Page 9 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
Without warning, Jett reached out and squeezed my hand, his calloused fingers warm and strong around mine.
The simple gesture broke something loose inside me, and I felt tears threatening for the second time in as many minutes. But these weren't tears of frustration or disappointment—they were tears of gratitude.
September 9, Tuesday
white dogthe clear, unaged spirit that comes out of the still
THE PICNICtable provided a welcome patch of shade beneath an oak tree that dominated my campsite, its leaves just beginning to hint at autumn's approach with edges touched by gold. I'd spread my book across the weathered wood surface—Bourbon's Bold Women: Pioneers in a Man's World—and was absorbed in reading about Marianne Barnes, the first female master distiller in Kentucky, when Poppy's familiar voice cut through the afternoon quiet.
"Package for you!" she announced, bounding toward me with her characteristic exuberance, red curls bouncing with each step. A manila envelope clutched against her chest bore the return address that made my stomach clench with unexpected homesickness. "It's from Arizona!"
The return address belonged to my former landlord, a perpetually scowling man named Ed Kowalski who'd viewed tenant requests with the enthusiasm of someone being asked to donate organs.
Poppy settled beside me on the bench, her freckled face bright with curiosity. "What do you think it is?"
"I don't know."
I tore open the envelope carefully, revealing a bundle of mail secured with a rubber band and a handwritten note on lined notebook paper. Ed's cramped handwriting was surprisingly legible:
Bernadette—This came after you left. Figured you might want it. Also, I got a south-facing one-bedroom that just opened up. If you want to come back, I'll hold it for you untilOctober and throw in that bedroom set I bought from your mother when you moved in the hospital bed. Just let me know. —Ed
The unexpected kindness in his words made my throat thicken. Ed Kowalski, who'd never shown me anything but professional indifference, had not only forwarded my mail at his own expense but was offering me furnished housing and what amounted to a homecoming gift.
"Good news?" Poppy asked, noting my expression.
"Maybe," I managed, setting the note aside to examine the mail.
Most of it was exactly what I'd expected—credit card offers addressed to my dead mother, medical bills from her final hospitalization, advertisements for services I'd never need. But scattered among the commercial debris were envelopes that made my chest ache with their genuine humanity.
A sympathy card from Mrs. Tarvin, the elderly woman who'd lived in the apartment below us and always complained about noise. Her spidery handwriting filled the card's interior:Your mother was a good woman who loved you very much. I heard her talking about you to her friends and she was so proud.
Another from a hospice volunteer named Margaret who'd spent time with my mother during her final weeks:Ginger often spoke about her beautiful daughter who took such good care of her. She was grateful for your love and sacrifice.
The kind words reopened wounds I'd thought were beginning to scab over, and I blinked rapidly to keep tears from falling onto the cards. Poppy noticed my distress and reached over to pat my arm with surprising gentleness.
At the bottom of the pile, one envelope made me gasp with genuine surprise. The return address bore the logo of Scottsdale Community College, where I'd fallen one semester short ofcompleting my Associate's degree in Hospitality Management when my mother's diagnosis had derailed everything.
Inside was a letter that made me read it twice to believe what I was seeing:
Dear Ms. Waters,
Due to a federal grant our institution recently received to assist students who left college due to family emergencies, we are pleased to inform you that you are eligible to complete your remaining coursework at no charge. This opportunity includes tuition, books, and online learning resources.
You have until September 30th to return the enclosed enrollment forms if you wish to participate in this program.
I stared at the paperwork, my hands trembling as the implications sank in. A free college degree. A chance to finish what I'd started, to have actual qualifications instead of just enthusiasm and a willingness to learn on the job.
Six months ago, this letter would have felt like a miracle, a golden ticket back to the life I'd planned before cancer stole my mother and left me adrift.
Now, sitting beneath a Kentucky oak with Poppy chattering beside me and the scent of fresh-cut grass filling my nose, the prospect of returning to Arizona felt less like liberation and more like... retreat.
"What's that one about?" Poppy asked, noting my intense focus on the college letter.
"A chance to go back to school," I said slowly. "Back in Arizona."
"Are you going to do it?"
I looked around at the campground that had become home, at the rolling hills visible beyond the tree line, at this girl who'd become like a little sister to me. Sam Church's DNA testloomed somewhere in my future, along with whatever answers or disappointments it might bring.
