Page 4 of Bourbon Girl, part 1 of 6
Yikes, was I boarding a sinking ship?
Marv sighed and steepled his hands. "Now, before we get started, Bernadette, I need to ask you something, and please don't be offended."
"Okay." Where was this going?
"Do you have any problems with alcohol?"
"No, I really don't drink much."
"Define 'not much.'"
I shrugged. "A beer or glass of wine here and there."
"Define 'here and there.'"
He was serious. "Once a week or so."
He looked relieved. "I had to ask because I've had to terminate three tour guides in the past month alone. One showed up hammered before lunch. Another was sneaking swigs from a hip flask between stops. And the incident at Woodford Reserve..." He shuddered. "Let's just say I had to make an apology tour."
"I don't have a drinking problem," I assured him.
"No family history of addiction? No genetic predisposition that might rear its ugly head once you're surrounded by bourbon all day?"
"I promise you, alcohol isn't an issue for me."
He studied my face as if he was trying to read my soul, then nodded rapidly. "Okay, good, I believe you. Had to ask, you understand. This industry attracts people who sometimes enjoy the product a little too much, if you catch my drift."
Looking around the chaotic office, I wondered if the business was hanging on by a thread. Everything screamed "barely solvent"—the peeling floor tiles, the secondhand furniture, the way he'd emphasized the modest pay during our phone interview.
"So here's how we operate," he continued, pulling out a plastic folder. "Three distinct tours. The Lexington experience hits Woodford Reserve, Wild Turkey, Four Roses, and BuffaloTrace. Louisville tour covers Angel's Envy, Old Forester, Michter's, and Peerless. Then we've got the Bardstown run—Willett, Heaven Hill, Barton, and My Old Kentucky Home."
"How many tours a week?"
"One a day, four days a week—Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday."
"And my salary?"
"Seventy-five bucks a day plus you split gratuities with Jett. Tips can be substantial if you know how to work a crowd. Happy customers are generous customers."
I was doing the math in my head. It was enough to cover my campground rent with some left over to eat ramen noodles and buy a little gas. Barely. But I could sell my blood plasma if I had to. I'd done it before. "Who's Jett?"
"Your driver. Solid guy, been with me almost since day one. Knows every shortcut and back road in the state."
"Where should I meet the tour bus?"
"Jet'll come get you in the bus. What's your address?"
I hesitated. "I'm staying at Happy Trails Campground."
His eyebrows shot toward his receding hairline. "Campground? You're living in a tent?"
"I have a van. It's, um, temporary."
"Don't seem safe for a young woman, but what do I know about women? Nothing, apparently."
I squinted at him as he frowned deeper and scribbled something on a scrap of paper. Since Marv looked to be around my mother's age, I felt compelled to ask the question I would have to get used to asking men of a certain age who worked in the bourbon industry. "How long have you been in Kentucky?"
"Four years—no, five. My wife and I moved here from Ohio to start this venture." His expression soured like milk left on the counter. "Ex wife. She ran off with a customer last spring—a dentist from Michigan." He let out a harsh laugh. "Twenty-threeyears together, and she throws it all away for some guy with big choppers and a nice car." To my horror, he teared up.
