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mashing grains—corn, plus rye, wheat, and/or malted barley—are ground and cooked with limestone-filtered water to release sugars

MY GPS led me to a strip mall that looked like it had given up sometime in the nineties.

Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours was sandwiched between a nail salon and a place that offered payday loans, which didn't exactly scream "professional operation.

" The company's sign hung crookedly in the window like a drunk leaning against a lamppost.

Inside, the office was barely bigger than a walk-in closet and jammed with filing cabinets, boxes, a shabby desk, and motivational posters that had clearly lost their punch. The air conditioner sounded like it was having an asthma attack.

"Bernadette!" Marv Birdwhistle popped up from his desk like a jack-in-the-box, dabbing his sweaty forehead with what looked like a fast-food napkin. He was exactly as I pictured from our phone call—fidgety, damp, and talking like he'd mainlined espresso.

I shook the moist hand he offered and conjured up a smile. "Mr. Birdwhistle."

"Call me Marv," he said, pumping my hand.

"Okay… Marv."

"Sit, sit." He pointed to a folding chair whose seat was stacked with mail.

At a loss, I scooped up the pile of mail and held it awkwardly as I lowered myself into the rickety chair. I averted my eyes from the envelope on top, but not before I noticed FINAL NOTICE was stamped on the front.

Yikes, was I boarding a sinking ship?

Marv sighed and steepled his hands. "Now, before we get started, Bernadette, I need to ask you something, and please don't be offended."

"Okay." Where was this going?

"Do you have any problems with alcohol?"

"No, I really don't drink much."

"Define 'not much.'"

I shrugged. "A beer or glass of wine here and there."

"Define 'here and there.'"

He was serious. "Once a week or so."

He looked relieved. "I had to ask because I've had to terminate three tour guides in the past month alone.

One showed up hammered before lunch. Another was sneaking swigs from a hip flask between stops.

And the incident at Woodford Reserve..." He shuddered.

"Let's just say I had to make an apology tour. "

"I don't have a drinking problem," I assured him.

"No family history of addiction? No genetic predisposition that might rear its ugly head once you're surrounded by bourbon all day?"

"I promise you, alcohol isn't an issue for me."

He studied my face as if he was trying to read my soul, then nodded rapidly. "Okay, good, I believe you. Had to ask, you understand. This industry attracts people who sometimes enjoy the product a little too much, if you catch my drift."

Looking around the chaotic office, I wondered if the business was hanging on by a thread. Everything screamed "barely solvent"—the peeling floor tiles, the secondhand furniture, the way he'd emphasized the modest pay during our phone interview.

"So here's how we operate," he continued, pulling out a plastic folder.

"Three distinct tours. The Lexington experience hits Woodford Reserve, Wild Turkey, Four Roses, and Buffalo Trace.

Louisville tour covers Angel's Envy, Old Forester, Michter's, and Peerless.

Then we've got the Bardstown run—Willett, Heaven Hill, Barton, and My Old Kentucky Home. "

"How many tours a week?"

"One a day, four days a week—Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday."

"And my salary?"

"Seventy-five bucks a day plus you split gratuities with Jett. Tips can be substantial if you know how to work a crowd. Happy customers are generous customers."

I was doing the math in my head. It was enough to cover my campground rent with some left over to eat ramen noodles and buy a little gas. Barely. But I could sell my blood plasma if I had to. I'd done it before. "Who's Jett?"

"Your driver. Solid guy, been with me almost since day one. Knows every shortcut and back road in the state."

"Where should I meet the tour bus?"

"Jet'll come get you in the bus. What's your address?"

I hesitated. "I'm staying at Happy Trails Campground."

His eyebrows shot toward his receding hairline. "Campground? You're living in a tent?"

"I have a van. It's, um, temporary."

"Don't seem safe for a young woman, but what do I know about women? Nothing, apparently."

I squinted at him as he frowned deeper and scribbled something on a scrap of paper. Since Marv looked to be around my mother's age, I felt compelled to ask the question I would have to get used to asking men of a certain age who worked in the bourbon industry. "How long have you been in Kentucky?"

"Four years—no, five. My wife and I moved here from Ohio to start this venture.

" His expression soured like milk left on the counter.

"Ex wife. She ran off with a customer last spring—a dentist from Michigan.

" He let out a harsh laugh. "Twenty-three years together, and she throws it all away for some guy with big choppers and a nice car. " To my horror, he teared up.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I murmured, although internally I was busy celebrating that Marv was not my father.

He swiped at his eyes, then sniffed. "Yeah, well, her mistake.

This business is going places. Bourbon tourism is exploding right now.

We get visitors from Japan, Germany, all over the world.

" His manic energy returned. "And tomorrow, you're gonna see it firsthand.

You'll shadow me on the Fourth of July tour, learn the ropes, see how it's done.

I'm a pretty good guide, if I say so myself.

But someone's gotta be the brains, am I right? "

I nodded. "Right."

The phone sitting on the desk rang. Marv glanced at the caller ID screen, then picked up the receiver and set it back down with a bang, effectively hanging up on the person. He gave me a flat smile. "Telemarketer."

A collections agency, more likely. But I kept my mouth shut.

He opened a desk drawer, rummaged a bit, then pulled out a couple of forms. "Fill these out and give them back to me tomorrow."

I stood and clumsily deposited his mail on a bare spot on the desk, then took the employment forms. "Okay, what time should I expect to be picked up?"

"Around nine-thirty. Tours start at ten." He got up and lumbered over to a cardboard box, reached in and withdrew a burgundy polo-style shirt, then walked it back and held it up to me.

The shirt read "Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours" on the front. On the back was an unidentifiable logo.

At my questioning expression, Marv said, "It's a bird sitting on a barrel. Get it?"

"Oh. Yeah, I see it now." I didn't see it. And the shirt was a dress on me.

"Sorry about the size. I got a good deal on double X's."

"I'll make it work," I assured him.

Marv smiled wide. "I think you're going to fit in just fine here, Bernadette." The phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID screen, picked up the receiver, then set it back down with a bang, all while maintaining his smile.