Page 24 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
January. Less than six weeks away. A fresh start, a return to the life I'd abandoned when my mother got sick, a chance to finish something I'd started.
"Well?" Poppy demanded again, her hands clasped together. "Good news?"
"I got in." The words felt surreal. "They accepted me. I start in January."
"Oh, yay!" Poppy pulled me into a tight hug that smelled of bubble gum and little girl. "I'm so happy for you!"
I hugged her back, feeling tears prick my eyes. Finally, some good news. After weeks of crushing disappointments, here was something simple and straightforward. Something I'd earned through my own effort, not tangled up in someone else's history or DNA.
Poppy pulled back, holding me at arm's length. Her expression shifted, pleasure mixing with sadness. "But you'll be leaving us. Going back to Arizona."
"That's right."
"Won't you miss your friends here?" Poppy's eyes searched my face.
"I'll miss a few people," I admitted. "You," I said, pulling a pigtail.And Jett, my mind whispered. "But I need to get back to reality."
Poppy tilted her head. "What's not real about Kentucky?"
How could I explain? That Kentucky had been a temporary escape, a detour driven by grief and desperation. That I'd built a fantasy here—finding my father, belonging somewhere.
"This was never permanent," I said carefully.
"But you have a job here and a place to stay." Poppy gestured around the campground. "You've made a life here, Bernadette. That's real too."
I looked at the acceptance letter again, at the crisp university letterhead and formal language promising a future. Classes. A degree. Credentials that would open doors beyond tour buses and bourbon trails.
"I can't make a career out of wearing a barmaid costume and explaining fermentation," I said. "And I can't live in my van forever."
Poppy sighed. "I suppose that's true."
She headed back toward the office, leaving me standing beside my van with the acceptance letter clutched in my hand. The November wind cut through my jacket, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and approaching winter.
January I'd be back in Arizona, starting classes, finishing the degree I'd abandoned. Everything would be different. Better, hopefully.
I climbed into my van and sat in the driver's seat, reading the letter again. The professional language, the outlined requirements, the promise of structure and forward momentum—it all should have filled me with pure joy.
Instead, I felt the complicated tangle of relief and loss that came with closing a chapter before I was entirely ready.
I had six weeks left to resolve whatever could be resolved.
November 23, Sunday
straight bourbonbourbon aged at least two years and not blended with additives
THE BUShummed along the highway toward our first stop, the morning tour group chattering behind me about bourbon and fall foliage. I sat in the front passenger seat reviewing my notes, though I could recite the facts in my sleep by now. My phone buzzed against my leg—it was Keith Banyon.
Surprised, I connected the call. "Hello?"
"Bernadette? It's Keith Banyon."
We hadn't spoken since our coffee shop meeting, though I'd thought about him occasionally—one of the few people who'd known my mother during that pivotal time.
"Keith, hi. How are you?"
"I'm good, good." His voice carried warmth. "Listen, I know this is last minute, but my wife and I were talking, and we'd really like to have you over for Thanksgiving dinner Thursday. Nothing fancy, just family and a few friends, but we thought you might enjoy having somewhere to go for the holiday."
The invitation caught me completely off guard. Thanksgiving was just four days away, and I'd been trying not to think about spending it alone in my van while everyone else gathered with family.
