By the time we walk in, almost everyone is seated around the table, leaving three seats open. I snag the one across the table even though it’s directly across from where Brody chooses his seat. His daughter, Hannah, is staring at me with curiosity and I don’t know why.
“Hi Hannah, it’s nice to see you again,” I tell her, offering a smile so I don’t group her in with Brody’s antics.
“Hi,” she says, breaking her stare.
“How was school today?”
Hannah shrugs. “Lame. I had a multiplication test, and it was timed. I don’t like to be rushed.”
“Ew, that is lame. How did you do?”
“I think I did all right.”
It’s the first real conversation I’ve had with Hannah, but I’ve heard bits and pieces about a tween attitude that Brody and the rest of the family are having a hard time with. She looks a lot like Brody with her dark hair and golden-brown eyes that attract the light from the chandelier, giving her an angelic appearance. She appears to have manners as she places her napkin on her lap and folds her hands on top of the table. She seems to be on the smaller side for being ten, but it makes her adorable.
“Why are you staring at me?” Hannah asks. I didn’t realize I was looking at her for so long, but now I feel bad for making her uncomfortable.
“Oh, I was looking at the painting behind you,” I lie.
She twists in her seat and finds the abstract Monet painting we’ve had hanging on the wall since I was born.
“It’s just a bunch of dots,” she says.
“It becomes clearer and quite beautiful if you stare at it long enough,” I tell her.
Brody clears his throat. “Journey’s right,” he says.
His comment triggers my question of why he was staring at me awkwardly in the kitchen. I glance at him and squint, silently telling him I know what he’s doing. With a subtle shake of my head, I also tell him to stop.
“So, you and Journey ran into each other?” Melody asks Brody as if she doesn’t already know about the two public encounters we have had; the first at the school and the second at The Barrel House.
“Sure did,” Brody says, giving her a questioning look. Melody was there the second time at The Barrel House when I was doing the photoshoot, so even if she didn’t know about the first time, she sounds like an idiot right now.
“Where?” Melody continues, adding to the stupidity.
“Melody, can we not do this please?” I speak up.
Melody glares in my direction and raises a brow as if she isn’t through causing unnecessary issues.
“Everything looks wonderful. Thank you again for having us over tonight,” Elizabeth, Brody’s mom, says.
“Yes, this is very thoughtful of you,” Bill, his dad, follows.
“Thoughtful,” Brody scoffs and mouths the words, “Is that even possible?”
I kick him beneath the table because he deserves it for so many reasons at the moment, but I must have kicked him a little too hard because his knee thumps the table and everything clatters against each other, causing a few looks of surprise. Oops.
“So, what’s the big news, Journey?” Melody asks.
“It can wait until after dinner,” I tell her.
By the mumbles of aggravation, I can tell no one will let more time pass without knowing what I have to say.
“Don’t keep everyone in suspense while they eat,” Melody counters.
I toss my napkin onto the table and press my chair out to stand up. “Okay.” I suppose I might have somewhat of an appetite if I get this off my chest first. I take a minute to gather my thoughts, staring through the Monet painting in search of the words I need to begin. “So, I haven’t been avoiding the conversation about The Barrel House for the last six months. I have spent countless hours thinking and weighing my options. As easy as I thought the decision would be, it has been very challenging. The thought of giving up a part of my dad’s life pains me to no end. However, bourbon does not run through my blood like it did for him, and I would do an injustice to the shop and my dad by keeping my share of the business.”
There is an abundance of silence within the containing walls of the dining room. Everyone is waiting to hear what I’m going to say next and I’m sure they think I’m dragging this out for dramatic reasons, but every word I speak is another step away from Dad’s shop.
