“No one can,” she says. “I wish someone could because I’m honestly scared out of mind. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to make it through this.”
I place my hand on her shoulder and sweep my thumb back and forth to comfort the evident pain. “It might not mean anything to hear this, but most people don’t realize their strength until they have to find it inside themselves at the most difficult moment.”
“I need a hug,” she says, choking on her words. Without thought, I wrap my arms around her and squeeze tightly, running my hand across her back. Her cheek is against my neck, flaming hot, and I can’t imagine the agony she must be going through for her body to react so intensely. I wish I could ease her discomfort. “Thank you.” Melody whispers into my ear.
“I’m here. I’ll be here. No matter what,” I respond.
19
I wishI had more time. Which is worse? To know or not to know.
Harold passed away in the middle of the night on Thursday. Something inside him knew that the time was near and he wanted his family and friends to be there with him for one last party and to say goodbye, on his last day on this earth. When my phone rang at six in the morning, I knew. Pops was on the phone, silent. The lack of words was like a familiar siren. “I’ll be over as soon as I get Parker up and dressed,” I tell him.
“Okay,” he utters before hanging up.
I scratch my hands over my face and pull in a deep breath before searching for Melody’s last text message.
Me:I’m so sorry. I know the words hold no meaning, but like I said last night, I’m here—no need to respond.
I lean my head back against my pillow as I drop the phone to my lap.
Being silent but present is what I’ve always been good at. I’m at the end of a row in the church, waiting for the family to follow the pallbearers carrying the coffin. Everyone stands when the doors open. A weakness floats through me as I watch the coffin being carried to the pulpit.
I blink, and the casket is no longer black, but one covered with the American flag.
Relatives and close friends of Harold’s, including Pops, are replaced with Marines in their dress blues. Tears from swollen eyes become frozen, still faces.
Abby had no family aside from Parker and me.
Harold’s influence has filled up an entire church, and I’m grateful to see love rather than loneliness. However, what cannot change is the look on Melody’s face as she and Journey clutch Mrs. Quinn’s arms. Her eyes are glossy, and her cheeks look raw. Her hair is up in a neat ponytail, covered with a piece of black lace. I place my hand over my heart because it hurts for her—for all of them. Melody glances in my direction as she walks by, and I mouth the word, “hi,” knowing it’s all she can afford to hear or see on top of everything sprawled out before her.
She mouths “hi” back before her lips quiver and then returns her gaze toward the front of the church.
The service is kept short, each daughter saying a few words. The congregation is released to a receiving line where we offer condolences before moving on with our lives, as the Quinn family takes their last few moments inside the church, guarding the man that they loved more than anything.
I offer Mrs. Quinn and Journey a hug, and my apologies for their loss. As I reach Melody, I wrap my arms around her, and she clutches her hands against the back of my shirt, holding onto me as if she needs me to be here for her. Her body shudders against mine as tears trickle between our cheeks. “Take time. Sit and let it all sink in before you move forward. Let your tears run dry. The world will wait for you. It’s the only way.”
Melody nods her head against my cheek. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I release my arms from around her warm body and head toward the exit.
There was no one to hug at Abby’s funeral, no one except Parker. No one told me to let it all sink in and cry until the pain lessened, but it’s what I did. I cried for Parker. I cried for myself. I cried for Abby, and until the tears ran out, it was the only way to accept the new reality.
It took weeks. It took until the time I was approached to become Parker’s legal guardian per Abby’s will. They granted me full custody and offered the opportunity to legally adopt her. Nothing happened overnight, but the day a judge declared me to be Parker’s adopted father, was the first day of my new life—the day I had promised Abby I would do whatever it would take to show Parker the happiness she deserves. Parker and I made a pact that we would push forward together and experience all the fun life can offer, no matter how big or small. The more fun and happiness we could experience, the closer we’d feel to Abby because her personality was like the sun—warm and embracing. Parker and I needed to be that way too, as that would be the way we would keep Abby alive in our hearts, forever. Things are always easier said than done, and we have rainy days when it’s difficult to find the sunshine, but we’re in it together and we always try our best. Nobody can ask for more.
20
Two-and-a-half weeks later
My heart stopswhen Melody walks through the doors of The Barrel House today. I haven’t sent her texts or checked in on her because I would have been contradicting my own words to her. Taking the time to be alone or with her mom and Journey and having space to be with her thoughts and memories is the only way to heal. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure she’d want to step back into this shop since it’s surrounded by reminders of Harold, but she’s smiling. Her cheeks are pink; her hair is done; she’s wearing leggings, a long denim shirt, and knee-high brown boots. Melody is the definition of beautiful, and I’d say so out loud if she wasn’t approaching after weeks of mourning.
We hardly have time for small talk when I’m interrupted by a delivery of barrels pulling in downstairs. I’d much rather stand here and help Melody with what she might need, but she appears to be okay and it looks like she plans on sticking around as she removes her jacket and hangs up her purse. After I finish unloading the import of barrels and return to the storefront, I notice a difference in Melody’s mood. She’s frazzled and pacing around the store, rubbing her hands together slowly as if trying to loosen the tension. I could stop her or ask what’s wrong, but instead, I find myself watching the result of her erratic thoughts until she locates a pad of paper and a pen. She rushes it up to the front counter and begins jotting down some notes before spotting the stack of boxes ready to be shipped out today. Her eyes light up when she thinks there’s something she can be doing.
“Are those shipments ready to go, or do they need labeling?”
“They need labels,” Mr. Crawley answers from the opening between the shop and backroom. He likely saw me staring at Melody rather than answering her question a little faster.
Melody walks behind the front counter and searches through a few bins for what I assume to be labels. “Hmm,” she says, checking a couple more places. “Where can I find those?”
