I slipped into what I hoped was a passable Irish accent, drawing on half-remembered movies and the occasional Celtic music festival my mother had dragged me to in Arizona. The words felt strange on my tongue, but there was something liberating about hiding behind a character.
"Welcome aboard this fine vessel, me hearties," I continued, gesturing broadly as our morning customers—a group of retirees from Ohio—filed onto the bus with bemused expressions. "I be Bernadette O'Malley, and I'll be yer guide through the grand adventure of Kentucky's liquid treasures."
The customers looked delighted rather than confused, immediately leaning forward with interest. One elderly gentleman actually applauded.
"Now then," I said, warming to the performance, "before we set sail on our journey through bourbon country, we must attend to the sacred ritual of safety instructions. And what better way than with a proper tavern song?"
Teresa's smile faltered slightly as I caught Jett's eye in the mirror. He was grinning broadly, and I could see him trying not to laugh.
"Mr. Jett, if ye would be so kind as to join me in our traditional safety ballad?"
"My pleasure, Miss O'Malley," Jett replied, playing along with obvious enjoyment.
Together, we launched into an improvised version of the safety rules set to the tune of "Happy Birthday," complete with exaggerated gestures and harmonized verses about seatbelts and emergency exits. I threw myself into the performance with gusto, adding flourishes about "keepin' yer limbs inside the carriage" and "respectin' the sacred bourbon spirits we'll be tastin'."
The Ohio retirees were absolutely enchanted. They clapped along, laughed at our theatrical pronunciations, and by the end of our musical safety presentation, they were completely won over. If Teresa had hoped to embarrass me, her plan was backfiring spectacularly.
Throughout the day, I maintained the character with increasing confidence. I regaled our customers with tales of frontier life, spoke of bourbon as "liquid gold blessed by the ancient spirits of Kentucky," and described each distillery as if it were a mystical temple dedicated to the craft of alchemy.
The customers were eating it up. They asked me about my "family back in the old country," complimented my "authentic costume," and by midday, the tip jar was already fuller than it usually was by tour's end. Several of them had taken photos with me, posing as if they were at a Renaissance festival.
During our lunch break, Jett caught my eye and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up. "Brilliant," he mouthed, and I felt a surge of satisfaction that had nothing to do with Teresa's approval.
"Well," Teresa said tightly as we prepared for our afternoon stops, "the customers certainly seem... entertained."
"Aye, they do indeed," I replied, maintaining character even in conversation with her. "Sometimes ye just have to give the people what they're truly wantin', wouldn't ye agree?"
By the end of the day, our Ohio retirees were raving about their "most memorable bourbon tour ever," and the tip jar was heavier than it had been in weeks. Teresa's clipboard had remained mostly unused after the first hour, her attempts at criticism rendered pointless by the customers' obvious enjoyment.
As we unloaded at the strip mall office, my cheeks ached from smiling in character all day. Teresa might have intended to make me look foolish, but instead she'd accidentally given me the freedom to be as theatrical and engaging as I wanted.
With a shock, I realized I was better and more interesting when I was someone else.
October 25, Saturday
devil's cutthe portion of bourbon absorbed into the wood of the barrel
I ARRIVEDbreathlessly at the Keeneland clubhouse, having driven faster than I should have through the roads that led to Kentucky's most prestigious racetrack. The parking lot was filled with luxury cars that made my van look like it had wandered in from a different century, but I was too excited to feel self-conscious about the contrast.
It was my first time at Keeneland, and the moment I stepped out of my van, I was swept up in the history and elegance of the place. The limestone buildings seemed to glow in the evening light, their architecture speaking of old money and Kentucky tradition. Even the air felt different here—it literally smelled like money, a mixture of expensive cologne, leather, and the lingering scent of thoroughbred horses that had made this track legendary.
The clubhouse rose before me like a temple to equestrian excellence, its columns and terraces suggesting generations of Kentucky Derby winners and million-dollar bloodlines. I knew from Dylan that famous racehorses had run on this very track, many of them on their way to glory at Churchill Downs in Louisville. The weight of that history made my pulse quicken with anticipation.
Dylan waited by the main entrance, looking devastatingly handsome in a black suit and crisp white shirt, with a gold-colored tie that emphasized his green eyes. When he spotted me approaching, his face lit up.
"You made it," he said, moving toward me. "You look absolutely lovely."
I was wearing my mother's vintage black dress again, the one that had served me so well at the Goldenrod party. The silk caught the evening light beautifully, and the modest neckline provided the perfect backdrop for her pendant. I'd taken extra care with my hair and makeup, determined to look like I belonged in this rarefied atmosphere.
"Thank you," I said, accepting a kiss. "This place is incredible. I can practically feel the history in the air."
"Wait until you see inside," Dylan said, offering his arm. "The clubhouse has been hosting parties like this for decades. You're about to experience true Kentucky aristocracy."
The interior took my breath away. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over polished wood paneling and oil paintings of legendary horses. A jazz quartet played near the windows that overlooked the track, their music mixing with the sophisticated chatter of guests who moved with the confidence of people born to this level of privilege. Food and bourbon flowed freely from elegantly appointed stations, everything presented with the kind of understated luxury that whispered rather than shouted its quality.
I was absolutely dazzled by the gathering and thrilled to be there, feeling like I'd stepped into a world that existed only in movies and novels.
Dylan introduced me to several of his acquaintances—other young professionals from Louisville's bourbon and horse racing circles, all of whom carried themselves with the easy assurance that came from family money and social connections. I met a couple of his classmates from college, including a charming guy named Preston who worked for a racing syndicate.