He shrugged. "I like Marv and I like the flexibility of this job, but if it goes away, I'll find something. And so will you."
I envied his steadfast confidence in himself. I hadn't mentioned returning to Arizona and I didn't want to bring it up now when we were having fun. Instead I took another bite of my sandwich.
By the time we reached Carter Caves State Resort Park, full darkness had fallen, but the entrance was adorned with twinkling holiday lights that guided us toward the parking area for Cascade Cave.
"It's beautiful," I breathed, taking in the festive display.
"Wait until you see inside."
We joined a small group of tourists—maybe fifteen people total—bundled against the cold. Our guide, a female Park Ranger wearing a Santa hat, welcomed us with infectious enthusiasm.
"The temperature inside the cave stays at about fifty-four degrees year-round," she announced. "So it'll actually feel warmer than out here."
She wasn't wrong. As we descended into Cascade Cave, the bitter wind disappeared, replaced by the constant coolness that felt almost balmy compared to the December night above.
But what made it magical were the lights. Strings of Christmas lights had been carefully placed throughout the cave, their colors reflecting off the limestone formations and the underground streams. Reds and greens and golds sparkled against ancient stone, turning the cave into something from a fairy tale.
"This is incredible," I whispered to Jett as we walked through a passage where lights danced on the cave ceiling like aurora borealis.
"Thought you might like it."
The tour wound through chambers I remembered from our summer visit, but everything looked different dressed in holiday lights. The guide pointed out formations—stalactites and flowstone and delicate soda straws—now illuminated in festive colors.
When we returned to the visitor center, staff had set up tables with mugs of hot cocoa and coffee. I wrapped my hands around a cup of cocoa and inhaled the sweet chocolatey scent spiked with peppermint.
"Thank you," I said to Jett as we stood slightly apart from the other tourists. "For taking my mind off everything."
"You're welcome." He was standing close, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him in the cold night air.
For a moment, something passed between us. His dark eyes held mine, and I felt my breath catch.
Then I looked away, breaking the spell.
I didn't trust my feelings right now. Didn't trust myself not to mistake gratitude for something deeper, or loneliness for genuine affection. Besides, I'd be leaving soon.
"We should head back," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah." Jett's voice carried understanding and maybe a hint of disappointment. "Long drive ahead."
We walked back to his truck through the twinkling lights, the moment gone but not forgotten.
December 7, Sunday
filteringremoving sediment, charcoal, and barrel residue from the bourbon before bottling
THE TOURgroup settled into their seats as Jett pulled away from the pickup point—twelve passengers today, mostly couples and a few solo travelers. But it was the pair in the third row that caught my attention: a mother and daughter from Nashville, probably in their late fifties and early thirties respectively.
"Mom, you promised you wouldn't embarrass me," the daughter said, laughing as her mother pulled out a bedazzled flask decorated with rhinestones spelling out "Bourbon Queen."
"Embarrass you? Honey, we're on vacation. Rules don't apply."
"That's not how rules work."
"It is in my world."
Their banter continued as I launched into my opening remarks about Kentucky's bourbon heritage, and I found myself smiling despite trying to maintain professional composure. There was such easy affection between them, the kind of relationship where teasing came wrapped in love.
At Maker's Mark, the mother insisted on taking seventeen photos of her daughter in front of the iconic red wax dipping station, directing her like a fashion photographer. "Turn left. No, your other left. Now look wistful. More wistful. You look constipated."
