Page 22 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
temperature controlmanaging heat during fermentation to avoid stress on yeast
THE WASHINGmachine chugged through its cycles with mechanical persistence while I sat cross-legged on the laundry room's worn linoleum floor, my phone pressed against my ear. The scent of fabric softener and industrial-strength detergent filled the small space, mixing with the summer heat that seeped through the cinderblock walls despite the rattling air conditioner.
Keith Banyon answered on the second ring, his voice carrying the professional courtesy I'd come to associate with him.
"Bernadette, good to hear from you. How are you doing?"
"I'm fine, thanks. I was wondering if you could help me with something else." I traced patterns on the dusty floor with my finger, nervous about imposing on his kindness again. "Do you remember anyone who hung around my mom with the last name Church?"
There was a pause as he considered, and I could almost hear him rifling through thirty-year-old memories. "Church... Church..." he repeated slowly. "No, I'm sorry. That name doesn't ring any bells. But then again, there were a lot of people in and out of that scene."
"It's okay," I said, although my disappointment was acute. "I thought it was worth asking."
"Of course it was. And Bernadette, I meant what I said before—I want to help you find your father. Don't hesitate to call if you think of anything else, even if it seems like a long shot."
After we hung up, I stared at my phone screen, mentally cycling through the limited options available to me. I needed a comprehensive list of people who worked in the bourbon industry—but the more I thought about it, the more impossible that seemed. Why would such a list exist? Companies kept employee records, but those were private and scattered across dozens of distilleries and related businesses.
The washing machine shuddered to a stop, and I was transferring my clothes to the dryer when the laundry room door burst open to reveal a red-headed tornado.
"Whatcha doing?" Poppy asked, bouncing up and down on her heels.
"Laundry," I said, shoving a damp towel into the dryer. "And trying to solve a problem."
"What kind of problem? Can I help?" She perched on the edge of the folding table, swinging her legs.
"I don't think so, but thanks for offering." I fed quarters into the dryer and hit the start button.
"Oh, I almost forgot!" Poppy reached into her back pocket and pulled out a small booklet, its pages slightly crumpled. I made this for all the campers."
She handed me the booklet, and I flipped through pages of handwritten entries listing camper names, site numbers, and brief descriptions—"Tent 15: The Hendersons from Michigan, here for two weeks," "RV Site 8: Bob and Martha, retired teachers who love fishing."
"This is really thoughtful, Poppy. I'm sure people will find it useful."
"It was my idea," she said proudly. "So campers could find each other more easily if they wanted to be friends or borrow something."
I stared down at the booklet, an idea forming slowly in my mind.
"Poppy," I said, looking up at her freckled face. "You're a genius."
She grinned and pushed her glasses up her nose with one finger. "I know that."
August 27, Wednesday
volatile compoundssubstances created during fermentation that affect flavor, some desirable, others not
THE SHADEof an ancient oak tree provided blessed relief from the afternoon sun as I settled on a bench outside Goldenrod Distillery, my notebook balanced on my knees and a pen poised over a blank page. The scents of fermenting grain and charred oak drifted from the production buildings, mixing with the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle (I could identify it now) that climbed the nearby fence.
Our tour group—a book club from Nashville celebrating their fifteenth anniversary—had dispersed inside for their guided tasting, leaving me with an hour to kill. Normally I would have wandered into the tasting room to chat with Dylan, but the empty ache in my chest reminded me that he was hundreds of miles away, learning craft distilling techniques in Texas.
I'd started making lists of bourbon industry organizations, trying to organize my thoughts around Poppy's inadvertent inspiration. Trade associations, professional groups, unions—anywhere that might have kept member directories from the 1990s. The Kentucky Distillers' Association seemed like the most obvious starting point, but I had no idea how to access their historical records or whether they'd even maintained such detailed information.
"Not going to say hello to your boyfriend?" Jett's voice carried gentle teasing as he approached, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.
I looked up, squinting against the dappled sunlight filtering through the oak leaves. "He's in Texas for two weeks. Some kind of master distiller internship."
"Ah." Jett settled onto the bench beside me, close enough that I could smell the lingering scent of his soap. "What's got you so deep in thought then?"
I studied his profile, remembering his offer from Friday evening. "Were you serious when you said you'd help me find my father?"
