Page 16 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
Octavia leaned back in her chair, studying my face with those sharp eyes that seemed to see everything. "I wanted to see you in person, make sure you're okay. More importantly, I wanted to make sure you're not planning to go off half-cocked and blow up this guy's life—and your chance of maybe being part of it."
"I don't want to destroy his family," I said quietly.
Octavia laughed, a harsh sound that echoed off the cluttered walls. "Honey, if I were in your shoes, that's exactly what I'ddo. March right up to his front door and demand answers, consequences be damned." She paused, her expression growing unexpectedly introspective. "But then again, I don't exactly excel at family relationships. Or any relationships, for that matter."
For a moment, she stared off into the distance.
"My advice?" she said, snapping back to the present. "Get to know him a little first. Strike up conversations, show him you're not some crazy person looking to cause trouble. Then, when the time feels right, tell him privately. Let him decide what the next steps should be."
The folder felt heavy in my hands as I left the agency, Keith Banyon's entire life reduced to photographs and documentation that painted the picture of everything I'd never had—stability, family, belonging. The August heat pressed down on me like a weighted blanket as I walked to my van, but it was nothing compared to the weight of uncertainty churning in my stomach.
August 19, Tuesday
inoculationintroducing yeast into mash to begin fermentation
THE GRAYLexus sedan pulled out of Keith Banyon's driveway at exactly 8:47 AM. I counted to ten before starting Ginger's engine and following at what I hoped was an inconspicuous distance. Two cars back seemed safe—close enough to keep him in sight but far enough to avoid detection by a man who had no reason to suspect he was being tailed by his potential daughter.
Morning traffic moved sluggishly through Lexington's tree-lined streets, the air already thick with humidity that made my van's air conditioning work overtime. Keith's Lexus moved with the smoothness of Japanese engineering, while Ginger rattled and wheezed her way through the stop-and-go rhythm of suburban commuting.
He drove with the unhurried precision of someone following a familiar routine, signaling well in advance and maintaining the exact speed limit. Even his driving suggested the kind of measured, responsible life Octavia's report had painted—no sudden moves, no road rage, just the steady progress of a man comfortable with his place in the world.
The first stop was a Starbucks drive-through on Nicholasville Road, where the gray Lexus joined a line of similar luxury vehicles piloted by people who could afford eight-dollar coffee without checking their bank balance first. I watched from a gas station across the street as Keith rolled down his window to place his order.
From this angle, I could see his profile—the strong jawline, the graying hair neatly combed, the expensive sunglasses that probably cost more than my monthly budget.
He emerged from the drive-through with a large coffee and what appeared to be a croissant wrapped in white paper, the breakfast of someone who didn't have to worry about stretching groceries until payday. I followed as he navigated back into traffic, Ginger's engine protesting as I accelerated to keep pace.
The next stop was a dry cleaner in an upscale shopping center, where Keith parked briefly to drop off what looked like several dress shirts and a suit. The transaction took less than three minutes—the kind of efficient errand run that spoke of established routines and sufficient disposable income to outsource life's mundane tasks.
My mother had never been able to afford dry cleaning. We carried our clothes to the laundromat in mesh bags, quarters counted carefully before each trip. I remembered her attempts to create professional appearances with thrift store finds and sheer determination.
After he left the dry cleaner, he drove out of the city and past horse farms to the entrance of a country club, where a uniformed guard waved him through the security gate. The manicured grounds stretched beyond the entrance like something from a magazine—pristine golf courses, tennis courts with perfect white lines, a clubhouse that looked more like a mansion than a recreational facility.
I pulled into a public parking area across the street, watching as the Lexus disappeared up a winding drive lined with flowering shrubs.
The contrast between Keith Banyon's Tuesday morning and any Tuesday morning of my childhood was breathtaking in its scope. If Keith Banyon was indeed my father, if he'd known about my mother's pregnancy and chosen to walk away, then theman had a lot to atone for. The chasm between his comfortable life and the struggles my mother and I had endured felt vast and unforgivable, measured not just in money but in security, stability, and the kind of peace that came from never wondering where your next meal would come from.
I sat in my rusted van, staring at the country club's pristine entrance, and wondered if some betrayals were too large to bridge, no matter how much time had passed.
August 20, Wednesday
flocculationthe clumping and settling of yeast cells after fermentation
I PUSHEDthrough Goldenrod's heavy wooden doors, my stomach fluttering with the same nervous energy I'd felt as a teenager approaching my high school crush. The tasting room hummed with afternoon activity—the gentle murmur of conversations mixing with soft jazz playing overhead.
Dylan looked up from behind the bar and grinned. The genuine pleasure in his expression made my cheeks warm with anticipation.
"Bernadette!" He set down the bottle he'd been holding and moved toward me. "I was hoping to see you today."
"Here I am," I said, settling onto one of the bar stools.
"Lucky me," he said, already reaching for the pitcher of lemonade. The ice cubes clinked softly against the glass as he poured, and I found myself watching the graceful movement of his long-fingered hands. His rolled sleeves revealed strong forearms dusted with fine golden hair.
We fell into easy conversation about the distillery's upcoming harvest season, the challenges of maintaining traditional methods in a modern market, his progress toward bourbon certification. Dylan had a way of making me feel like my opinions mattered, asking thoughtful follow-up questions and listening with genuine interest when I shared observations from my tours.
He served other customers but always returned his attention to me, as if our conversation was more compelling than any professional obligation.
When I glanced at my watch and realized I needed to rejoin my tour group, disappointment settled heavy in my chest. These moments with Dylan felt like glimpses of a different life.
