Within just a few minutes, we’re in the truck and heading to The Barrel House.
“It’s still dark,” Parker says.
“I know, it’s early, but Mr. Quinn needs our help, so we’re helping, right?”
“Why does he need our help?”
It was a question I intended to avoid but forgot without the proper amount of caffeine pumping through my blood at this ungodly hour. “He can’t be at work today, that’s all.” I wish that was all.
Bringing Parker anywhere is easy so long as she has a favorite book to read. I settled her in a nook by one of the machine’s downstairs in The Barrel House, but the sounds were too loud, so she moved between a row of barrels.
I need to start up the mash tub to mix the corn, grains, and water. Once I get everything going with this, I can take Parker to school while it starts up. There will be some cleanup when I get back, but hopefully not too much.
As I tear open another bag of kernels to pour into the machine’s mouth, I notice a distracting motion out near the stacked barrels. I glance over, finding Melody who appears unamused, and she’s with whom I assume to be her sister, Journey—the one trying to get my attention over the noise.
After a quick check to make sure the kernels have all made their way down into the tub, I walk toward the ladies since I can’t hear much over the sound of the machine.
“I thought you weren’t coming in until ten?” the other girl asks. It has to be Journey, but she looks different. Her hair is jet black and she kind of looks irritated at life, or possibly not feeling well. If she is Journey, I can understand the reason for the attitude because of what they’re going through with Harold. “Yeah, I thought I’d pop by for a few minutes, but I have to leave soon. I knew we had to get these kernels cleaned today and wanted to get a head start.”
“Oh,” Melody says. Her cheeks are red and she’s avoiding eye contact. I must have mortified her yesterday, but she sent that friend request too. I don’t understand.
I reach my hand out to the other girl. “Journey, right?”
Journey seems amused by my question, rolling her eyes for good measure. “Yeah, we spent some time together when we were younger,” she says with a smile filled with mischief.
“Sure, I remember you.” How can two people change so drastically over ten years? I’m still trying to understand how I didn’t recognize Melody at first. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Could be it. Melody’s insecure demeanor becomes more pointed as her eyes narrow in on me as if I said something wrong. Did I? “Well, we have an incoming shipment of water due around noon, so I might need a little help to get the path cleared. Things seem a little out of sorts here.” I don’t mean this as any offense to Mr. Crawley, but I know Harold keeps a tight ship, or so he likes to say, and nothing is where I recall it being when I was helping him here last summer.
“Why do we need an outside shipment of water?” Melody asks me. I don’t know if she’s quizzing me or serious. I’m aware neither daughter has a ton of experience running the distillery but I’d figure she’d know some key parts of running the place. Maybe not, though.
Whether she’s testing me or curious, I tell her, “It’s limestone water. We get an import from the Canadian distributor once a month.”
“Oh,” she says again, twirling a strand of hair behind her right ear. She does not want to be in my presence, it’s almost obvious. I wish I knew what I did to make her this uncomfortable. She seemed more confident on the plane than she is now.
“Do we need to do anything with the corn?” Journey asks after giving Melody a curious look, appearing to silently ask her what the problem is.
“Nah, it’s good for now.” The only thing they’d have to do is clean up the kernels that spilled out, but I’ll take care of that, so they don’t have to. I walk past the two of them toward the row of barrels where Parker is still reading. “Parker, we have to get going,” I call out when I turn the corner into the row. She stands up and packs her bag with her book and walks toward me with an eyebrow raised as if she has a question she’d like to ask. When she walks by me, I’m positive there’s something she needs to say. I feel like I’m slowly learning to understand the female psyche. That thought is laughable. I notice Parker dropped a paper out of her bag on the way and I lean over to grab it.
“Is she your—” Melody’s voice and question scare the crap out of me. I spin around, finding her a few feet away. Her cheeks are still red as she places the palm of her hand on her cheek. I would have thought the Pearson family knew about Parker. Mom gushes about her to everyone she speaks to, and Pops is worse sometimes.
“Yes, this is my little girl, Parker.” This ... as in … she was right here, but now she’s probably halfway to the truck, ready to drive off herself. “Oh, wow, I didn’t know—congratulations.” The congrats doesn’t sound very sincere, which tells me Parker is most definitely news to her. I can only imagine what she’s thinking, especially after giving her my phone number at the airport. I’m sure she is assumingI’m married with a child and looking to have a fling with a woman I didn’t recognize from ten years earlier—the girl I never forgot about.
“Thanks,” I say. Parker turns back around the corner just in time to catch the tail end of our awkward conversation and crosses her arms over her chest, gesturing for me to get moving.
Melody glances down at Parker and smiles. “You’re adorable. You must get your pretty looks from your mommy.” Oh man. She doesn’t know a damn thing about my life, and I need to get Parker out of here before this conversation goes any further.
“I don’t know, maybe,” Parker responds with a hitch in her voice. I don’t know how a seven-year-old little girl is strong enough to deal with the pain that I see in her eyes most days.
“Well, I’m sure your mom thinks you look like her,” Melody continues.
I shake my head and mouth the word, “No,” to Melody, hoping she will get the hint to stop.
“Sorry,” Melody mouths back, but she doesn’t know what she’s apologizing for. I can’t explain it now, not with Parker here.
“Anyway, if we don’t leave, we’ll be late for school. First grade doesn’t tolerate tardiness these days,” I say, wrapping my arm around Parker’s shoulders.
“Dad,” she groans. “We’re never late.”
With that last statement from the peanut gallery, we leave the scene and head upstairs and out the back door. “That’s the girl,” Parker says.
