Page 20 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
The audience applauded enthusiastically while Poppy beamed with pride, adjusting her oversized hat as it threatened to slip over her eyes.
"Why don't scarecrows win talent shows?" she asked, pausing dramatically. "Because they're outstanding in their field!"
The collective groan from the audience only encouraged her further. "What do you call a singing laptop? A Dell! Get it? Adele?"
I couldn't help but smile at her fearless enthusiasm, the way she owned the stage despite her amateur jokes and ill-fittingcostume. Her parents sat in the front row, Tracy dabbing at her eyes with obvious maternal pride while Lou captured everything on his phone.
The first act took the stage—a middle-aged man in a Hawaiian shirt who juggled bowling pins with surprising dexterity, his concentration evident in the way his tongue peeked from the corner of his mouth. The pins flew in perfect arcs against the darkening sky, catching the last rays of sunlight.
Mrs. Garcia followed, the same woman who monopolized the shower house every morning with her lengthy bathing rituals. But when she opened her mouth to sing, a pure operatic soprano emerged that made the entire amphitheater fall silent with awe. Her voice soared over the evening air with crystalline clarity, transforming "Ave Maria" into something transcendent.
A group of children performed a synchronized dance routine to a pop song that involved more enthusiasm than coordination, their mismatched steps and infectious giggles winning over the audience. A teenage boy attempted magic tricks with a deck of cards, his fumbled sleight of hand earning sympathetic applause when his tricks failed spectacularly.
A young girl with pigtails attempted baton twirling, her silver baton catching the stage lights as it spun through the air. When she misjudged a particularly ambitious throw, the baton sailed directly into the audience, narrowly missing an elderly gentleman's head and landing in the lap of a startled woman three rows back.
"That's what we call audience participation!" Poppy announced cheerfully, apparently unfazed by the near casualty.
A boy of perhaps ten took the stage with his corgi, demonstrating an impressive array of pet tricks that included rolling over, playing dead, and fetching specific items by name. The dog's obvious intelligence and the boy's patient training techniques drew enthusiastic applause.
The evening's volume reached dangerous levels when a man in camouflage stepped forward with a military bugle, producing notes so piercing and discordant that several audience members covered their ears. His patriotic intentions were admirable, but his execution left much to be desired.
Then Marilyn Hubbard climbed onto the stage.
I'd barely seen her since our confrontation outside the general store, and she looked different under the stage lights—younger somehow, more vulnerable. She carried a battered acoustic guitar and wore faded jeans with a purple blouse I recognized immediately as one that had gone missing from my van.
When she began to sing, the entire amphitheater fell into stunned silence.
Her voice was extraordinary—a clear, pure soprano with folksy undertones that seemed to emerge from some deep well of emotion. The song was a haunting ballad about lost love and second chances, and she performed it with the kind of raw authenticity that couldn't be taught or faked.
Every note was perfect, every phrase delivered with heartbreaking sincerity. Her fingers moved across the guitar strings with practiced skill, creating harmonies that complemented her voice perfectly. The audience sat mesmerized, and I found myself leaning forward like everyone else, drawn into the spell she was weaving.
When the last note faded into the evening air, the silence stretched for several heartbeats before erupting into thunderous applause. Poppy had to wait for the cheering to die down before announcing what everyone already knew—Marilyn had won by a landslide.
The fifty-dollar prize money meant everything to her; I could see it in the way her hands shook as she accepted the bills, the tears that threatened at the corners of her eyes. This wasn't just atalent show victory—it was probably the most money she'd seen in weeks.
As she walked past my row, I reached out and touched her arm gently. She turned, her expression immediately defensive.
"That was beautiful," I said quietly. "You have an incredible gift."
Her guard dropped slightly, surprise flickering across her features.
"I need my mother's things back," I continued, my voice steady but not unkind. "The jewelry, the mementos. You can keep the top, but I want the rest."
Her face hardened instantly, vulnerability replaced by familiar hostility. "Go to hell," she said through gritted teeth, then she stalked away.
I wanted to go after her, shout her down, but strangely, I understood her need to lash out at the world.
I stood there wishing I had her nerve.
September 23, Tuesday
spirit runthe second distillation run to refine the alcohol and collect the hearts.
THE COLLEGEenrollment papers spread across my van's fold-down desk like a roadmap to a life I'd once imagined for myself. The LED strips beneath the cabinets cast warm light across the official letterhead of Scottsdale Community College, illuminating phrases like "federal grant opportunity" and "tuition waiver" that should've filled me with excitement rather than this strange sense of reluctance.
Outside my windows, the campground settled into its evening rhythm—the distant sound of children being called in for baths, the gentle hiss of propane grills being lit for late dinners, the soft murmur of couples sharing quiet conversations on their picnic tables. These sounds had become the soundtrack of my Kentucky life.
I picked up the enrollment form and read through it again, my fingers tracing the boxes I needed to check, the signature line that waited at the bottom like a finish line I wasn't sure I wanted to cross.Associate's Degree in Hospitality Management.The words that had once represented my professional aspirations now felt like artifacts from someone else's dreams.
