"Good. That’s good," he says, spinning around. "You can—um ..."
"I can finish the labels if you want?"
"Yeah, that would be perfect."
Brett jogs back around the counter to grab the labels. "My mom and sister are doing a little better now, too," I say. "Well, they were until a conversation about the shop came up."
Brett places the stack of labels down, making sure the pile is even. "Maybe it’s too soon to be talking about business," he says.
"Maybe, but at the current moment, Journey and I own this shop, and neither of us has been here, nor had we spoken about being here."
"I told you I had everything under control. You didn’t need to worry about anything here," Brett says.
I take a stack of labels from the opposite side of the counter and admire how the bold print stands out on the white background. "It’s not that. I knew Journey would not feel the same way about keeping the business as I do. It was a conversation waiting to happen."
Brett takes one bottle at a time from a crate settled on the counter and places them each down in a row. "Oh, I didn’t realize she felt this way," Brett says. "Although, I know your dad asked my dad if he would be interested in the opportunity of purchasing if it were to be an option."
"Yeah, he didn’t want to burdeneither of us with the remnants of his dream, which seems ridiculous to me. This shop is him. How could I give it up?"
"I get it," he says. "I’m just not sure I have any advice to give."
I place the first label on the bottle, lining the print up with markings on the glass as Dad taught me when I was younger. It was the only real task he allowed me to take part in here.
Brett’s phone rings in his back pocket, and he checks the display, notates whoever is calling, and silences the call before placing the phone down on the counter. "I can give you some privacy if you want?" I offer.
"Oh, no, it’s just a telemarketer."
"Unplugging your phone for a couple of weeks makes you forget about those annoying calls.”
"I was wondering if you shut your phone off. I tried sending youmessages, but they bounced back."
"I had to disconnect.”
"I totally understand." The phone rings again, and he answers the call this time. "This is Brett," he says.
"Oh, hey, I’m sorry. Your number popped up as unknown. I figured you were trying to sell me something." Brett turns around with the phone and laughs at the other part of the conversation I can’t hear. "Very true. No problem, I’ll meet you downstairs in five." He ends the call and checks something else on his phone. "I didn’t hear the message come in either. Geez."
With his phone back down on the counter, he grabs his coat from beneath the register. "Yeah, a shipment of barrels will be here in a few. I don’t know why the contact didn’t show up on my phone the first time."
"I’ll watch the shop," I tell him as he jogs through the back door.
His phone is still lit up on the counter, and I’m doing everything I can to mind my business, but I’m placing labels on bottles, and I’m reaching over his phone for the line of bottles he set up.
The display shows a list of his text messages, the last one being from Becca.
It’s none of my business. I peel another label and stick it in its place, then reach back over his phone for another bottle, seeing the next text message to me, and there is a red exclamation mark next to the name.
The backdoor flies open, and Brett runs through the shop. "Is everything okay?" I ask, jumping away from his phone right as the display darkens.
"The back-garage door isn’t staying open for some reason. I’m guessingthe motor must be dead. I need a hand, quick."
"From me?"
"Crawley is in the middle of cleaning some corn, and the last time I interrupted him, we almost ended up with popcorn," Brett says with a snicker.
"Funny.” I follow him through the back door, watching as he hurries down the stairwell into the basement, grabbing a wooden pole along the way. "I’m going to prop the door open, but I need you to hold it still, so no one loses a head or anything," he explains.
I know Dad had problems with this door before, but I don’t know how he fixed it. "Yeah, my dad had to prop this thing open a few times. I guess that’s what you get for taking over a building built more than a hundred years ago."
