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Movement in my peripheral vision made me glance toward the hallway where historical photographs documented Goldenrod's transformation from tobacco barn to boutique distillery. A tall figure in an expensive polo shirt studied one of the framed pictures with the kind of concentrated attention that suggested personal connection rather than casual interest.

Boyd Biggs.

My first instinct was to retreat toward the retail area and wait for him to leave, but as I started to turn away, he looked up and spotted me. Recognition dawned on his weathered features, followed by a smile that seemed genuinely pleased rather than politely obligatory.

"Bernadette," he called out, approaching with the confident stride of someone accustomed to being welcome wherever he went. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Hello, Mr. Biggs," I managed, acutely aware of my cheesy barmaid costume next to his expensive clothes.

His eyes crinkled with amusement as he took in my appearance. "The official tour guide ensemble, I see. Very authentic. Are you enjoying the work?"

Heat crept up my neck as I wondered if he, like his daughter, was laughing inside at my getup. My hand moved unconsciously to fidget with the chain of my mother's necklace, seeking comfort in the weight of her photograph against my chest.

Boyd's gaze followed the movement, his attention catching on the pendant with sharp interest. "That's a beautiful piece,"he said, his tone shifting to something more thoughtful. "The photograph—is that family?"

"My mother," I replied, my fingers tracing the oval frame. "Ginger Waters. She passed away earlier this year."

Something in my voice must have conveyed the depth of that loss, because Boyd's expression softened with genuine sympathy. "I'm very sorry for your loss. She looks like she was a lovely woman—and I can see where you inherited your beauty."

The unexpected kindness in his words caught me off guard, especially after Portia's calculated cruelty. For a moment, I glimpsed the warmth that Dylan had inherited from his father, the quality that made the Biggs family formidable in business but approachable in person.

"Thank you," I said quietly. "That means a lot."

Boyd studied my face with the kind of careful attention that suggested he was remembering something his wife or daughter had told him. "If I recall correctly, someone mentioned you came to Kentucky searching for your father. That's quite an undertaking."

The casual way he referenced what I'd hoped to keep private told me that Naomi's loose tongue had indeed reached the entire family, but Boyd's tone held curiosity rather than judgment. I found myself nodding despite my earlier resolve to keep the Biggs family at arm's length.

"That's true," I admitted. "It's been... complicated."

"I imagine it would be." Boyd's smile was sympathetic. "I wish you the very best of luck. Family is the most important thing in life—the foundation that everything else is built on. I hope you find what you're looking for."

His words were delivered with the conviction of someone who'd spent his entire life surrounded by the kind of family legacy that most people only dreamed about.

"Thank you, Mr. Biggs," I said, touched by his sincerity despite the reminder of everything I lacked. "That's very kind."

"Not kind," he corrected gently. "Just true. And please, call me Boyd."

Before I could respond, the teachers reappeared from their exploration, Helen consulting her notebook with the purposeful air of someone ready to move to the next educational experience.

"Ready for the next stop?" she asked brightly.

"Absolutely," I replied, grateful for the interruption. "Let's load up."

As we prepared to leave, Boyd raised his hand in a friendly farewell.

Walking back to the bus, I found myself thinking about the unexpected kindness in his words, the way he'd spoken about family as if it were the most natural thing in the world to value those connections above everything else. For someone like Boyd, who'd married into his place in a multigenerational business dynasty, family probably did feel like the foundation of existence.

But for someone like me—searching for fathers who might not want to be found, building a life from scratch with no inherited safety net—family felt more like a luxury I couldn't afford to count on.

October 16, Thursday

ricka wooden rack in a warehouse used to stack and store barrels

THE LAUNDRYfacility felt more oppressive than usual as I fed quarters into the ancient washing machine, the scents of detergent and fabric softener unable to mask the general air of melancholy that had settled over me like a fog. Thursday was supposed to be my day off, but instead of feeling liberated from the routine of bourbon tours and forced cheerfulness, I felt adrift in the kind of purposelessness that made every minute drag.

My life existed in a state of suspended animation—waiting for Tom Feldon to call, waiting for Dylan to return from Texas, waiting for some sign that would point me toward a future that made sense. I hadn't yet heard back from the college in Arizona to know if I'd been accepted to finish my program.

The dryer's buzzer jolted me from my spiraling thoughts, and I began pulling out clothes that still carried the heat of artificial warmth. T-shirts, jeans, underwear—the basic necessities of a life pared down to essentials. Then my fingers closed around something soft and familiar that made my breath catch in my throat.