Page 13 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
I watched the young woman disappear around a bend in the path, noting how thin she looked. "She seems awfully young to be camping alone."
"Dad thinks she might be a runaway," Poppy said in a conspiratorial whisper. "But Mom says some people just want to be left alone, and as long as she pays her fees and doesn't cause trouble, it's not our business."
The interaction left me unsettled. There had been something desperate in the young woman's glare, a defensive hostility that reminded me of a cornered animal. I filed the observation away and turned back to our project.
"Don't you have any pictures to put up?" Poppy asked, studying the bulletin board with its colorful map. "Like, of family or friends?"
My chest tightened. "I have a few."
I retrieved a small envelope from my supply box, pulling out the handful of printed photographs I'd managed to save from my mother's belongings. Most showed the two of us at various ages—me as a gap-toothed eight-year-old with my arm around my mother's waist, the two of us at my high school graduation, a selfie we'd taken during one of her rare good days after the cancer diagnosis.
The photos felt precious and fragile in my hands as I carefully pinned them to the cork board. Seeing them displayed there, creating a small shrine to our shared history, brought an unexpected wave of grief mixed with gratitude. For all the moves and uncertainty, for all my mother's struggles with anxiety and depression, we'd had each other.
"She was really pretty," Poppy observed, studying the graduation photo where my mother wore a genuine smile despite the exhaustion visible around her eyes.
"She was," I agreed.
As we finished organizing the small workspace, my thoughts drifted to Keith Banyon and the questions that still needed answers. I'd driven by his house again yesterday, unable to resist another glimpse of that beautiful garden and stately brick facade. But true to my promise to Octavia, I'd resisted the urge to do anything more than observe from a distance.
The waiting was becoming unbearable, but I knew Octavia was right—charging in without information would likely do more harm than good. Whatever Keith Banyon's story was, whatever role he'd played in my mother's life and my own conception, I needed to approach it with facts rather than desperate hope.
Even with its improvements, the van was a temporary arrangement, at best. Until I had answers about my father, I'd continue to exist in this liminal space between past and future, between questions and resolution.
August 15, Friday
mash temperaturethe temperature at which fermentation occurs, affecting yeast activity
WHEN THEbus pulled into the tour office parking lot, Jett groaned.
I glanced out the window to see Teresa standing there with a smirk on her face. She wore a hot pink blazer, and her matching clipboard was already positioned for maximum note-taking efficiency.
I made a face, then rearranged my expression when she climbed on board.
"There's my star pupil," she announced with false enthusiasm. "Ready for another clinic?"
I forced a smile and nodded. Today's group was a family reunion from Tennessee—eight people ranging from teenagers to grandparents, all eager for a bourbon adventure. They seemed genuinely excited, chattering about different distilleries they'd researched and asking thoughtful questions as we loaded onto the bus.
I'd spent hours the night before memorizing historical details, determined to prove I could elevate my presentations. As we pulled away from the office, I launched into my opening spiel with renewed confidence.
"Welcome to Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours. I'm Bernadette, and today we'll explore Kentucky's liquid heritage, beginning in 1783 when the first corn-based whiskey was distilled by—"
"Slower!" Teresa interrupted, her pen already scratching across the clipboard. "You're rushing through the historical context. Give people time to absorb the information!"
Heat flooded my cheeks, but I pressed on, incorporating facts about early settlers and limestone-filtered water that I'd learned from my research. At each stop, I wove in additional details about barrel charring techniques and the evolution of mash bills, proud of the depth I was adding to the basic tour structure.
But Teresa's interruptions continued. Speak louder, smile more, use hand gestures, make eye contact. The pen never stopped moving, documenting every perceived flaw.
The Tennessee family remained polite throughout the day, but I watched their initial enthusiasm dampen to general disinterest as Teresa seemed determined to belittle me. Not surprisingly, the tips were barely enough for me and Jett to split.
Back at the office, Teresa waited until the customers had disembarked before delivering her verdict.
"Better, but still not where we need to be," she announced, consulting her notes. "And frankly, Bernadette, we need to address the elephant in the room."
"What elephant?" Something in her tone made my stomach clench.
"Your appearance, honey. Marv says you're living at a campground. No wonder you always look like you need a good shower and a blowout. Do better."
Her words hit me like physical blows, confirming every insecurity I'd ever harbored about my appearance, my circumstances, my worth. I felt exposed and diminished, reduced to everything I lacked rather than anything I might offer.
