Bulleit Proof. Tom Bulleit
the conversation being serious and intense, at times bordering on grave. At certain moments during the conversation, I feel as if I’ve stepped away from the table and I’m observing us, and I am appalled.
You don’t sound like you, Tom, I think. You sound so damn heavy, so serious.
At the end of the night, with the staff at Dudley’s practically putting chairs on top of each other, five minutes away from closing up and kicking us out, I invite Betsy to come over to my house the next night.
“I guess I’m inviting you out on a second date,” I say.
I don’t know if I can do this, Betsy thinks. He’s so serious.
“Sure,” Betsy says. “I’d love to come over.”
The next night I answer the door wearing Dockers and my trusty turtleneck. Betsy arrives 15 minutes late, but when I see her, I don’t care. Her smile takes my breath away.
We log another four hours, some of it with Hollis, most of it sitting across from each other at the dining room table and then moving to the couch. I don’t remember any of the exact conversation, but I remember the laughs. I remember Betsy laughing so hard she has to gasp for breath, tears streaming down her cheeks. And when the night ends, we make plans to see each other again. Soon. Maybe even the next night.
I may be in love, I think. I may actually be in love. I hope she at least likes me.
I have to plot my course carefully, Betsy thinks. Because I’m going to marry Tom Bulleit.
* * *
Four months later, my divorce becomes final and I win custody of Hollis. To celebrate, Betsy and I plan a long weekend in Carmel, California, the first time we’ve gone away as a couple. One night, sitting at a table in a restaurant overlooking Pebble Beach Golf Course, Betsy reaches over and takes both my hands.
“Tom, I’m only going to have the courage to ask you this once, so listen up.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Will you marry me?”
“Wait.” I pause for a very long time. “Did you just propose?”
She nods. She can’t seem to speak. Her eyes are wide and glistening.
“Well, this is all wrong,” I say.
“I know—”
“You’re supposed to get down on your knees.”
She laughs, loses it. And then she starts to cry.
“Damn it,” I say. “I was going to ask you. Once again you’re way ahead of me.”
“So, is that a yes?”
“No. It’s a YES.”
I practically shout it and then I—Mr. Order, Mr. Formality, Mr. Everything in Its Proper Place—get up from the table and take Betsy into my arms, announcing to the diners in the restaurant and to the heavens above one of the most breathtaking spots on earth, that, Yes, Elizabeth Callaway Brooks, I will marry you. Preferably as soon as possible.
So begins the most thrilling adventure of my life.
* * *
We marry on my birthday, March 14, 1987. I don’t mind sharing my birthday and my wedding anniversary. Makes it unique, special. Plus, it gives me a better chance in my dotage of remembering at least one of these two events.
“Better be your anniversary,” Betsy says.
Not a Bulleit Point, but excellent advice—
You can forget your birthday without consequence, but you will pay big time if you forget your wedding anniversary.
As my 44th birthday—and my wedding anniversary—approaches, I find myself withdrawing from social occasions, going to bed earlier than usual, and keeping more and more to myself. I feel myself shutting down, turning inward. I’m becoming reflective. One night, sitting together in our living room, nursing after-dinner drinks, enduring an unaccustomed minute or two of silence, Betsy says, “You’ve been very quiet lately, Tom.”
“Hm? Oh, yes, I know, it’s this contract I’ve been dealing with today—”
“I don’t mean today. You’ve been unusually quiet for months.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Tom.”
I go quiet.
“Tom.”
“Huh?”
“Talk to me.”
I swivel toward her, breathe in, breathe out, and then like an internal dam bursting, words, sentences, paragraphs come rushing out, ending with—
“I think I’m having a midlife crisis.”
Betsy collapses into the couch, as if she’s been shoved.
“Is it the wedding? Because we—”
“No, no, it’s not the wedding, it’s not you, it’s me. It’s my life. It’s the choice I made. Betsy,” I say with some urgency. “I have to act now. It’s really now or never. Shit or get off the pot.”
“What pot? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Bourbon,” I say. “Betsy, it takes six years to age bourbon in barrels properly. If I start now, I’ll be 50 before I even know if Augustus’s recipe is any good. I mean, I’m sure it is. I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. But I do know this. Most people don’t start all over at 50.”
“Whew,” Betsy says. “As long as it’s only that.”
“Yeah. Changing my life. That’s all it is.”
We both crack up. Then she snuggles into me.
“Tom, it’s going to be alright.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. I have no doubt.”
Then, without realizing it, we simultaneously slug back our drinks.
* * *
On our honeymoon, I confirm my decision and reveal my plan, which is both half-baked and full of passion. I realize I should probably be focusing on other things on our wedding night, but I can’t help myself. I know Betsy will understand. She’s my partner—in everything. I knew that long before we recited our wedding vows.
“You’ve noticed that I haven’t been as quiet lately,” I say.
“Yes, thankfully.”
“That’s because I’ve gone into action. I’m going to do this. I’m going to start my distilling company. I will leave the law firm, at some point. Not right away because it’ll take six years for us to have our first actual bottles to sell. So I’ll step back slowly, gradually, keep my feet in the water, continue doing legal work, both for the money and because I love it. I’m going to bring back Augustus’s recipe. That’s definite. Again, it’ll take time, and there’ll be a lot of risk, financially for sure, emotionally, probably, lifestyle adjustment, absolutely, and, again, I may be crazy, but it really is now or never. I know that we’re talking about a severe uphill battle, or to use a baseball metaphor, we’re starting out with two strikes against us. The longest of long shots. But what the hell. So, what do you think?”
“Oh, Tom,” Betsy says, leaning her head into me, probably swooning from my nearly incomprehensible rambling, “that sounds wonderful.”
* * *
My law partner, Shelby Kinkead, either seeing a golden business opportunity or taking pity on me,