Page 12 of Bourbon Girl: part 4 of 6
bungthe stopper used to seal the bung hole
I BRACEDmyself for another awkward encounter with Naomi as I approached the tour bus, mentally rehearsing neutral responses to whatever pointed observations she might make about my appearance or living situation. Sunday tours often brought smaller groups, which meant more intimate conversations and fewer places to hide from her penetrating questions.
But when I climbed aboard, Jett was sitting alone. His hands rested on the steering wheel, his attention focused on something through the windshield that seemed to require intense concentration. The bus felt different without her perfume and musical laughter filling the space—quieter somehow, but also less charged with the subtle tension I'd grown accustomed to navigating.
"Good morning," I said, settling into a seat a few rows back and trying not to sound as relieved as I felt.
"Morning," Jett replied, his voice carrying a flatness I didn't recognize.
"No Naomi today?" I asked, aiming for casual curiosity while my heart performed an inexplicable little skip of satisfaction.
Jett's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and he turned back to face the windshield. "She's taking a break from the tours."
The carefully neutral way he delivered this information told me there was more to the story, but I waited for him to elaborate rather than pressing for details. The silence stretched between us, filled only by the diesel engine's rumble.
"Turns out she didn't appreciate the fact that I've been spending time with you outside of work," he said finally, his voice carrying an edge that made my stomach clench.
I tried to laugh it off, though the sound came out more strained than I intended. "What, like taking me to see Bigfoot enthusiasts? That hardly counts as scandalous behavior."
"Apparently it does when your girlfriend thinks you're developing feelings for your coworker."
The word 'girlfriend' hit me with unexpected force, a reminder of the relationship dynamics I'd been trying to ignore. I found myself studying the back of Jett's head, looking for clues about how he felt about Naomi's assessment of the situation.
"I mean, you told her we're just friends, right?" I asked, keeping my voice light despite the way my pulse had quickened.
Jett's shoulders lifted in a shrug that looked more defeated than dismissive. "I tried to tell her that. But Naomi seemed pretty convinced that you have a crush on me."
Heat flooded my face. "A crush? What are we, twelve years old? That's ridiculous."
But even as I protested, something uncomfortable twisted in my chest. Was there truth to Naomi's observation?
"Some reporter she is if she can read a situation so completely wrong," I continued, hoping my voice conveyed more conviction than I felt.
"Yeah," Jett said, and I caught the hint of a smile in his reflection in the windshield. "That's exactly what I told her."
His agreement should have been reassuring, but instead it left me feeling oddly deflated.
October 13, Monday
white dogthe raw, clear distillate that is barreled for aging
THE CAMPGROUNDhad transformed overnight into a pocket-sized autumn wonderland, complete with orange and red streamers strung between the oak trees and the warm scent of cinnamon drifting from the activities pavilion. A hand-painted sign near the entrance announced "Happy Trails Fall Festival - Celebrating Columbus Day & Indigenous Peoples Day" in cheerful lettering that looked like Poppy's artistic handiwork.
I wandered through the festivities with a paper cup of spiced cider warming my hands, taking in the controlled chaos of families gathered around picnic tables laden with pumpkin cookies and harvest decorations. Children darted between activities with sugar-fueled energy, their laughter mixing with the gentle strumming of an acoustic guitar near the fire pit.
"Bernadette!" Poppy's voice cut through the ambient noise. "Come help me with my scarecrow!"
She beckoned me toward a craft station where she knelt surrounded by straw, old clothes, and what appeared to be the remnants of several outgrown Halloween costumes. The work-in-progress looked more like a deflated snowman than a traditional scarecrow, its button-up shirt hanging limply from makeshift shoulders constructed from crossed wooden stakes.
"What's the vision here?" I asked, settling cross-legged on the grass beside them.
"Friendly librarian scarecrow," Poppy announced. "Complete with reading glasses and a book. But I'm havingproblems." She held up a handful of straw. "The stuffing keeps falling out the bottom, and the head won't stay attached."
I examined her creation with a critical eye. "Let me grab some zip ties from my van—they'll hold everything together better than string."
As I headed toward my campsite, I caught sight of Marilyn walking along the perimeter of the festival activities with Teddy hovering close beside her. Something about their body language set off warning bells in my mind, the same uncomfortable feeling I'd experienced during their previous interactions.
His hand hovered at her lower back and he was invading her personal space. Marilyn kept her arms crossed defensively across her chest. When he tried to guide her away from the crowd, I watched her subtly twist away from his touch while maintaining her distant smile.
