The drive to town cleared my head a bit, allowing me take a deep breath before walking into The Barrel House, which is nice since I haven’t figured out how to take in a lung full of air since I arrived home. My chest is too tight, and it hurts too much.
I cross the paved street over to the original cobblestones the town kept from the eighteen-hundreds. When I pull the black iron door open, the smells hit me at once, reminding me of a place that represents home. Cedar and spice. It’s like a warm blanket in front of a fire type of scent.
"Melly-Bean," Mr. Crawley shouts as I walk through the door. "I didn’t know you were in town."
With a forced smile, I make my way toward the checkout counter in front of the one wall of exposed brick they kept from the firehouse on this floor.
Mr. Crawley has always reminded me of Santa Claus with his long white beard, rosy cheeks, and thick black-framed glasses. He also has a comparable figure to go along with the jolly personality. Always smiling.
Before responding, I walk around to the back of the counter and wrap my arms around his neck, inhaling the remnants from the pipe he smokes before work every day.
"I know, sweetheart," he says.
I’ve known Mr. Crawley my entire life. He oversees most of the machines downstairs, but I suspect he’s been running the whole show with verylittle help since Dad has been out of commission.
"I’m home for good, so I will be helping you out in here," I tell him.
Mr. Crawley snickers and runs his hand over the top of my head. "Melly, we both know you don’t have an interest in the world of bourbon."
"I’ll learn what I need to.”
"What about your editing career?" he questions. Mr. Crawley’s wife was an English teacher before she retired. When her time freed up, she would help Mom with some bookkeeping here. But when I was struggling with my English classes in high school, Mrs. Crawley would spend hours helping me, right here in the back room of this shop. She made me find a love for the technicalities of the English language.
"The beauty of editing is I can tend to it any time of the day.”
"You sound like my Virginia; God rest her soul." Mr. Crawley’s wife passed away from a heart attack two years ago. She was too young at sixty-eight. Dad tried to make Mr. Crawley retire afterward, but he told Dad he needed to be here to keep his mind going, or he would rot on his couch for the rest of his life.
"She was my inspiration," I remind him.
"You make me proud, kid.”
I turn away and walk toward one of the nearest displays of bottles and begin straightening them out, so the labels all face outward. "Your dad hired a guy to come run the store, Melly," he says, sounding cautious as if there’s a chance I didn’t know.
"I know," I tell him. "It’s a family business, though, and I need to make sure it stays this way, right?"
"What about your sister?" Mr. Crawley asks while scribbling a note on the back of a scrap of receipt paper.
I shrug. "I don’t know if Journey feels the same way I do, but it doesn’t matter. I can handle it if she doesn’t want to."
Mr. Crawley’s eyebrows arch as he continues jotting down whatever he’s writing. "Well, Mr. Pearson is due in at any minute, so I’m sure he’s the one you want to chat with about how to keep the business afloat."
"Mr. Pearson? Dad’s friend, the one who supplies the barrels?" I ask.
"Yes, ma’am."
Dad has been friends with Mr. Pearson for as long as I can remember, but I haven’t seen him in years. He has a truck deliver his shipments once a month, but I know Dad meets up with him once every few weeks to discuss business over dinner, but it’s only the two of them.
The bells above the door jingle as a customer walks into the dim orange glow, which offers the shop a warm feeling. Dad hung flickering Edison bulbs in two rows down the center of the ceiling. The lights look like old gas lamp flames.
"Thomas, how are you doing, my good man?" Mr. Crawley greets the customer.
"Better than ever," the middle-aged man responds.
"What can I do for you today?" Mr. Crawley asks.
"I can help him," I offer.
"Perfect," Mr. Crawley says. "I’ll be right back." Mr. Crawley takes off through the back doors, and I hear the thud of his feet against the steps going into the cellar.
