“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
I study him. “Uh…I think it’s pretty obvious what I’m doing. So if your stream and water wheel aren’t working I had nothing to do with it this time, I swear.” I hold my hand up, palm out.
“You ordered a mint julep that contains bourbon from a massive conglomerate distillery.”
Whatever I thought he was going to say, it wasn’t that. I blink. “I’m new here,” I tell him. “And when I see a refreshing drink I just drink it.” I reach my hand out to accept the plastic cup from the woman.
I take a sip of my drink. I can’t taste much bourbon but I don’t mind. It’s mostly sweetness and mint. “It’s delightful, honestly.” I rattle the cup to stir it up a little and take another sip.
“Sorry, Ian,” the woman in the booth says with a shrug. “It’s cheaper. People just want to get knocked on their ass at the Spring Fling, not savor the flavor, and I need to make a profit.”
Ian looks chastened. “I know. I get it and I love your food. I eat the brisket like once a week. But I wanted Winnie to try Four Brothers while her palette was still clean.”
I feel my eyebrows shoot up. “You sure know how to flatter a girl.”
His jaw works. “My apologies,” he says tightly.
He sounds so rigid and formal I half expect him to bow to me before he turns and leaves. But he doesn’t, which is disappointing. I would have really enjoyed a bow. But he just turns on his boot heel and leaves.
“Don’t let him get under your skin,” the woman says, leaning on the booth on her forearms. “Ian is a hard nut to crack.”
“I don’t want to crack his nut.”
The woman laughs. “If I was twenty years younger, I would. Still waters run deep and all that, you know.”
“He’s not my type."
Tossing the rest of my mint julep back, I note Barrel has laid down and is dozing in and out of sleep while his new friends have settled in next to him, eating caramel corn. When the little girl drops a piece, he just turns his head and snags it with his tongue.
My dog is going to be sick if we don’t leave the festival soon.
“Can I have one more of those?” I ask the woman.
Might as well get one for the road. Along with some caramel corn. Those kids snacking on it made me jealous.
Barrel might not be the only one with a stomachache tonight but I’m willing to chance it.
“Sure, thing, honey, but I’m cutting you off after that. I’m telling you, these are dangerous and I don’t want you getting in any sort of trouble.”
“I can’t even taste any bourbon,” I protest.
“That’s why they’re dangerous.” She hands me another mint julep.
She’s not wrong.
By the time I have bought my caramel corn and drained the second cup or mint julep, the festival lights are on and time seems to have ceased to exist.
It feels like I’m on a very sluggish carousel. Jangly intrusive music, laughter, bright lights, all surrounding me as my vision spins just a little.
I’ve talked to people whose names I won’t remember later.
I’ve entered a bourbon baking contest for tomorrow when I definitely do not bake.
I’ve set up an animal adoption event at the local library for three weeks from now after striking up a conversation with the director at the bakery booth.
And I joined a clogging troupe when I don’t even know how to clog.
I find myself standing in front of Ian’s stream, Barrel next to me, mesmerized by the burble as it rolls down over the rocks. I lean forward and let the water trail over my fingers.
