Page 31 of Bourbon Girl, part 1 of 6
My mother's pendant rested against my chest, the silver catching the light as I moved. I'd worn it deliberately today, hoping someone might recognize her face, though I hadn't expected to feel quite so nervous about it.
Dylan looked up from polishing a row of tasting glasses, his face brightening with genuine pleasure when he spotted me. "Bernadette! This is a nice surprise. No tour group today?"
"Just finished," I said, settling onto one of the leather-topped bar stools. The worn surface was smooth beneath my hands, polished by countless visitors over the years. "Thought I'd stop by and say hello."
"I'm glad you did." He set down his polishing cloth and leaned against the bar, his eyes shining. "Actually, I have a message for you from my mother. She wanted me to tell you how much she enjoyed meeting you the other day."
A flutter of warmth spread through my chest. "She was lovely. I enjoyed talking with her too."
As he poured me a glass of lemonade, his gaze dropped to the pendant at my throat, and his expression shifted to one of gentle curiosity. "That's a beautiful necklace. Is that a photograph?"
My hand moved instinctively to touch the pendant, feeling the smooth silver beneath my fingers. "Yes, it's... it's my mother."
He leaned slightly closer, studying the image with respectful interest. "She's very pretty. You have her eyes."
The observation sent an unexpected wave of emotion through me. "Thank you," I managed, accepting the glass of lemonade he slid across the bar.
"Was it taken recently?" he asked, his tone gentle.
"No, this was... this was from before I was born." The words came easier than I'd expected, perhaps because his expression held such genuine kindness.
"She looks like she was full of life."
"She was, when she was younger." I took a sip of the lemonade, the tartness making me pucker slightly before the perfect balance of sweetness followed. "Your mother seems to know quite a bit about the industry."
"She grew up in it, really." He paused, studying my face with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. "You know, I was thinking... would you be interested in a real behind-the-scenes tour sometime? I mean, beyond what the regular groups see?"
I felt my breath catch slightly. "What do you mean?"
"Monday's my day off, and I sometimes come in anyway to help with maintenance and inventory. I could show you parts of the operation most people never get to see. The aging warehouses, the mash rooms, maybe even the master distiller's private tasting area." His voice carried an enthusiasm that seemed to go beyond professional pride. "If you're interested, that is."
"I'd love that," I heard myself say, surprised by how quickly the words tumbled out. "Are you sure it wouldn't be too much trouble?"
"No trouble at all." His smile widened, and I noticed the way it reached his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. "I enjoy sharing what I know about this place. Most people just want to drink and move on, but you actually listen to the stories."
My cheeks warmed at the compliment. "What time should I come by?"
"How about ten in the morning? That'll give us plenty of time before it gets too hot in the warehouses." He pulled a business card from behind the register and wrote something on the back. "Here's my cell number, in case you need to reach me."
Our fingers brushed as I took the card, a brief contact that sent an unexpected jolt through me. "Thank you, Dylan. I'm really looking forward to it."
"Me too," he said softly, and something in his tone made me believe he meant it.
As I finished my lemonade and prepared to leave, I was acutely aware of the pendant resting against my chest, my mother's young face now witnessed by someone else. For a moment, I wondered what she would think of this development—her daughter meeting a charming bartender in the very world where she'd once searched for love herself.
July 31, Thursday
scaldingoverheating mash, which can deactivate enzymes or affect flavor
THE NEONsign of the Red Pegasusbar flickered sporadically in the gathering dusk. The exterior brick was stained with decades of city grime, and the small windows were so dark I couldn't see inside. As I pushed through the heavy door, I was assailed with musky aromas—cigar smoke, spilled whiskey, and something indefinably masculine that spoke of countless nights and countless stories.
The interior was dimly lit by amber-tinted fixtures that cast everything in sepia tones. Red vinyl booths lined the walls, their surfaces cracked and patched with duct tape, while a handful of regulars hunched over their drinks at the scarred wooden bar, while young hipsters crowded around the billiards tables. The jukebox in the corner played something slow and mournful, the kind of song that matched the atmosphere perfectly.
I slid onto a barstool and ordered a glass of white wine from the bartender—a heavyset man with graying hair and tired eyes who looked like he'd been here since the place opened.
"Haven't seen you before," he said, setting down a glass that had seen better days. The wine was warm and slightly sour, but I sipped it anyway, trying to imagine my mother in this space thirty years ago.
On the other side of the bar, a well-dressed man stood by a table of customers, laughing and glad-handing. He sent a hand signal to the bartender who pulled a bottle of bourbon from beneath the bar and proceeded to pour four drinks, neat. The bartender winked at me.
