Page 19 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
Nothing fun,I replied honestly.
His response came back immediately:Good!
The single word made me smile despite myself.
A few minutes later the phone buzzed again:Mom says yes! She'd love to talk to your reporter friend. When works for her?
I showed the message to Naomi, who practically vibrated with excitement. "This is perfect," she breathed. "Tell him anytime this week would be wonderful."
As I relayed the information, I caught Jett watching me in the rearview mirror with an expression I couldn't quite read. Disapproval? Resentment? For the first time since Naomi's arrival, I felt like I held some small measure of control over the situation. Maybe it was petty, but it felt good.
September 21, Sunday
refluxthe process of vapor condensing and returning to the still, increasing purity
I SENSEDsomething was wrong the minute I climbed aboard the tour bus. The air was thick with something more oppressive than Kentucky's autumn humidity. Naomi sat in her usual front seat, but her posture was rigid, and her manicured fingers drummed against her purse with sharp, staccato clicks.
Jett's knuckles showed white against the steering wheel, and when he glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his jaw looked tight.
"Good morning," I offered cautiously, settling into a seat as the bus lurched into motion with more force than usual.
"Morning," Jett replied curtly, his voice carrying none of its typical teasing undertones.
Naomi turned slightly in her seat, offering me a smile that looked painted on. "Bernadette, thank you again for arranging that interview with the Biggs family. I really appreciate your help."
Her words were perfectly polite, but something in her tone felt strained, as if she were reciting lines from a script rather than expressing genuine gratitude. The silence that followed stretched uncomfortably, broken only by the diesel engine's rumble and the occasional sigh from Jett's direction.
When we reached the strip mall office, Naomi gathered her things with movements that seemed more abrupt than graceful. She leaned over to brush a perfunctory kiss across Jett's cheek—a gesture that looked more obligatory than affectionate—before striding toward the bus exit.
"I'll see you later," she said to Jett, though it sounded more like a statement than a promise.
"Sure," he replied without turning around, his attention fixed on his clipboard with unusual intensity.
When she disembarked, I ventured a careful probe. "Everything okay?"
"Right as rain," Jett said with forced brightness.
Four customers climbed aboard—a family from Michigan celebrating their parents' wedding anniversary—and I turned my professional attention to welcoming them and outlining the day's itinerary. But throughout my opening spiel, I found myself stealing glances at Jett's reflection in the rearview mirror.
His scowl deepened as we navigated morning traffic, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel in an agitated rhythm. Whatever had transpired between them had clearly left both parties dissatisfied.
"Are we visiting any haunted distilleries today?" asked the anniversary couple's daughter, her question pulling me back to the tour at hand.
"Not haunted exactly," I replied, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. "But several of our stops have fascinating stories about the colorful characters who built Kentucky's bourbon legacy."
I continued my talk, occasionally glancing toward Jett, whose scowl seemed to deepen as the bus rolled along. At first I nursed a wicked sense of amusement that there was trouble in paradise, but it was quickly followed by the disturbing recognition that I didn't like to see Jett upset—even if another woman caused that upset.
Hm.
September 22, Monday
stripping runthe initial distillation run to extract alcohol from the mash
THE AMPHITHEATERbuzzed with expectant energy as campers arranged themselves on wooden benches carved into the hillside, the setting sun casting long shadows across the natural stage below. The scent of citronella candles mixed with the earthy smell of fallen leaves, while the distant sound of a motorboat puttered across the lake beyond the trees.
Poppy Oney commanded the stage like a seasoned performer despite her twelve years, her slight frame dwarfed by an elaborate costume that included a black top hat, formal tailcoat, and white gloves that kept sliding down her skinny arms. She'd painted whiskers on her freckled cheeks and carried a plastic cane that was clearly meant for someone twice her height.
"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls," she announced into a microphone that squeaked with feedback, "welcome to Happy Trails' First Annual Talent Extravaganza! Our winner tonight will receive fifty dollars to spend at the general store!"
