Page 26 of Bourbon Girl: part 4 of 6
I hurried to my van and quickly changed into my warmest clothes—dark jeans, a black sweatshirt, and my heaviest jacket. The October evening carried a genuine chill that promised the first frost wasn't far away. I was waiting by the campground entrance when Jett's pickup truck rolled up.
When he climbed out of the driver's seat, I burst into laughter. He was wearing full zombie makeup—his face painteda sickly green with dark circles around his eyes, fake blood dripping from the corners of his mouth, and what looked like chunks of peeling skin hanging from his cheeks.
"What on earth is going on?" I asked, still giggling at the sight of him looking so seriously undead.
"We're going to the Thriller parade," he announced with obvious pride in his transformation. "But we have to look the part. Can't have civilians wandering around with the walking dead."
He popped open the tailgate of his truck and pulled out what looked like a tackle box, but when he opened it, I saw it was filled with theatrical makeup—various shades of face paint, tubes of school glue, fake blood, and brushes of different sizes.
"You came prepared," I said, impressed by his thoroughness.
"I take my zombie commitments seriously," he replied, patting the tailgate. "Hop up here and let me work my magic."
I sat on the edge of the truck bed while Jett positioned himself between my knees, the tackle box of supplies spread out beside us. The intimacy of the setup—his proximity, the gentle way he tilted my chin to study my face in the fading light—made my pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with Halloween excitement.
"Hold still," he murmured, dabbing gray paint across my cheeks with a makeup sponge. His touch was gentle but confident, and when his fingers brushed my skin to blend the colors, I felt attraction stir deep in my stomach.
He worked with surprising skill, adding layers of sickly yellow and green to create the perfect pallor of the undead. When he used the school glue to create the illusion of peeling skin, his fingertips traced along my jawline with a tenderness that made my breath catch.
"Close your eyes," he said softly, and I obeyed, hyperaware of his warmth as he leaned closer to work around my eye sockets. Icould smell his cologne beneath the scent of theatrical makeup, could feel his breath against my cheek as he concentrated on his artistry.
The moment stretched between us, charged with awareness. When I opened my eyes, his face was inches from mine, his dark eyes searching my expression with intensity.
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then Jett pulled back abruptly, clearing his throat and stepping away to examine his handiwork.
"Perfect," he declared, but his voice carried a slight roughness. "You're officially a zombie masterpiece."
I used his truck's side mirror to examine my reflection and gasped with delight. He'd transformed me into something genuinely frightening—my skin looked like it was literally falling off, dark veins showed through translucent patches, and strategic smears of fake blood completed the effect.
"This is incredible!" I said, touching my face gingerly. "Where did you learn to do this?"
"YouTube University," he admitted with a grin. "I may have gotten a little obsessed with special effects makeup last Halloween."
We drove to downtown Lexington, where the streets were already filling with thousands of people dressed as zombies. The annual Thriller parade was a massive recreation of Michael Jackson's famous music video, complete with choreographed dancing and an army of the undead shuffling through the city streets.
It was absolutely a blast. We joined the horde of zombies practicing the iconic dance moves, surrounded by people of all ages who'd embraced the absurdity with complete commitment. Children in miniature zombie costumes danced alongside grandparents with gray-painted hair, while teenagers competed to see who could perfect the most authentic zombie shuffle.
When the music started and thousands of zombies began moving in synchronized choreography, a rush of happiness filled my chest. This was community in its most spontaneous form—strangers united by shared silliness, moving together to music that had defined a generation.
I couldn't help but compare this experience to the previous night's elegant affair at Keeneland. Both events had their charms, but standing there covered in zombie makeup, laughing until my sides ached while surrounded by thousands of people celebrating the joy of music, I knew which man—er, I meanevent—was more fun.
October 27, Monday
barrel seasoningThe process of aging staves outdoors before cooperage to improve flavor extraction
THE PUMPKINpatch stretched out before us like an orange carpet beneath the bottle-blue October sky. It was almost dusk, and the fall landscape was stunningly beautiful—maple trees blazed crimson against the darkening horizon while oak trees displayed every shade from bronze to burnt gold. The air carried the earthy scent of autumn and the distant smoke of leaf fires that marked the season's progression toward winter.
Poppy was in her element, racing between the pumpkin rows with the determination of a treasure hunter seeking buried gold. Her red curls bounced with each step as she inspected potential candidates with the seriousness of a museum curator.
"This one's too bumpy," she announced, moving on from a perfectly respectable medium-sized pumpkin. "And this one's got a weird stem. Oh! What about this one? No, wait—it's got a soft spot."
Tracy and Lou followed at a more leisurely pace, carrying canvas bags and wearing the patient expressions of parents who'd learned to appreciate their daughter's perfectionist tendencies. Lou had his camera out, capturing Poppy's quest for posterity, while Tracy pointed out particularly scenic views of the surrounding countryside.
Clinton walked beside me as we meandered through the patch, his hands clasped behind his back in the relaxed posture of someone enjoying a peaceful evening. He wore a wool sweater and jeans, looking every inch the sophisticated unclewho'd gladly spend his evening indulging his niece's pumpkin obsession.
"How's the bourbon industry treating you?" he asked conversationally, stepping around a particularly large pumpkin that blocked our path. "Still finding it fascinating and overwhelming?"
"Both, definitely," I said, breathing in the crisp air that carried hints of woodsmoke. "Every day I learn something new, usually something that makes me realize how much I still don't know."
