bring me back a bottle of the Red Apple."
"You got it," I respond, lifting my plate with the uneaten sandwich.
"The doctor said it’s about quality of life, Marion. Bourbon is agreatquality of life."
"You can take my car, sweetie. Your father’s truck needs gas. I haven’t had a moment."
I can’t help but watch my two parents stare at each other with broken grimaces. It hurts to imagine what is going through their minds, knowing everything in this moment is temporary.
4
Our town,Lakebridge is small. There are less than two thousand residents, but after living close to Charleston in South Carolina, I felt a longing for the small-town feel. I haven’t been around in almostfour years, except for a few holidays, but nothing has changed. The town store still has the same group of older women sitting on a bench out front, likely chattering about the daily town gossip. The sandwich shop, on the other side, has a small line spilling out the front door, and then there’s the coffee shop that closes at noon every day.
On the other side of the street is the old fire station, now used as a distillery to run The Barrel House.
Papa started The Barrel House in Kentucky when he was about my age, but when he met Grandma and found out she was only visiting Kentucky, he picked up his shop and moved it up here to Vermont. A good old-fashioned love story. Years ago, someone engravedtheir storyon a plaque inside the shop for any bourbon connoisseur who questions the validity of an "old" distillery being in New England, since the Northern states are still new to running distilleries.
I pull up on the side of the street into a space behind an old beat up mint green Chevy. Mr. Crawley’s truck—I can’t believe the thing is still running.
The quick honk of Mom’s car as I hit the lock button on the key fob attracts a few stares from outside the sandwich shop and the town store. "Melody Quinn?"
I don’t recognize the voice, but I’m not sure anyone’s voice would sound familiar after being gone for years. I slip my faded leather bag over my shoulder and spin around in search of the person calling my name. I spot Erin Daniels. How could I not recognize her voice? She’s running toward me with her arms stretched out. She’s a hugger—the kind of hugger who squeezes so tightly I can’t lift my arms to hug her back. "It’s been years, Mel. I heard you took off and got married to some hot Southern stud." She pulls away and snatches my left hand up to inspect. "Oh."
"We didn’t get married," I say, laughing, feeling awkwardas I sweep a fallen strand of hair behind my ear.
"Oh, but you moved down there, and—" Her face scrunches, and she makes this weird, awkward grimace. "Anyway, are you home for a visit?"
I glance over my shoulder toward the firehouse. "No, I’m in the process of movinghome. I was heading into the shop.” I point across the street as if she doesn’t know which is my dad’s shop.
"I haven’t seen your dad in there recently. Everything okay?"
For a long pause, I stare at her long natural blonde waves blowing in the passing breeze, but as I refocus on her questioning eyes, I blurt out, "No, actually. He’s dying,"
I didn’t mean to say it in such a way, but it happened, and now her hand is covering her mouth, and her eyes close. She shakes her body as if she’s trying to break away from the news and wraps her arms back around me. "Mel, I’m so sorry. I—I don’t know what to say."
I try to back out of her embrace and shrug. "There’s not much to say. Life isn’t fair sometimes, right?"
"I will make your family meals. I’ll start a meal train. What can I do? Please. There has to be something." Erin Daniels is the head of every organization in our town. She has been since we were old enough to elect a student president. She’s organized, selfless, forward, loud, and I don’t think she sleeps.
"Gosh, thank you, but my mom has been cooking as a form of therapy. It’s keeping her mind occupied."
"Oh, of course. Your mom is a wonderful cook—winner of every bake-off in this town," Erin chides.
"Well, if you need anything—coffee, a friend, I’m here. What’s your number?"
I close my eyes to collect my thoughts because my mind is full of so many other things that my phone number isn’t forming on its own. "It’s 323-344-5768. It was nice to see you, and thank you for the offers.” She thumbs the numbers into her phone, pinging my phone with her number.
"There. Call, please." She places her hand on my shoulder and tilts her head to the side with an empathetic smile. "Take care of yourself, Mel."
