Page 24 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
"What happened after graduation?"
"I came back to the family farm. Instead of continuing with cattle like my dad and brothers, I started converting pasture into wildflower plots and investing in more hives." He chuckled, shaking his head. "My family thought I'd lost my mind. Dad kept asking when I was going to get a 'real job.'"
"But they came around?"
"After my honey won Best in Show at the Kentucky State Fair, suddenly everyone was a lot more supportive." He gestured toward the blue ribbon on the cork board. "That victory got the attention of local distilleries who started buying my honey for limited-run bourbon infusions and specialty cocktails. Now I have sixty hives across three leased plots."
The scope of his operation impressed me far more than I'd expected. This wasn't some hobby that had gotten out of hand—it was a legitimate agricultural business built on expertise and careful planning.
"That's amazing. You've basically created your own niche."
"It's good work," he said simply, but I could hear the pride in his voice.
Through the window, a particularly active cluster of bees swarmed around one of the nearer hives, and I involuntarily shuddered.
Jett caught the movement and laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Still terrified of my girls?"
"Girls?"
"The vast majority of bees in a hive are female."
"Oh. And yes, I'm still terrified. But I'm impressed by what you've accomplished, even if I never want to get within fifty yards of those hives."
"Fair enough." He set down his glass and picked up another directory. "Ready to get back to work? We've still got a lot of names to check."
As we bent over the documents again, I found myself stealing glances at his profile, seeing him in an entirely new light.
August 29, Friday
fermentation capthe foam and solids that form on top of actively fermenting mash
THE TOURbus hummed with the sound of satisfied customers as we pulled into Buffalo Trace's visitor parking lot, but I barely registered their excited chatter about the upcoming tasting. My stomach churned with a mixture of nervous energy and the lingering sting of Teresa's latest round of corrections, delivered with her usual theatrical dismay throughout the morning's journey.
"Remember to project your voice, Bernadette," Teresa had announced loudly enough for the entire bus to hear. "And please, try to smile with your eyes, not just your mouth. Customers can tell when you're just going through the motions."
I'd gritted my teeth and nodded, forcing myself to maintain professional composure while inwardly seething. The group of wine enthusiasts from Chicago had looked increasingly uncomfortable with each public critique, their initial excitement dampening as they witnessed my systematic humiliation.
Now, as our customers filed off the bus toward Buffalo Trace's iconic entrance, I saw my opportunity. "I'll catch up with everyone in a few minutes," I called to the group. "Just need to check on something at the front desk."
The visitor center's reception area buzzed with activity, tourists collecting maps and asking questions about tour times. I approached the main desk where a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a Buffalo Trace polo shirt looked up expectantly.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"I hope so," I said, my pulse quickening as I launched into the lie I'd rehearsed during the bus ride. "I'm trying to reach an old friend who works here—Rebecca Church? We lost touch years ago, and I happened to be in the area."
The receptionist's expression remained friendly as she consulted what appeared to be an internal directory on her computer screen. "Oh yes, Rebecca's in accounting. Let me patch you through to her extension."
My heart hammered against my ribs as the phone rang once, twice, then a pleasant voice answered: "Rebecca Church speaking."
"Hi, Rebecca. I'm so sorry to bother you at work." The words tumbled out in a nervous rush. "My name is Bernadette Waters, and I'm trying to find someone who knew my mother about thirty years ago. She was friends with a man named Church who worked in the bourbon industry, and I'm hoping to track him down to pass along a keepsake."
There was a pause, and I could hear the soft click of computer keys in the background. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that? You're looking for someone with the last name Church?"
"Yes, someone my mother knew in the early nineties. I know it's a long shot, but I thought maybe you might be related—"
"Church is my married name," the woman interrupted gently. "My husband's family are all in the medical field—doctors and nurses, mostly. I can't think of anyone on his side who's ever worked in bourbon."
My shoulders sagged. "I see. Well, thank you for taking the time—"
