Page 21 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
reflux the process of vapor condensing and returning to the still, increasing purity
I SENSED something was wrong the minute I climbed aboard the tour bus. The air was thick with something more oppressive than Kentucky's autumn humidity. Naomi sat in her usual front seat, but her posture was rigid, and her manicured fingers drummed against her purse with sharp, staccato clicks.
Jett's knuckles showed white against the steering wheel, and when he glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his jaw looked tight.
"Good morning," I offered cautiously, settling into a seat as the bus lurched into motion with more force than usual.
"Morning," Jett replied curtly, his voice carrying none of its typical teasing undertones.
Naomi turned slightly in her seat, offering me a smile that looked painted on. "Bernadette, thank you again for arranging that interview with the Biggs family. I really appreciate your help."
Her words were perfectly polite, but something in her tone felt strained, as if she were reciting lines from a script rather than expressing genuine gratitude. The silence that followed stretched uncomfortably, broken only by the diesel engine's rumble and the occasional sigh from Jett's direction.
When we reached the strip mall office, Naomi gathered her things with movements that seemed more abrupt than graceful. She leaned over to brush a perfunctory kiss across Jett's cheek—a gesture that looked more obligatory than affectionate—before striding toward the bus exit.
"I'll see you later," she said to Jett, though it sounded more like a statement than a promise.
"Sure," he replied without turning around, his attention fixed on his clipboard with unusual intensity.
When she disembarked, I ventured a careful probe. "Everything okay?"
"Right as rain," Jett said with forced brightness.
Four customers climbed aboard—a family from Michigan celebrating their parents' wedding anniversary—and I turned my professional attention to welcoming them and outlining the day's itinerary.
But throughout my opening spiel, I found myself stealing glances at Jett's reflection in the rearview mirror.
His scowl deepened as we navigated morning traffic, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel in an agitated rhythm. Whatever had transpired between them had clearly left both parties dissatisfied.
"Are we visiting any haunted distilleries today?" asked the anniversary couple's daughter, her question pulling me back to the tour at hand.
"Not haunted exactly," I replied, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. "But several of our stops have fascinating stories about the colorful characters who built Kentucky's bourbon legacy."
I continued my talk, occasionally glancing toward Jett, whose scowl seemed to deepen as the bus rolled along.
At first I nursed a wicked sense of amusement that there was trouble in paradise, but it was quickly followed by the disturbing recognition that I didn't like to see Jett upset—even if another woman caused that upset.
Hm.