"Are you keeping notes on everything?" he asks.
"It’s the only way I’ll learn.”
“Good point," he agrees, though there is a sound of wariness in his response.
"Will Becca be the point of contact for barrel deliveries?" I ask.
I don’t lift my head as I press the tip of the pen against the paper. "Usually, yes," Brett says. "She’s one of two drivers working for my dad."
"Do we have contact information for her somewhere?"
"Sure, we do," Mr. Crawley says. There’s a binder next to the register with our contacts and it’s in the computer system now too.
"Perfect," I tell him. "Are those shipments ready to go or do they need to belabeled?"
"They need labels," Mr. Crawley answers.
"Where can I find those?"
"You know what, I’ll show you where the supplies are. How about that?" Brett offers.
I continue holding the pen against the paper before looking up at the two sets of staring eyes. "Okay, good idea."
Brett places his hands on his hips and nods his head toward the back door. "Come on. I’ll show you."
I follow him into the back room to a far corner where there are rows of stackable bins, each filled with a different set of labels. "Are the crates marked with the bourbon type?"
"They are," he says.
"Okay, good."
"Melody, do you think it’s too soon to be picking up these pieces?" Brett asks, leaning his hand against a stack of wooden crates.
"Is there an appropriate time for me to do so?" I respond, knowing there’s a touch of unwarranted haste breaking through my words.
"No, there isn’t, but you seem stressed out and a little agitated."
"Sorry.” I take one of the sheets out to inspect the labels. "Even the delivery girl seems to know more about this place than I do."
"Becca?" he asks.
"Yes, Becca."
"No one can change the fact of this being your father’s shop, Melody."
I place the label back on its stack, telling myself I’m biting off more than I can chew. I should have helped Dad more before I moved away. I was always more consumed with something else and never took the time to appreciate what he had kept running from prior generations in our family. "I will end up being the one to let four generations down."
Though my back is to him, I hear Brett’s footsteps coming closer to where I’m standing, but I don’t move. I keep my focus on the ream of labels as they become blurry from the intensity of my stare.
Brett’s hands cup my shoulders, and he squeezestenderly. "If this is what you want to do, I’ll stick by your side and help you through it."
"What are you going to get out of it? It’s not your family business. You’ve stepped away from yours to help with mine, and it’s not fair to you."
Brett removes his grip from my shoulders and takes my elbow into his hand, twisting me around. "You’re asking a lot of unnecessary questions for your first day of owning a bourbon shop," he says. The doleful look in his eyes shows there is truth behind his reason for being here. "I want to be here, okay?"
"Thank you," I tell him, exhaling a shaky breath.
"You won’t learn this stuff overnight, so be easy on yourself. Notes are good, but you’ll figure it all out with time."
