Page 22 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

aroma compounds esters and alcohols produced during fermentation that influence flavor and smell

THE TOUR bus felt suffocating despite the air conditioning, and I could taste the metallic tang of anxiety on my tongue as I stood to address our group of eight retired teachers from Michigan.

Teresa sat in the front row like a vulture perched on a fence post, her clipboard balanced on her crossed legs and her pen poised for maximum criticism.

"Welcome to Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours," I began, my voice sounding hollow in my own ears. "Today we'll explore Kentucky's... um... liquid heritage, beginning with the settlement of... the early settlers who..."

I faltered, the carefully memorized introduction crumbling as yesterday's encounter with Keith Banyon replayed in my mind. His kind but final words— I'm not your father —echoed over and over with the finality of a door slamming shut.

"Speak up!" Teresa interrupted sharply, her pen scratching across the clipboard. "Project from your diaphragm, not your throat. And what happened to the historical context about 1783?"

Heat flooded my cheeks as the retired teachers exchanged uncomfortable glances.

"Right, 1783," I stammered, trying to recover. "When the first corn-based whiskey was distilled by... by pioneers who..."

"Wrong!" Teresa called out, her voice cutting through the bus like a blade. "It was Elijah Craig in 1789, not 1783. Get your facts straight!"

The Michigan teachers looked mortified on my behalf, their initial enthusiasm dampening as they witnessed this public humiliation. I caught sight of Jett's angry eyes in the rearview mirror, but I gave him a little headshake to circumvent him stepping in.

The day continued in much the same pattern. Every stop brought fresh corrections, fresh mortifications, fresh reminders that I was failing at the one thing I'd thought I was getting good at. My confidence, already shattered by Keith Banyon's revelation, crumbled under Teresa's relentless assault.

By the time we returned to the office, the tip jar held a disappointingly light collection of bills, and the Michigan teachers filed off with polite but subdued thank-yous.

"Just when I thought you were getting better," Teresa admonished, "you're getting worse!"

"Sorry," I murmured. "I haven't felt well today. Um, cramps." It was the universal get-out-of-jail free card for any bad day.

She softened—a fraction. "Oh. Well… try harder next time."

"I will."

She disembarked, deflated.

Jett and I drove toward the campground in silence. I stared out the window at the passing countryside, seeing nothing but my own reflection in the glass—hollow-eyed and defeated.

"Alright," Jett said finally, his voice gentle but determined. "What's really wrong? I don't buy your excuse."

His words, delivered with such casual vehemence, surprised a laugh out of me despite everything. I turned to look at his reflection in the rearview mirror, seeing genuine concern in his dark eyes.

"It's complicated," I said quietly.

"Try me."

I took a deep breath and the confession tumbled out.

"I came to Kentucky to find my biological father.

My mother died without telling me who he was, but she mentioned he worked in the bourbon industry.

That's why I took this job—I thought if I gave tours, met people in the business, maybe I'd find him. "

Jett's hands tightened on the steering wheel, but he said nothing, letting me continue.

"Yesterday I thought I'd found him. A man named Keith Banyon who knew my mother thirty years ago. But..." My voice cracked slightly. "He's not. He can't have children. His daughters are adopted. So I have to start all over."

The bus rolled to a stop at the campground entrance, but neither of us moved. Jett sat in stunned silence, processing what I'd just revealed.

"Jesus, Bernadette," he said finally, his voice rough with emotion. "That's... that's huge. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Because it's pathetic," I said, gathering my things with shaking hands. "A grown woman chasing after a father who probably doesn't even know she exists."

"It's not pathetic," Jett said firmly. "It's human. And if you'll let me, I'd like to help you find him."

The offer hit me like a physical blow, so unexpected and generous that tears threatened to spill over. "You would do that?"

"Absolutely."

"I'd like that," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."

His eyes shone in the waning light. "Of course. See you tomorrow."

I jumped off the bus before the emotion overwhelmed me completely. I still felt overwhelmed at the task ahead of me. But my feet felt lighter knowing I had an ally in Jett.