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One for the Road

By Mary Ellis

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ONE
Tuesday afternoon
‘There it is!’ Jill exclaimed as they passed a bright blue road
sign. ‘“Welcome to Kentucky – the Blue Grass State”.
I’m so excited I could spit.’
Michael Erikson, her videographer sidekick, took his eyes off
the road long enough to scowl. ‘Don’t you dare! I just had this
car washed and detailed. What’s so exciting about the countryside
of Kentucky? We’re talkin’ grandma rocking on every porch and
pickup trucks driving like an Indy race.’
‘Sounds like the perfect spot for a travel piece.’ Jill rubbed her
stomach with a circular motion. ‘I can almost taste the flapjacks,
corn pone and deep-fried everything now.’
‘You don’t even know what corn pone is.’ Michael slugged his
cold coffee with a grimace.
‘No, but I aim to find out. This could be my big chance to
advance beyond travel features and blogging to the news service.
We have ten expense-paid days to discover why thousands of
tourists flock to bourbon country every year.’
‘You don’t even like whiskey. You drink grocery store wine out
of a cardboard box.’ Michael held his gut while he laughed.
‘This will be bourbon, not whiskey.’ Jill pulled down the vanity
mirror to check her teeth for remnants of lunch.
He shook his head. ‘Bourbon is a type of whiskey. If we’re
doing this, partner, start doing your homework.’
‘I intend to, tonight. I would’ve already if the boss hadn’t handed
us this at the last minute. Besides, my wine comes in bottles with
real corks.’ Jill lifted her chin with indignation.
‘Yeah, right. I stopped at your apartment last Christmas, remember?’
‘Of course I do. What woman could forget a pair of lime-green,
six-toed socks?’
‘What can I say – they were on sale. We’re on the outskirts of
Louisville. Better program the GPS with the hotel’s address.’
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‘We’re not staying at some boring chain hotel.’ Jill produced a cat-in-the-cream grin.
‘I get the feeling I’m not going to like this.’ Michael rubbed the back of his neck.
‘Why on earth would we stay in Louisville when the charming town of Roseville is close to two distilleries? If you recall, bourbon distilleries are why we’re here.’
‘This motel in Roseville . . . is it one of those turquoise mom-and-pop’s with a soda machine permanently out of order?’
‘Absolutely not. We’re staying at Sweet Dreams Bed and Breakfast. The online pictures looked gorgeous, truly elegant and historical.’
‘In other words flowery wallpaper, lace doilies, and threadbare rugs.’
‘Have you ever even been to a B and B?’
‘Yup, remember my ex-fiancée, Cindy? She took me to one in the Alleghany Mountains. Each night I expected Jack Nicholson to axe his way through the door. I didn’t sleep a wink.’
‘If anyone was going to take an axe to your head, it would have been Cindy.’ As usual, her insult had zero effect on him. Jill shook her head. ‘This place serves a gourmet breakfast each morning, plus either tea with scones or cocktails and canapés in the evening. Sweet Dreams is not only in the heart of bourbon country, but the proprietor might be a long-lost relative of mine, which for now we’ll keep quiet about. And her husband owns a craft distillery outside of town.’ She braced herself for Michael’s next parlay – which never came.
‘Now that might come in handy,’ he said. ‘Having a bourbon master at our disposal could produce some great footage. Plus I can start my Christmas shopping.’
Jill chuckled at his unexpected reaction. Like her, Michael had been born and raised in Chicago’s suburbs. ‘We’re not going to become nuisances, are we?’ she asked. ‘The boss wants a positive spin on this travel story.’
‘I won’t become a nuisance, but you’d better not drink any hundred-proof bourbon or you’ll start singing “A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall”.’
‘I don’t even know the words. Can you get us a cash advance from accounting? Most likely not everyone takes American Express along the backroads.’
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The ace videographer winked. ‘I’m way ahead of you. This assignment will be as easy as sippin’ lemonade on a hot summer day.’
Jill punched the address into his GPS and settled back to relax. Maybe two weeks of low-pressure interviews and personal interest vignettes – not to mention product sampling – would be fun. It would be nice to escape the office gossips for a while, who were always wondering if she and Michael were dating. They never had and never would. For one thing, editing audio and video segments to make people stop what they were doing and book a trip was hard work. Plus office romances never turned out well. And a third reason? Jill didn’t want anyone standing in the way of her advancement. She couldn’t tread water in Chicago forever, growing more bored each day. It was time to go after what she wanted in life, even if it meant moving across the country or halfway around the globe.
‘We’re here, Sleeping Beauty,’ Michael whispered in her ear.
‘For cryin’ out loud,’ Jill snapped. ‘A simple nudge would’ve worked.’
‘Welcome to Roseville. How could anyone fall asleep on roads that twisty?’
‘Old-fashioned streetlights, people milling around the town square, even a gazebo with bandstand? Looks like we just stepped into a Norman Rockwell painting.’
‘You’re not kidding. Roseville has more going for it than I expected. I’ve counted six bars that sell craft beer and local wines, besides the bread-and-butter of the county. A few places even have live music on Saturday.’
