Page 3 of Bourbon Girl, part 1 of 6
"Not always. This is temporary… and I thought it might be fun."
"Are your folks back in Arizona?"
I shook my head. "My mom died, and I never knew my father."
Her grin disappeared. "Do you have brothers and sisters?"
"Nope." None that I knew of anyway.
She looked stricken. "You're all alone?"
I nodded, then smiled. "It's not that bad. I get to do whatever I want."
She worked her mouth back and forth. "That's one good thing."
But apparently, she couldn't think of more than one good thing about being alone, because she resumed my tour, showing me where the firewood was stored, how to secure the garbage cans to keep out "varmints," and where to stand to get the best cell reception (next to the picnic shelter). She finished back at my campsite where my faded orange van looked pathetic next to the gleaming RVs and pull-behind trailers of my neighbors. But Poppy proclaimed it "awesome."
I laughed. "Thanks. It belonged to my mom."
"Does she have a name?"
"My mom?"
"The van."
"No, but that's a good idea. Want to help me come up with a name?"
She thought for a minute. "What was your mom's name?"
"Ginger."
She grinned. "That's perfect!"
I grinned back. "You're right. From now on, I'll call her Ginger."
Poppy bounced up and down on her toes. "Bernadette, this is going to be the best summer ever! I can just tell!"
I was less optimistic, but I appreciated her enthusiasm.
July 3, Thursday
mashinggrains—corn, plus rye, wheat, and/or malted barley—are ground and cooked with limestone-filtered water to release sugars
MY GPSled me to a strip mall that looked like it had given up sometime in the nineties. Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours was sandwiched between a nail salon and a place that offered payday loans, which didn't exactly scream "professional operation." The company's sign hung crookedly in the window like a drunk leaning against a lamppost.
Inside, the office was barely bigger than a walk-in closet and jammed with filing cabinets, boxes, a shabby desk, and motivational posters that had clearly lost their punch. The air conditioner sounded like it was having an asthma attack.
"Bernadette!" Marv Birdwhistle popped up from his desk like a jack-in-the-box, dabbing his sweaty forehead with what looked like a fast-food napkin. He was exactly as I pictured from our phone call—fidgety, damp, and talking like he'd mainlined espresso.
I shook the moist hand he offered and conjured up a smile. "Mr. Birdwhistle."
"Call me Marv," he said, pumping my hand.
"Okay… Marv."
"Sit, sit." He pointed to a folding chair whose seat was stacked with mail.
At a loss, I scooped up the pile of mail and held it awkwardly as I lowered myself into the rickety chair. I averted my eyes from the envelope on top, but not before I noticed FINAL NOTICE was stamped on the front.
