Brett arrives with Bill and Elizabeth, but no Brody. He must be watching the girls. I know Mom invited the whole family, but Brody never came to any of Dad’s parties even when we were younger. He’s a couple years older than Journey and has always had something else going on.
Either everyone is doing a great job at pretending this event is a common occurrence, or everyone is deluded by the presentation Dad is putting on. He’s in regular clothes, resting in a chair. He isn’t his normal loud and outgoing self, but he has a content look about him as he chats with everyone who’s crowding around.
I’ve been holding a bottle of water, crushing the plastic in my hand for the last five minutes, observing the surrounding area. I need to remember this. I need this picture to be in a frame I can hangin my mind forever.
"Melody, come over here," Dad calls out, waving me toward him.
I place my bottle down and squeeze between the semi-circle in front of his chair. "Tell them about the Quinn Pine you tasted last night," he says.
Brett’s watching from a few feet away, scratching at the back of his head with a slick grin.
"It was Brett’s doing," I say, throwing him under the bus.
"Well, of course. I gave the guy my best bottle," Dad says. Brett didn’t mention this part last night. "I figured if there was a way tomake you enjoy the fine taste of bourbon, it would be that bottle."
Dad’s friends are studying me with eyes of wonder, making me feel like I’m in the spotlight to offer a response worthy of the sample of bourbon I tasted. Except, I have nothing to compare it to aside from the gulps I took ten years ago. "I—ah—the caramel notes, they were strong and sweet. It was delicious," I say, but I’m not sure if those are the right words.
"Listen to my girl, using the right terminology," Dad gushes.
"And the smokiness from the barrel—perfect blend," I say to Bill, who handles the barrel process.
No one says much, but Dad seems proud of my response, so I will stop talking about bourbon before I say something ridiculous. "Brett, do you have the bottle with you?" Dad calls over to him.
"Of course, I do," he says, grabbing the bottle from a bag he left in the corner.
"Grab a few glasses, son," Dad continues.
He calls him son again. I don’t remember him doing so when we were younger.
I wonder if Dad regrets having only daughters, two without a passion for bourbon.
"Harold," Mom steps away from her conversation and into the crowd where I’m standing. "You’re not planning to drink bourbon in here, are you?"
Dad’s eyebrows curl around the sides of his eyes as if sadness tugs at his face. "If you don’t want me to—"
"What am I saying? This is your celebration," Mom responds.
Dad winks at Mom and reaches his hand out for her. He pulls her down on his lap and kisses her cheek then whispers something in her ear. Mom places her trembling hands on either side of his face and kisses him softly before pressing her forehead against his. "I love you," she whispers.
"Forever and beyond," he responds, uttering beneath his breath.
Brett offers plenty of clean glasses to pass around, then fills each one with a small helping. Even Journey has a glass. Dad raises his first and glances around the room. "To the finest people I've known: my family and the friends who have been like family—you who have made my life worthy of living."
I swallow hard, trying not to let my emotions seep through the cracks of my breaking heart.
"And to the man who has taught us how to balance life, love, and passion. Harold is the man we all wish to become; may we all find our way to the level of exceptional humanity as he," Bill follows.
Glasses clink, sips are taken, tears are choked back.
"Everyone, please help yourself to the food. There is plenty for everyone," Mom announces as the caterers reveal the metal covers to the small buffet of requested entrees and sides.
Journey pulls me from the crowd, off to the side of the room. "Am I the only one who feels weird about this?" she asks
"We’re not allowed to feel weird about this," I tell her.
Journey runs her hand through her dark waves. "I can’t get myself to feel or look happy right now."
I turn Journey to face Dad, who is having what appears to be a having a humorous conversation with Brett. They’re probably making fun of my description of the Quinn Pine circa 2009, but I’ll happily be the butt of this joke if it offers him comic relief at the moment.
