Page 21 of Bourbon Girl, part 1 of 6
"Living in your van at the campground—is it safe? I mean, for a woman alone?"
The unexpected concern in his voice surprised me. "I've never felt threatened. There have been some small thefts lately, but the couple who run the place seem to be on top of it.
"But you're essentially homeless."
The word hit me like a slap. My cheeks burned and my good mood evaporated. "I have a home. It just happens to have wheels."
"Come on, Bernadette. Living in a van isn't a choice, it's desperation."
I leaned closer to murmur, "Don't you dare pity me."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are. You're looking at me like I'm some tragic case that wandered in from the streets." I could feel the retirement group's attention shifting toward our conversation and lowered my voice. "This is temporary. A means to an end."
"What end?"
"That's my business."
His mouth tightened, but he relented with a nod.
July 19, Saturday
unfermentable sugarsugars that remain in the mash and affect body and sweetness
I'D BEENlooking forward to the day's unusual tour that few people signed up for—the Ghost Stories tour—until I met the group of six women who had shown up for the early evening tour.
They all seemed nice enough, and eager enough. But when I caught sight of the hats and t-shirts heralding "Over the Hill!" and "50 Years of Fabulous!" the bottom fell out of my stomach.
My mother had died one day shy of her fiftieth birthday. Even though we'd both known she was going to die, we'd made plans to celebrate by pooling our cash and going to the nicest restaurant we could afford. And a big ice cream cake. When time came, going to a restaurant was out of the question, but I'd bought a big ice cream cake and a blue "50" candle to put on top.
We hadn't gotten to celebrate. And I remembered coming home from the hospital feeling so alone and finding that big ice cream cake in the fridge, mocking me.
I'd thrown it out.
"Our friend Candy just turned 50!" one the woman crowed.
I forced a smile. "Congratulations. That's... that's wonderful. Really."
"We decided to do something different this year instead of the usual dinner," another friend explained. "Candy's always been obsessed with ghost stories, so when we saw your haunted tours online—"
"We thought this is perfect!" Candy interrupted. "I want to hear about every ghost, every legend."
The women continued to chat with animated energy, exchanging barbs as only good friends could. I settled in a seat on the bus and tried to shake the sudden gloom. My mother had lived a sad life filled with rejection and mental illness. And she'd died a sad death filled with pain. She didn't have a posse of friends around her to say goodbye.
No one missed her but me.
From the driver's seat, Jett cleared his throat. "Maybe now would be a good time to tell a story."
I blinked. "Right. Of course." I launched into one of the stories I'd learned for the tour, but it wasn't my finest delivery. But I stretched it out until we made the first stop at a distillery with a haunted legacy.
I pointed to an aged brick structure. "This building dates back to 1847," I began, my voice sounding hollow in my own ears. "The original owner was a sea captain named—" I paused, my rehearsed words suddenly feeling foreign on my tongue. The silence stretched on.
"A sea captain?" Sarah prompted eagerly.
I gave myself a mental shake. "Yes, he... he sailed merchant vessels to the Caribbean. His wife died young, and he became obsessed with contacting her spirit through séances held in the upper floors."
The women murmured appreciatively, but my delivery felt mechanical, lifeless. I kept seeing my mother's face, wan and tired in those final hospital days.Forty-nine years, eleven months, thirty days.So close to this milestone that Candy wore like a celebration crown. It just didn't seem fair.
