The customer, Thomas, glances down at me. "Great, thank you. Have you stocked the shelves with the Quinn Pine yet?"
I twist on my heels and scan the top shelf in front of me, searching through the labels. I get to the bottom shelf, but still don’t see what the man asking for.
The bell above the door chimes again. Crap, there’s another customer, and I can’t help this one. Feeling anxious, I start my search at the top shelf again, "Quinn Pine," I repeat. "Where are you?"
"Oh, we won’t have that until the first of November," I hear from behind me. However, the person speaking is not Mr. Crawley.
I turn around, finding a familiar face, and I’m caught in a deadpan stare.
"Ah great, I’ll have the Quinn Maple for today," Thomas says.
The familiar man speaking for me reaches above my head and grasps a bottle from the top shelf. "Here you go," he says to Thomas, handing him the bottle.
"Thank you," Thomas continues, likely noticing the awkward stare between this familiar man and me. I shake my head a bit to re-center my thoughts and rush around the counter to ring up the bottle.Dad got a new register.
This purchasing system has a password. "Uh, one minute. I need to go find Mr. Crawley,” I inform Thomas, heading toward the back door.
"I can help," the familiar man says. I don’t know this familiar man’s name, and I wish I did. He makes his way around the counter and types in a password, scans the bottle with the hand scanner thing, and rings up the total. "Twenty-four, ninety-five."
Thomas handsfamiliar guyhis credit card, and the purchase is completedwithin a matter of seconds. "I’ll be back in a couple weeks for the Quinn Pine," Thomas says, waving before exiting the shop.
"You.” It’s all I can say.
"You," he repeats. "Do you work here?"
"This is my dad’s shop," I explain. "The better question is, do you work here?"
"You’re Mr. Quinn’s daughter? I knew you looked familiar."
I shake and nod my head at the same time, weighing the odds of seeing this man again.
"Yes—one of them," I respond, staring at him as if I’m looking through a piece of glass.
"I’m Brett Pearson. Our dads go way back." I know you. I remember you, very much so, now.
"You’re Mr. Pearson’s son," I state the obvious.
"One of them, yes."
Part of me is trying to figure out if this is some weird set up, but I think it would be far too much work to set up a chance encounter on a plane from Charleston, South Carolina.
There was only one flight going from Charleston to Burlington that day, but still.
"Are you Melody or Journey?" Brett asks.He doesn’t remember me.
"Melody.” I should feel grateful he doesn’t remember me.
"The younger one who doesn’t plan to let the family business go," he says with a small smirk.
I close my eyes and turn away because I need to collect my thoughts and take a moment to pray, he doesn’t remember me the way I remember him.
"Well, I won’t get in your way," he says. "I’m only here to help."
Mr. Crawley comes back upstairs with a stack of labels. "I have a job for your Melly," he calls out as he drops the stack down on the counter.
"Mr. Pearson," Mr. Crawley calls out as he spots Brett. "It’s been a while, kid. How have you been?"
"Busy," Brett says.
