"I don’t know, Mom."
She wraps her arm around my shoulders and guides me into the family room where Dad is spread out on the couch, and Journey is in the corner on the recliner with her laptop. "Did you mark your territory at the shop?" Journey asks.
I know better than to respond, so I ignore her statement and place the bottle of Red Apple down on the ottoman in front of Dad.
"You met Brett, I see," Dad says.
My brows furrow in response. "How did you know?"
Dad groans as he leans forward, taking the bottle of bourbon into his hand. "This bottle is from 1996. We only shelve the bottles from 1998 to 2000."
"Why would you want an older bottle?" I ask, confused. Why would Brett give him that rather than a newer one?
Dad smiles and stares up to the ceiling as if he’s reminiscing. "The temperatures fluctuated so greatly that year and the barometric pressure in all of our barrels had a strong effect. I thought we lost the batch, but it turns out I’ve never tasted a better bourbon from that year’s barrels. So much of the bourbon evaporated, which we refer to as the angel’s share; it's when the liquid evaporates into the heavens." Dad opens his arms wide as if he’s proud to share this tidbit with me. "Anyway, we were left with much less than normal, but the taste was rare and top-notch."
I appreciate Dad’s passion, but I have no clue what he’s talking about. "The barometric pressure? Aren’t the barrels in a temperature-controlled room beneath the shop?"
"Oh my God," Journey groans. "Melody, seriously? The firehouse is like a million years old. There’s only so much climate control down there."
Journey has never left our little town and has probably spent more time in the recent years, helping at The Barrel House. I’m sure she knows more than I do, so I don’t understand why she hasn’t offered to go down there and help. Her photography gigs are usually on the weekends and she can edit the photos at night.
"Journey, why don’t you come to the shop with me tomorrow and give me some pointers. I want to help around there," I suggest.
Journey doesn’t lift her gaze from the screen of her laptop. "I don’t think so. Tomorrow isn’t good for me."
"Well, when will be a good time for you?" I walk closer to where she’s sitting, trying to break her attention away from the screen.
"I don’t know. Dad told me he’s leaving us the business, but I don’t think I want to—he’s not going to be—" Journey slaps her laptop shut, tosses it beside her, kicks the leg-rest closed and storms through the room.
The silence she left behind is deafening. "She’s not doing well," Dad says again.
"I know we’re all handling this in our own way," I explain. "But I need to help. It’s all I can do."
"Give her some time," Dad says. "And like I said, I don’t expect you two to pick up my life and carry it on your back. I’m proud of you both for the lives you have built."
I missed a deadline yesterday and haven’t checked in with work in two days. I’m not sure it’s something to be proud of.
"I’m going home. I’ll be back in the morning," Journey shouts from the foyer.
Mom scurries out of the kitchen with Tupperware filled with food. "Here, I made some chocolate chip muffins. You might get hungry."
Journey returns to the family room with her Tupperware and gives Dad a kiss on the cheek. "I love you," she mumbles through clear pain.
"I love you too, sweetie," Dad replies.
I follow Journey back into the foyer, where Mom is still standing. "Did you want to sleep here, or do you want to crash at my place?" Journey asks me.
Journey’s studio apartment is down near the mills. The space is small, and she only has a pullout couch along with her bed. For someone who needs space, I don’t thinktaking up more room in her life seems like a good idea. "I think I’ll stay here tonight. Maybe I’ll stay with you tomorrow. Plus, I have to go through my luggage and—"
"I understand," Journey says, giving Mom a kiss on the cheek.
"Drive safe, sweetie."
Without another word, my sister leaves. "Give her some time." It’s what everyone says after Journey shuts down and goes dark, which happens far more often to her than anyone else in our family.
"I know," I respond.
"Anyway, did Brett Pearson turn out to be a nice guy like his dad?" Mom asks. "Gosh, I haven’t seen him in years."