‘Heck with the nightlife.’ Jill craned her neck out the window. ‘They have art galleries, dress shops, a jewelry store, and even a wholefoods grocery. I want to move here. Towns this quaint are only on greeting cards.’
‘You’d do anything to get out of Chicago. Just remember, jobs for journalists in places like this don’t pay squat.’
‘Money isn’t everything. Let’s stop for a minute and check out that bakery.’ Jill pointed at a tiny store with a bright red awning.
Michael ignored her and turned at the next corner. ‘No, we’ll check in first and get something to eat later.’
‘Fine, but I’ll pick the spot. I’m dying for a piece of pizza.’
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They had no trouble finding the three-story, white colonial on a tree-lined street a few blocks from downtown. And they would have no trouble finding the distilleries tomorrow. Plenty of signs pointed to Founder’s Reserve north of town and the Black Creek Distillery twenty miles to the south.
Michael parked at the curb and grabbed their bags from the trunk. ‘I hope you reserved two rooms instead of twin beds in the attic.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I even asked for rooms in separate wings.’ Jill took her suitcase from his hand and marched up the front steps. Just as she was about to knock, the door swung open.
‘Welcome to Sweet Dreams,’ said a seventyish, silver-haired woman. ‘I’m Mrs Clark. You must be Miss Curtis and Mr Erikson. Please come in.’
‘Hi, I’m Jill and that’s Michael.’ Jill stepped across the threshold into the foyer. ‘Wow, your home and your town are adorable.’
‘A newborn baby is adorable,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I would describe my house as colonial Williamsburg-on-a-budget.’
‘Well, I think it’s gorgeous.’ Jill had been expecting overdone Victorian with tons of knick-knacks, but her décor was almost austere.
‘Any house rules we should know about, ma’am?’ asked Michael, pragmatic to a fault.
‘Let’s see . . . Your rooms have deadbolt locks, but the back door is always open in case you go out later. Breakfast is at eight thirty in the dining room or later by request. Tea and scones are available in the library at four and then at six o’clock I provide wine, beer or bourbon with a light snack.’ Mrs Clark pulled two skeleton keys from her pocket.
‘What about the rule “you break it, you bought it”?’ Michael asked.
‘Good grief, young man, accidents happen. Where are you folks from?’
‘I’m from Chicago. He’s from the moon.’ Jill took the key from her. ‘Thanks, Mrs Clark. I would love tea this afternoon.’ Jill started up the stairs, then turned back to Michael. ‘I’ll be in my room. See you later.’ As much as she liked her partner, she needed some space after several hours in the car.
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Michael took the other key from Mrs Clark. ‘While you research, I’ll catch a few winks,’ he called.
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His words drifted up the steps as Jill opened her door on a four-poster bed, leaded windows, and a working fireplace. ‘I’m never leaving.’ She flopped across the embroidered coverlet.
Since tomorrow she’d be interviewing bourbon aficionados, Jill buckled down to several hours of online research and found plenty of information on the tours, as well as restaurants along the circuit. Fourteen major distilleries offered tours in the top half of the state, but Jill wanted some small-batch producers too. After printing out her research in the B&B’s office, she found Michael checking his emails in the library.
‘I’m ready for anything.’ She plopped into a chair by the fire. ‘Did you know how many types of whiskey there are? Besides Kentucky bourbon and Tennessee sour mash, I read about Scotch, Canadian, and American blends.’ Jill ticked each off on her fingers. ‘Each one supposedly tastes different.’
Michael closed his laptop. ‘I could’ve told you that much on the drive down. What else did you find out?’
‘Plenty. Considering how many people home-brew beer these days, distilling your own spirits could be the next wave of the future.’ Jill smiled smugly.
Michael rolled his eyes. ‘It’s been done. They’re called moonshiners and it’s against the law. Let’s hope we don’t come within ten miles of anyone’s illegal still. Don’t you watch anything other than the cooking channel on TV?’
Jill ignored the question. ‘I also learned that making bourbon is more complex than I thought. Competition between distilleries can get downright cut-throat.’ She pulled a sheet from her printouts. ‘Listen to this news story about a brawl at a county exhibition. “Police called to break up a fight at a small-batch competition. Ten people were arrested for malicious destruction of property and two for carrying concealed weapons”.’
‘What’s the big deal?’ Michael asked.
She arched an eyebrow. ‘You don’t think twelve people getting thrown in jail is a big deal?’
‘Jill, Jill. They were just good ’ole boys blowing off steam on a Saturday night. The “malicious destruction” was probably a busted table and a few chairs. And the concealed weapons? Some guys probably forgot they were carrying. The article didn’t say firearms had been discharged, right?’
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She stared at her mild-mannered videographer. ‘Who are you? This is so not like you.’
‘Look, we live in Chicago where law and order are mandatory for society. These people grew up with a different mindset, but deep down their moral and ethical codes are the same as ours.’
Jill wrinkled her nose. ‘So a few broken chairs and split lips are OK as long as there’s no gunplay?’
