Page 9 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
pitching yeast the act of adding yeast to the cooled mash to begin fermentation
THE MORNING air hung thick with humidity as I climbed aboard the bus to find Teresa already seated in the front row, a clipboard balanced on her crossed legs and a pen poised like a weapon in her manicured fingers.
She'd dressed for the occasion in a leopard print blouse and black capri pants, her platinum hair sprayed into submission.
"Good morning," she called out with false sweetness. "I thought I'd tag along today to see how things operate in the field."
My stomach knotted as our Saturday customers—a book club from Nashville celebrating their tenth anniversary—filed onto the bus with cheerful chatter about their weekend getaway.
They seemed like the kind of educated, well-traveled group who would appreciate thoughtful commentary, not the performance Teresa clearly expected.
As we pulled away from the office, I stood and reached for the microphone, steeling myself for what I knew would be a challenging day.
"Good morning, everyone, and welcome to—"
"Louder!" Teresa interrupted, her voice cutting through the bus like a blade. "You need to project from your diaphragm, not your throat. And smile bigger—I can barely see your teeth."
Heat flooded my cheeks as all eyes turned toward me with a mixture of curiosity and discomfort. I forced my mouth into what felt like a grimace and tried again.
"Welcome to Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours. My name is Bernadette, and I'll be your guide today as we explore Kentucky's liquid—"
"Hand gestures!" Teresa called out, scribbling furiously on her clipboard. "You're standing there like a statue. Move your hands, engage your audience!"
I caught Jett's eyes in the rearview mirror, and the sympathy I saw there almost undid me completely.
"Thank you for the feedback," I managed, my voice strained but polite. "As I was saying, today we'll be visiting four historic distilleries that represent the heart of Kentucky's bourbon heritage."
The book club members exchanged glances, their initial enthusiasm dampening as Teresa continued her running commentary.
Every few sentences brought a new interruption—speak slower, enunciate better, make more eye contact, vary your tone.
The pen scratched constantly across her clipboard, documenting every perceived flaw with the dedication of a scientist studying a particularly disappointing specimen.
At Woodford Reserve, Teresa positioned herself where she could observe both me and the customers, nodding approvingly when I remembered to gesture and frowning when my voice dropped.
The book club members grew increasingly quiet, their enjoyment clearly diminished by the awkward dynamic playing out before them.
During the drive to our second stop, one of the women leaned forward to ask a question about the aging process, but Teresa jumped in before I could respond.
"That's excellent customer engagement!" she announced. "But Bernadette, you need to repeat the question for everyone to hear, then pause dramatically before answering. Build suspense!"
"Thank you," I said through gritted teeth, my smile feeling more plastic with each passing hour. "That's very helpful advice."
By the time we returned to the office, my jaw ached from maintaining forced cheer, and the book club members filed off with polite but subdued thank-yous. The tip jar, usually generous on Saturdays, held a disappointingly light collection of bills.
Teresa waited until the customers were gone before delivering her verdict.
"Well," she said, tapping her pen against the clipboard with sharp clicks, "that was certainly educational.
You've got potential, honey, but you're going to need to show significant improvement if you want to keep this position.
This is a customer service business, and mediocrity simply won't cut it. "
I nodded mutely, not trusting myself to speak without saying something that would cost me my job. As Teresa sashayed back toward the office, Jett caught my arm gently.
"You did fine," he said quietly. "Don't let her get in your head."
But as he drove me back to the campground, Teresa's thinly disguised threat continued to circle in my mind. You're not good enough… You're not good enough…