Page 23 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
I climbed into my van, started the engine, and left without looking back. The envelope laying on the passenger seat felt ominous, filled with possibilities I wasn't sure I had the strength to pursue.
September 26, Friday
rectificationthe purification and concentration of alcohol through multiple distillations
THE MORNINGcarried the first hint of autumn's approach, a crispness that made the humid Kentucky air almost bearable. But the weather couldn't touch the lead weight that had settled in my chest since yesterday's encounter with Sam Church.
When Jett's bus rumbled to a stop at the campground entrance, I dragged myself from the picnic table where I'd been staring blankly at my cold coffee. The gravel crunched under my sneakers as I approached, each step feeling like I was walking through molasses.
"Morning," Jett said as I climbed aboard, but his greeting died when he caught sight of my face.
I dropped into my usual seat and stared out the window at the passing trees, their leaves just beginning to show touches of gold at the edges. "Sam Church isn't my father," I said flatly. "I don't want to talk about it."
Jett's eyes found mine in the rearview mirror, reflecting understanding and something that might have been sympathy. But he simply nodded and turned his attention back to the road, letting the diesel engine's rumble fill the silence between us. No questions, no platitudes, no attempts to fix what couldn't be fixed. Just acceptance of my need to sit with the disappointment.
At the strip mall office, five customers waited in the morning shade—a family celebrating their college daughter's twenty-first birthday. Their excited chatter about bourbon flights and distillery tours felt like sandpaper against my raw nerves.
Then Teresa materialized beside the bus like a bad omen, her hot pink blouse clashing violently with her orange clipboard. The sight of her made my jaw clench.
"Good morning, everyone!" she trilled as she climbed aboard, positioning herself in the front seat like a judge preparing to deliver a verdict.
I stood and reached for the microphone, steeling myself for another day of public humiliation. "Welcome to Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours. I'm Bernadette, and today we'll explore—"
"Louder!" Teresa's voice cut through the bus like a rusty blade. "And for heaven's sake, stand up straight! You look like a question mark!"
Something inside me snapped. The weeks of constant criticism, the failed search for my father, the weight of living in limbo—it all crystallized into white-hot rage that rose from my toes to the top of my head.
"Teresa," I said, my voice deadly calm as I turned to face her. "I'm going to need you to kindly keep your face shut and let me do my job."
The bus went silent except for the engine's idle. Teresa's mouth dropped open and she clutched her orange clipboard tighter. Behind me, I could hear Jett make a sound that might have been a stifled laugh.
"Now," I continued, turning back to the family with a smile that felt genuine for the first time in weeks, "as I was saying, welcome to bourbon country. Today you're going to discover why Kentucky's liquid heritage has captivated the world for over two centuries."
The words flowed like water after a broken dam. I told stories about pioneering distillers and limestone-filtered springs, about the alchemy of grain and charred oak, about the patience required to create something truly exceptional. My voice carriedpassion I hadn't known was still there, and the family hung on every word.
Teresa sat frozen in her seat, her face cycling through shades of red that would have been comical if I'd been in a mood to appreciate it.
When we returned to the office that evening, the tip jar overflowed with bills and the family pressed business cards into my hand, promising to recommend our tours to everyone they knew.
"Bernadette, that was absolutely wonderful," the mother gushed as they gathered their things. "You made the whole experience come alive for us."
After the customers departed, Teresa rose from her seat like a storm cloud preparing to unleash lightning. Her eyes glittered with fury as she stalked toward me.
"Am I fired?" I asked, meeting her glare with steady composure.
She studied my face for a long moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Not yet," she chirped, then climbed off the bus with jerky, agitated movements.
Jett waited until she disappeared into the office before turning to me, his eyes dancing with barely contained amusement. "Feel better?"
I considered the question, taking inventory of my emotional state. The crushing disappointment about Sam Church still sat heavy in my chest, but something else had shifted too. I'd stood up for myself instead of absorbing someone else's criticism like a sponge.
"You know what?" I said, surprised by the realization. "I actually do feel a little better."
September 27, Saturday
heads cutthe point in distillation where heads are separated from hearts
THE BUSdoor wheezed shut behind our last customer of the day—a group of retirees from Indiana who'd tipped generously and promised to write glowing online reviews. As their rental van pulled away from the strip mall parking lot, I felt the familiar Saturday evening emptiness settle around me.
