Page 28 of Bourbon Girl: part 4 of 6
"Halloween is stupid," Marilyn replied, but her tone lacked real conviction. "It's just an excuse for people to waste money on decorations they'll throw away in a week."
"That's not true!" Poppy shot back, her freckled face flushing with the passion of someone whose favorite holiday had been insulted. "Halloween is about creativity and imagination and making something beautiful out of ordinary things."
"Whatever," Marilyn said, rolling her eyes with theatrical disdain. "I've got better things to do."
I watched the exchange with growing understanding of the dynamics at play. Marilyn wanted to join us—I could see it in the way she lingered, the way her eyes kept drifting to our half-carved pumpkins—but she'd backed herself into a corner with her initial dismissal.
"No problem," I said with deliberate casualness, returning to my carving. "Marilyn probably doesn't know how to carve pumpkins anyway. It's harder than it looks."
The challenge hung in the air between us, and I saw Marilyn's jaw tighten. For a moment I thought she might take the bait.
Instead, she flounced away with exaggerated indifference, her flip-flops slapping against the gravel path as she headed toward the shower house.
"She wanted to do it," Poppy observed quietly, watching Marilyn's retreating figure. "I could tell."
"Yeah," I agreed. "But sometimes people get trapped by their own attitudes."
We returned to our carving with renewed focus, and within another hour we'd completed our masterpieces. Poppy's cat pumpkin was genuinely impressive, with delicate whiskers carved from removed pieces and pointed ears that gave it a mischievous feline expression. My traditional jack-o-lantern grinned up at us with satisfying symmetry.
"These are perfect!" Poppy announced, already gathering two of the pumpkins to carry back to her family's campsite. "Mom's going to love them. Dad will probably want to take about a hundred pictures."
I helped her carry the pumpkins to the edge of my campsite, then waved goodbye as she skipped down the path toward her family's section of the campground. My own jack-o-lantern sat alone on the picnic table, its carved grin catching the late afternoon sunlight.
I decided to check on a load of laundry I'd left in the washhouse, figuring I'd light a candle in the pumpkin when I returned to create the full Halloween effect. The walk to the laundry facility took about ten minutes, and I spent another few minutes transferring clothes from washer to dryer and feeding quarters into the machine.
When I returned to my campsite, my stomach dropped.
My jack-o-lantern lay in orange pieces scattered across the gravel beside the picnic table, its cheerful grin transformed into jagged fragments that had been deliberately smashed.
October 29, Wednesday
wood extractivesflavor compounds pulled from the oak, such as vanillin and tannins
THE TOURbus pulled into Goldenrod's parking lot as the October afternoon sun cast long shadows across the weathered brick buildings. My group of bourbon enthusiasts from Tennessee chatted excitedly about their final tasting of the day, their voices carrying the cheerful fatigue of people who'd been thoroughly educated about Kentucky's liquid heritage.
"Welcome to our last stop of the day," I announced as we approached the entrance, adjusting my barmaid costume's leather corset. "Goldenrod Distillery has been family-owned since 1934, and today you'll experience some of their most celebrated small-batch expressions."
The group dispersed toward the tasting room with the eager anticipation of people who'd been saving the best for last, leaving me to gather my notes and prepare for what had become the highlight of each visit to Goldenrod—seeing Dylan behind the bar, his face lighting up when our eyes met across the crowded room.
Sure enough, as I pushed through the heavy wooden doors, Dylan looked up from polishing glasses and his expression immediately transformed with unmistakable pleasure. He wore a deep green button-down that brought out his eyes, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that had gained definition from hours of lifting cases and operating equipment.
"Bernadette," he called out, setting down his polishing cloth and moving toward me with that confident stride I'd come to associate with him. "Perfect timing. How was your day?"
"So far, so good," I said with a smile, settling onto my usual stool at the far end of the bar where we could talk without disrupting the tour group's tasting experience.
Dylan leaned against the bar with casual intimacy, "I have something that might put an even bigger smile on your face."
I felt my pulse quicken with anticipation. "Oh?"
"Goldenrod's hosting a Halloween party Friday night. Staff, friends, industry people—casual but fun. Wanna come?"
The invitation sent warmth flooding through my chest. "I'd love to," I said, then reality crashed over me. "But I don't have any costumes except this barmaid outfit I'm wearing for work."
Dylan's grin widened with obvious delight. "Perfect. You look incredible in that costume. I'll come as a bartender to match your theme."
The thought of Dylan in period costume, playing the role of my frontier bartender counterpart, made me laugh with genuine pleasure. "A matched set. I like it."
"It'll be fun," he said, his voice taking on a more intimate tone as he leaned closer. "Good music, great bourbon, dancing. And maybe..." He lowered his voice to barely above a whisper, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. "Maybe it'll be a night full of treats."
