Page 15 of Bourbon Girl, part 1 of 6
So as Jett and I suspected, business was on a downhill slide.
As we loaded the bus, I watched Naomi gravitate toward the front again, settling into the seat directly behind Jett. The otherpassengers, a mix of bourbon enthusiasts from Chicago and a young couple celebrating their anniversary, seemed eager to get to the drinking part of the tour.
"Good morning, everyone," I began once we were underway, my voice carrying more energy than usual. "Welcome to the Louisville bourbon experience. Today we're exploring four distilleries that represent the heart and soul of Kentucky's liquid gold."
I threw myself into the tour with renewed vigor, weaving stories and historical facts with theatrical flair. The passengers responded to my energy, asking more questions and engaging with each other. Even the shy anniversary couple opened up, sharing that they'd met at a bourbon tasting in Milwaukee.
But throughout the day, I remained acutely aware of Naomi's proximity to Jett. During stops, she lingered by the bus. At Peerless, I caught them sharing a private laugh about something while the rest of us toured the grain-to-glass operation.
Her notebook remained mostly closed, I noticed. For someone writing an in-depth article, she seemed more interested in observing our driver than documenting the business of bourbon tourism.
The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly as we made our final stop, and the humidity was equally unforgiving. Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the bus's air conditioning, but my energy never flagged. I was determined to give Marv the kind of tour that would earn positive coverage.
As we headed back to the office, the tip jar was nearly full.
"Outstanding tour today," called out one of the Chicago men as passengers filed off the bus.
Naomi was among the last to leave. After the customers dispersed, I counted out Jett's half of the tips and handed it over. "Making friends?" I asked, echoing his words from earlier in the week.
He pocketed the cash and smirked. "Touché."
But Jett's acknowledgement of his attraction to Naomi couldn't dampen my spirits. Besides, if I found my father in the next few days, there wouldn't be a reason to stay with Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours.
July 12, Saturday
sour masha method where some of the previous mash is added to maintain pH and consistency
THE REDHat Society ladies descended on our bus like a scarlet tornado, their crimson headwear ranging from modest berets to elaborate feathered creations. Ten women in their fifties and sixties, all dressed in purple outfits topped with those signature red hats, chattering with the excitement of schoolgirls on a field trip.
And Naomi was back. She claimed her usual seat behind Jett, and the two were immediately engaged in an intimate conversation. Her notebook lay unopened on her lap.
"Bernadette," called out a woman named Marge, "what are those white flowers blooming along the fence line?
I squinted through the window at the clusters of white blossoms dotting the roadside. "I'm... not sure. Let me check." I moved toward the front. "Jett? The ladies are asking about the white flowers along the fences."
He glanced at me in the rearview mirror with thinly veiled irritation at the interruption. "Dutchman's Breeches," he offered, then immediately resumed his conversation with Naomi.
I covered my own irritation and rejoined the ladies, asking about their organization and where each of them were visiting from.
At Woodford Reserve, while the group embarked on their guided tour, I found myself with an hour to kill. The visitor center buzzed with activity, tourists sampling bourbon flights and browsing gift shops filled with logo merchandise. I settledinto a corner chair with decent Wi-Fi reception and pulled out my phone.
Searching for " Suzy Klooz" on social media felt like looking for buried treasure. The unusual spelling worked in my favor—there weren't many results. I found a Susan Klooz in Portland who sold handmade jewelry, and another in Miami who worked as a dental hygienist. Both looked to be the right age to have been my mother's friend.
I crafted careful messages to each, explaining that I was trying to locate someone who might have known my mother in Kentucky thirty years ago. I hit send on both messages and exhaled. Now I just had to wait and hope one of them would respond with something useful.
"You don't strike me as someone who doom scrolls social media."
Jett's voice made me look up. He stood nearby with a coffee cup in hand. There was no sign of Naomi.
"I'm not doom scrolling," I snapped, more harshly than intended. "I'm researching."
"Researching what?"
"Personal stuff." I locked my phone screen and shoved it into my pocket. "Where's your shadow?"
"My what?"
"Naomi. You two seemed pretty cozy on the bus."
