Page 32 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
Teresa's face flushed red. "You're fired. Effective immediately."
"Teresa—" Marv started.
"Did you hear me?" She rounded on her husband. "She's fired. I will not tolerate this kind of insubordination."
"And I won't tolerate this anymore." Marv's voice was quiet but firm. He straightened his shoulders, looking taller than I'd ever seen him. "Bernadette is a good employee."
Teresa's eyes narrowed. "I don't agree. It's her or me, Marv. Make your choice."
The parking lot went silent. Even the tourists stopped chattering, sensing the drama unfolding.
Marv's mouth tightened. "I choose Bernadette."
Teresa stared at her husband. "What did you say?"
"You've been making everyone miserable for months. Either you back off and let people do their jobs, or I'm ready to sign those divorce papers you've been threatening me with."
The color drained from Teresa's face. "You can't be serious."
"I've never been more serious." He turned to me. "Bernadette, you're not fired. Take the tour group out."
Teresa looked between us, her expression shifting from shock to fury to something approaching murder. Her eyes locked on mine with pure venom.
"This isn't over," she hissed. Then she spun on her heel and stalked away, her clipboard clutched like a weapon.
The tourists began murmuring nervously. Marv ran a hand through his thinning hair, visibly shaking from his unprecedented display of backbone.
"I'm sorry about that," he said to no one in particular. "Let's just... let's have a good tour day, okay?"
Jett touched my elbow. "You alright?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. As we loaded tourists and prepared to depart, I caught a glimpse of Teresa's car peeling out of the parking lot, gravel spraying behind her tires.
I'd made another enemy today.
November 30, Sunday
barrel finishingthe practice of aging bourbon for a short time in a secondary barrel (e.g., sherry, port) to add flavor
SLEEP REFUSEDto come. I lay on my narrow cot, staring at the curved metal ceiling of my van, watching shadows shift across the surface as wind-driven branches moved outside. My mind cycled through everything that had happened recently.
Kentucky had chewed me up and was slowly spitting me out, piece by piece.
I glanced at my phone. 11:47 PM. My bladder had been making itself known for the past hour, but I'd been putting off the trek to the bathhouse. The campground felt menacing after dark, especially with someone targeting me. But biology eventually won out.
With a sigh, I sat up and rummaged through the clutter beside my bed until I found my flashlight. I pulled on my jacket over my pajamas, shoved my feet into unlaced sneakers, and unlocked the van door.
The November wind hit me immediately, cutting through my jacket and stealing my breath. It was a blustery night. Dead leaves skittered across the gravel like tiny fleeing creatures. Tree branches groaned and creaked.
I clicked on my flashlight and started across the deserted campground toward the bathhouse. Most of the seasonal lots stood empty now, just vacant concrete pads and picnic tables ghostly in the darkness. Lights shone in the windows of a few year-round residents' campers, but most people were sensibly asleep.
The bathhouse sat about a hundred yards from my van, an eternity in the cold and dark. I walked quickly, my flashlight beam bobbing ahead of me. Every shadow looked threatening—was that someone behind that tree? Was that a person crouched between those campers? My heart raced despite my attempts to stay calm.
You're being paranoid,I told myself.It's just wind and shadows.
But after everything that had happened, paranoia felt justified.
Halfway to the bathhouse, I heard footsteps behind me. Or thought I heard them. The wind made it hard to distinguish sounds—was that gravel crunching under feet, or just debris blowing across the lot?
