Page 16 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
Ginger's side door hung slightly ajar—not wide open, but enough to reveal that someone had been inside. My pulse spiked with alarm as I quickened my pace, noting the way the door's latch mechanism looked slightly bent, as if it had been forced.
"No, no, no," I whispered, dropping my book as I yanked the door fully open.
The interior of my carefully organized van looked like it had been hit by a tornado. Clothes were scattered across the floor, cabinet doors hung open, and my personal belongings lay strewn about with the careless abandon of someone searching for quick treasures.
The peanut butter jar where I kept my laundry quarters sat empty on its side, the loose change that represented weeks of careful saving completely gone. My hands shook as I inventoried the damage—small electronics missing, the emergency cash I'd hidden in a book, even some of the cheap jewelry I'd bought at thrift stores.
But it was the violation of my mother's memory box that broke something inside me.
The wooden case lay overturned, its contents scattered like fallen leaves. The miniature salt and pepper shakers were gone, along with the amber shot glass and several of the rings I'd been saving as the only tangible connections to her past. They were worth nothing to someone else, but to me they were everything.
I sank onto the van's narrow bed and let the tears come—ugly, choking sobs that seemed to tear themselves from some raw place in my chest.
Through my tears, I found myself thinking about Marilyn—her defensive hostility, the way she'd snapped at me yesterday when I'd tried to warn her about Teddy. She was young, clearly struggling financially, living in a beat-up tent with few possessions of her own.
The thought made me feel sick with guilt and suspicion in equal measure. What if my well-intentioned interference had made her angry enough to lash out?
But even as the suspicion formed, I knew I couldn't be certain. The campground had been dealing with petty thefts for weeks. It could've been anyone—another camper, someone passing through, even Teddy himself as some kind of twisted retaliation for yesterday's interrupted conversation.
The rain that had threatened all afternoon finally began in earnest, drumming against Ginger's metal roof. I was homeless, fatherless, possibly soon-to-be jobless, and now robbed of even the small mementos that connected me to the only family I'd ever known.
September 17, Wednesday
condenserthe part of the still where alcohol vapor is cooled and condensed back into liquid
THE BUShummed with animated conversation as our group of nine writers settled into their seats, their enthusiasm infectious despite the early hour. They clutched coffee cups like lifelines and spoke in the rapid-fire cadence of people who made their living with words, their laughter punctuating discussions about character development and plot structure with the kind of intellectual energy I rarely encountered on bourbon tours.
"I swear, bourbon is the unofficial fuel of the writing profession," announced Emily, a mystery novelist from Nashville. "Show me a writer who doesn't drink, and I'll show you someone suffering from permanent writer's block."
Her companions erupted in agreement, sharing anecdotes about literary cocktail parties and the famous authors who'd done their best work with a glass of whiskey at their elbow. Their camaraderie reminded me of everything I'd loved about my brief college experience—the joy of being surrounded by people who found ideas genuinely exciting.
"Bourbon has such a rich relationship with American literature," I said, settling into the rhythm of engagement that came naturally with this particular audience. "From Mark Twain to Hunter S. Thompson, writers have been celebrating Kentucky whiskey for generations."
The literary references landed perfectly, sparking discussions about bourbon's role in Southern Gothic literature and the way alcohol functioned as both character motivation and symbolic device in contemporary fiction. For the first timein weeks, I felt like I was truly connecting with my customers rather than simply performing for them.
At each distillery, the writers approached tastings with the same precision they'd use to dissect metaphorical imagery. Their genuine curiosity about the craft behind the product made my job feel meaningful rather than mechanical.
The atmosphere remained buoyant as we pulled into Goldenrod's parking lot. My pulse quickened with anticipation of seeing Dylan. He was back in classes, so our texting had slowed down. I felt like the connection we had was slipping away.
Dylan looked up from behind the tasting room bar as our group entered, and his face brightened with the kind of pleasure that made my chest flutter. He moved through the routine of greeting our tour with professional courtesy, but his eyes kept finding mine.
While the writers engaged with their guided tasting, Dylan appeared beside me near the historical displays, close enough that I could smell his intoxicating cologne.
"Friday night," he said without preamble. "I was thinking maybe I could come to your place? We could have some privacy, maybe cook dinner together? I'll bring everything."
The suggestion hit me like ice water. Dylan wanted to visit my home—my home that consisted of a rust-spotted van with a leaky ceiling and a fold-down bed. The image of him discovering my living situation made my stomach clench with mortification.
"I have plans," I blurted out, the lie tumbling from my lips with desperate speed. "All weekend, actually. Previous commitments."
Dylan's expression shifted to something between disappointment and confusion. "Oh. Okay. Maybe next weekend then?"
"Maybe," I managed, my voice tight with the effort of maintaining casual indifference while panic coursed through my veins.
"Dylan!" Portia's voice cut through our conversation like a blade, her perfectly manicured presence materializing beside us with predatory timing.
"Mother wants to go over the quarterly inventory reports," she announced, her gaze sliding over me with the dismissive assessment of someone encountering an insignificant obstacle. "The accountants are waiting in the office."
Dylan's jaw tightened with obvious frustration. "Can't it wait thirty minutes?"
