Page 27 of Bourbon Girl: part 4 of 6
"That's the mark of a true student," Clinton said with approval. "And how's your bartender boyfriend? Dylan, wasn't it?"
I felt heat rise in my cheeks despite the cool evening air. "Dylan isn't my boyfriend, exactly. We're... we're figuring things out."
Clinton's eyebrows rose slightly, and in his expression shifted to a more serious register. "Good," he said quietly. "My advice? Tread softly there."
The unexpected warning in his tone made me turn to look at him more closely. "What do you mean?"
He was quiet for a moment, watching Poppy as she examined a pumpkin that was nearly as tall as she was. When he spoke again, his voice carried the careful neutrality of someone choosing their words deliberately.
"I've heard rumors over the years," he said finally. "About Jessica and her father. Apparently they didn't get along toward the end of his life. There were a lot of nasty insinuations when he died suddenly and left the distillery to her instead of her older brother."
The words hit me like cold water. I'd never heard anything about family discord at Goldenrod, certainly nothing about Jessica's inheritance being controversial. "That has nothing todo with Dylan," I said, though even as I spoke, I wasn't entirely sure why Clinton was sharing this information.
"No, you're right," Clinton agreed. "But Dylan's being fast-tracked to take over the distillery someday, and that's a lot of pressure at a time when the bourbon business is contracting. Small family operations are struggling to compete with the corporate giants."
He paused to help Poppy lift a particularly heavy pumpkin, testing its weight before she shook her head and moved on to the next candidate.
"Bourbon can be a ruthless business," Clinton continued, his voice taking on the tone of someone who'd seen the industry's darker side. "Doubly so when family is involved. Money has a way of bringing out the worst in people, especially when there are generations of legacy and tradition at stake."
A chill whispered over my shoulders. "You're saying Dylan's under pressure to inherit a struggling business?"
"I'm saying that legacy distilleries aren't the fairy tale operations they appear to be from the outside. There's a reason so many of them have been bought out by larger companies in recent years." Clinton's expression grew thoughtful as he watched the setting sun paint the sky in shades of orange that matched the pumpkins surrounding us. "The bourbon boom has been good for tourism and brand recognition, but it's also created intense competition for market share. Family businesses that survived Prohibition and the lean years of the seventies are finding themselves squeezed by corporate efficiency and marketing budgets they can't match."
Before I could ask more questions about what exactly he was implying about Goldenrod's financial situation, Poppy's voice rang out across the patch with triumphant excitement.
"Uncle Clinton! Come inspect this one! I think it might be perfect!"
Clinton's serious expression immediately transformed into indulgent affection as he jogged toward his niece, leaving me standing among the pumpkins with my mind spinning. His warnings about the bourbon industry's ruthless nature seemed to echo in the crisp evening air, mixing uneasily with my memories of the elegant Keeneland party and the sophisticated world Dylan had introduced me to.
Was Goldenrod really struggling financially? Was Dylan's inheritance more burden than blessing? And why had Clinton felt compelled to warn me about treading softly?
As I watched him kneel beside Poppy to examine her latest discovery—a perfectly round, bright orange pumpkin with an ideal stem—I couldn't shake the feeling that there were depths to Kentucky's bourbon industry that my tour guide training had never prepared me to navigate. The beautiful fall landscape suddenly felt touched with shadows that had nothing to do with the approaching night.
October 28, Tuesday
barrel storage rotationthe practice of moving barrels between warehouse positions to manage aging conditions
THREE PUMPKINSsat on my picnic table like orange sentinels in the afternoon sun, their bright surfaces still dusty from yesterday's adventure at the patch. Poppy had arrived at my campsite shortly after lunch, practically vibrating with excitement about our planned carving session and carrying a canvas bag filled with tools she'd borrowed from her father.
"I've been thinking about this all morning," she announced, dumping the contents of the bag onto the table with characteristic enthusiasm. "I want to make mine look like a cat—you know, with whiskers and pointed ears."
I examined the pumpkin I'd selected, a perfectly round specimen with a sturdy stem that would make an ideal handle for the top. "Classic jack-o-lantern for me," I said, tracing triangular shapes in the air where the eyes would go.
We spread old newspapers across the table's surface and set to work with the focused concentration of serious artists. Poppy approached her cat design with the precision of someone who'd clearly given the project considerable thought, carefully sketching whisker lines with a pencil before making her first cut.
"The secret," she informed me as she sawed through the orange flesh with a small serrated knife, "is to make the ears from the pieces you remove from the face. That way everything matches perfectly."
I watched her work with admiration. Her small fingers moved with surprising dexterity as she carved delicate features that really did resemble a feline face.
My own approach was more straightforward—traditional triangular eyes, a smaller triangle for the nose, and a wide grinning mouth that would look appropriately spooky when illuminated. The ritual of pumpkin carving brought back memories of childhood Halloweens with my mother, back when she'd had the energy for such projects.
We were just adding the finishing touches when Marilyn walked past on her way to the shower house, a towel draped over one arm and a defensive posture that seemed to be her permanent setting. She glanced toward our table, and I caught a flash of interest in her dark eyes before she quickly looked away.
"Hey Marilyn!" I called out impulsively. "We've got an extra pumpkin if you want to join us."
She stopped walking and turned, her expression immediately shifting to practiced indifference. "Carving pumpkins is for little kids," she said with a scoff, though I noticed she'd moved closer to our table rather than continuing toward the showers.
Poppy's head shot up from her carving with indignant protest. "No it isn't! It's art! And besides, Halloween is for everyone, not just little kids."