‘Exactly. Did you know one of the major bourbon producers can trace his family tree back to Frank and Jesse James?’
‘I did not.’
‘We’ll have fun getting this story. And we’ll get to see how America looked a hundred and fifty years ago. That will make great video footage.’ He held up two thumbs.
‘As colorful as that sounds, let’s book only tours with high AAA and AARP ratings, instead of Joe Bob taking folks up the mountain to Uncle Jethro’s still. And no local contests unless you hire armed bodyguards on your own dime. We don’t want to explain that on our expense report.’ She handed him the printouts.
‘Trust me, I’ll work out an itinerary that’ll snag us an Emmy. Plus, don’t forget I’ve been working out for three years. You’ll be perfectly safe with me.’ Michael pulled up a sleeve and flexed his bicep.
Jill started to heckle, but stopped when they heard loud voices in the next room.
‘What in the world are you serving our guests?’ thundered a male voice.
‘Miss Curtis asked for tea and scones, so I baked these fresh.’
Recognizing the second voice as Mrs Clark’s, Jill and Michael sat very still.
‘People don’t come to Roseville to drink tea with their pinky fingers sticking out. This ain’t London, England,’ grumbled the male, presumed to be Mr Clark.
‘I’m merely fulfilling a guest’s request.’ Mrs Clark wasn’t backing down.
‘At least put a bottle of my bourbon on the tray with some smoked sausages. That gal ain’t travelling with her mother. There’s a man with her.’
Jill rose from her chair, but Michael clamped a hand around her wrist. ‘Don’t interfere,’ he whispered. ‘We’re guests in their home.’
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Jill knew Michael was right, but she hated hearing a woman being bullied. Unfortunately, their marital squabble wasn’t over.
‘Where are you going, Roger?’ Mrs Clark asked.
‘Back to the plant, where else?’
‘You just got home and haven’t had supper yet.’
‘What are you, my mother? Keep the supper warm till I get back.’ He punctuated his demand with a loud thud.
Jill sat very still, afraid to move, while Michael ran a finger inside his shirt collar.
Suddenly the door swung wide and a burly man stomped into the room. A small brown beagle followed close at his heels. When the dog spotted Jill he ran straight to her and rose up on his hind legs to be petted. The man, however, stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed his guests. ‘Didn’t know you two were down here. Sorry, you shouldn’t have heard that.’
Except that he didn’t sound very sorry.
‘Every couple fights,’ said Michael.
Having nothing nice to say, Jill remained silent.
‘I’m Roger Clark. That’s my mutt, Jack. Just push him down if you don’t like dogs.’ He set down a tray with a bottle, two snifters, and a bag of Smokies. ‘Try a sample of the best bourbon in the county.’
‘Thanks, we sure will.’ Michael stood to shake their proprietor’s hand, but Clark had already stomped off.
‘Let’s go, Jack!’ The innkeeper roared from the front hall. ‘You coming or not?’
Dutifully, Jack ran to heed his master’s command, tail between his legs.
‘I want that dog.’ Jill bit down on her back molars.
‘You want every dog you see.’ Michael poured himself a glass of bourbon.
‘True, but I really want Jack. Mr Clark doesn’t deserve such a sweet dog. He deserves something mean and vicious.’
While Michael laughed, Jill fantasized about smuggling Jack in her suitcase when it was time to leave.
A few minutes later, Mrs Clark entered the library with a second tray. ‘Here’s your tea, Miss Curtis.’ She glanced from one face to the other. ‘Oh, dear, you must think you’ve checked into a house of horrors.’
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Jill jumped to her feet and took the tray from Mrs Curtis’s trembling hands. ‘We barely heard a word. Come, sit, and have tea with me.’
With that, the woman burst into tears.
Setting the tray on the hearth, Jill guided Mrs Clark to a chair, then poured two cups of tea. ‘We don’t think that at all.’ She handed the woman a cup.
‘Thank you, dear. Normally Roger isn’t like this, but there’s been so much pressure at the distillery.’ She took a sip of tea.
‘Like my partner said, every couple argues.’
‘Are either of you married?’ Mrs Clark gazed from one to the other.
When they shook their heads, she set down her cup and stood. ‘In that case, I apologize if we spoiled any preconceived notions. Enjoy your complimentary beverages. When I see you tomorrow at breakfast, this tiff will be ancient history.’ She walked from the room with her head held high.
During the bizarre happy hour, Jill ate three lemon scones and drank two cups of tea, while Michael gobbled half the sausages and consumed a liberal amount of bourbon.
‘Still want to go out for pizza?’ Michael asked once they both tired of staring at the fire.
‘Nah, the scones filled me up,’ Jill said with a yawn. ‘I’m going to read in bed for a while.’
‘Good idea. See ya in the morning. If it’s OK with you, let’s not start with Black Creek since Roger Clark owns the place.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ she said, as they both climbed the steps to the second floor. ‘Let’s give Mr Personality a little time to get over his bad mood.’
8 Mary Ellis

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