Page 19 of Bourbon Girl: part 4 of 6
Heat rose in my cheeks, and I shook my head firmly. "You've got it wrong. We're just friends. Jett has a girlfriend, and I'm interested in someone else."
"Uh-huh." Suzy's expression remained skeptical. "You protest too much," Suzy said gently, echoing something my mother might have said. "Sometimes what we think we want and what we actually need are different things entirely."
Before I could respond, the sound of the bluegrass band launching into an energetic fiddle tune drew our attention back toward the main stage. The festival was reaching its peak energy, with bourbon tastings in full swing and the late afternoon sun casting everything in golden light.
"Come on," Suzy said, linking arms with me again. "Let's make the most of our time together."
As we headed toward the craft beer tent, my skirts swishing around my legs and the festival noise washing over us, I couldn't shake the feeling that Suzy might be seeing something I'd been deliberately avoiding.
October 19, Sunday
grain tightthe requirement that barrels must be watertight for holding spirits
I RETURNEDwith another small tour group to the Northern Kentucky Bourbon Festival and as I wandered the grounds, I was surprised to Sam Church at the cooperage demonstration tent. I watched him with mixed feelings, remembering how much I'd gotten my hopes up that he was my father. It felt silly now, to project such intense feelings onto a stranger. I could hear Sam's voice explaining the intricacies of barrel construction to an eager crowd, his tone patient and educational. I hung back near the tent's entrance, not quite ready to announce my presence.
"The secret to a good barrel is understanding how wood responds to heat and moisture," Sam was saying, running his weathered hands along the curved staves of a half-finished barrel. "Each piece of oak has its own personality, and a cooper learns to read those individual characteristics."
He worked with the same methodical precision I remembered from his previous demonstration, but today he seemed more at ease. When the demonstration concluded and the crowd dispersed, Sam began organizing his tools. It was then that our eyes met across the tent, and he offered a small nod of recognition before approaching.
"Bernadette," he said, wiping his hands on his leather apron. "I didn't expect to see you again."
"I wanted to apologize," I said, the words tumbling out faster than intended. "For being so abrupt the last time we spoketogether. I know this whole situation was uncomfortable for you."
Sam studied my face with green-flecked eyes, his expression thoughtful rather than defensive. "No need to apologize. You were looking for answers, and I understand that need." He paused, his gaze growing more serious. "Are you all alone in the world? Do you have any other living relatives?"
The question hit me with unexpected force. I thought about the grandparents who'd died when I was young. My mother had been an only child.
"None that I know of," I admitted, surprised by how vulnerable the admission made me feel.
Something shifted in Sam's demeanor—a softening around his eyes that reminded me fleetingly of my mother's rare moments of tenderness. "How can I help you then? What do you need?"
The offer was so unexpected, so generous, that I felt tears threaten. "Won't Carol object?"
"I don't care," he said with quiet conviction. "You're Ginger's daughter, and that means something to me. Do you need money? A place to stay?"
"No," I said quickly, shaking my head. "I don't need or want your money. But thank you. That's incredibly kind. Do you happen to remember my mom dating a man named Tom Feldon?"
"Tom Feldon," he repeated slowly. "I know him. Good guy, worked with a lot of the distilleries on grain sourcing and agricultural partnerships." He paused, his expression growing thoughtful. "The way I remember it, Tom was sweet on Ginger, but she didn't feel the same way about him. He'd show up at the bar where she worked, buy her drinks, try to get her attention. But Ginger... she was already involved with someone else at the time."
My heart sank slightly. "Someone else?"
"Another regular. I never knew his name, but he was there most nights she worked. Well-dressed, always had money to spend." Sam's eyes grew distant with memory. "But maybe I'm wrong about Tom. It was a long time ago, and my memory isn't what it used to be."
"Do you remember anything else about this other man?"
Sam shook his head apologetically. "Just that Ginger seemed drawn to him. But you know how these things go—sometimes memory plays tricks on us." He pulled his hand over his mouth. "Regardless, I wish you luck with your search. And I mean what I said—call if you need anything. I really cared about your mother."
As he walked away, returning to his tools and his craft, I stood wrestling with an unexpected emotion: disappointment. Not because he wasn't my father—the DNA test had settled that question definitively. But because somewhere in the back of my mind, I'd begun to hope that our connection might be enough. That knowing my mother, caring about her memory, might create some kind of lasting bond between us.
Now I wondered if his kindness toward me was actually more generous precisely because he knew I wasn't his responsibility. Without the weight of biological obligation, he could afford to be gracious, to offer help he'd never be called upon to provide.
The thought left me feeling both grateful and strangely hollow as I walked back through the festival grounds.
October 20, Monday
swellingwhen a barrel expands after filling, helping seal leaks
THE COFFEEshop Octavia had chosen was one of those upscale places where a simple latte cost eight dollars and the baristas wore black aprons like uniforms of caffeine artistry. I spotted her immediately at a corner table, impossible to miss in her designer ensemble—a tailored blazer in deep burgundy over black silk, with jewelry that caught the afternoon light like scattered diamonds.
