Page 29 of Bourbon Girl: part 4 of 6
The implication in his words was unmistakably clear, sending heat rushing to my cheeks despite the tasting room's cool air. The promise in his voice, the way his gaze lingered on my lips, left no doubt about what kind of treats he had in mind.
"Dylan," I said, fighting back a smile while trying to look stern. "Stop flirting. We're both working."
"You're right," he said, straightening but not bothering to hide his amused satisfaction at my reaction. "Completely unprofessional of me."
But even as he moved away to attend to my tour group, refilling their glasses and explaining the nuances of theirbourbon flight, I caught him glancing my way with that same promising smile.
Friday night couldn't come soon enough.
October 30, Thursday
barrel customizationtailoring char level, toasting, and stave seasoning to achieve desired flavor outcomes
THE OCTOBERsun was pleasantly warm as I stood beside my van at the campground's wash station, spraying arcs of water across Ginger's rust-spotted surface. The cold water felt good against my hands as I worked to scrub away weeks of accumulated road dust and autumn grime, the physical activity providing a welcome distraction from the gnawing anxiety that had been building in my chest for days.
I'd been putting off this task for weeks, but something about the approaching deadline of Halloween made me want everything clean and organized. Maybe it was the superstitious notion that starting fresh might bring better luck, or maybe I just needed something mindless to do with my hands while I waited for news that could change everything.
The suds ran in dirty rivulets down the gravel as I worked my way around the van's perimeter, paying special attention to the windows that had been clouded with dust and the side panels that bore evidence of my travels through Kentucky's back roads. There was something therapeutic about the repetitive motion.
My phone rang just as I was rinsing the soap from the driver's side door, the sharp sound cutting through the peaceful afternoon air. The caller ID made my stomach clench with sudden recognition: the DNA lab.
With shaking hands, I shut off the hose and answered the call.
"Ms. Waters? This is Sandra from BluGrass Medical Lab. Your DNA paternity test results are ready for pickup."
The world seemed to narrow to just the sound of her voice and the hammering of my heart against my ribs. "They're ready?"
"Yes ma'am. We're open until five o'clock if you'd like to come in today."
I fumbled for my phone's text messaging while trying to process what she'd just told me. The moment I'd been waiting for, dreading, hoping for had finally arrived.
"Thank you," I managed. "I'll be there soon."
After ending the call, I stood staring at my phone for a long moment before typing a message to Tom Feldon:DNA results are in. Would you like to meet me at the lab?
The response came back faster than I'd expected, but not with the words I'd hoped to see:No thanks. Can you just let me know what they say?
The casual dismissal hit me like a slap. Here was a man who might be my father, who'd known my mother intimately, who could answer decades of questions about my identity and origins, and he couldn't even be bothered to show up for the most important moment of my life.
I fought back the tears that suddenly burned behind my eyes, my thumb hovering over the keyboard as I struggled to compose a response that wouldn't reveal how much his rejection hurt.
Sure,I typed back, the single word carrying none of the devastation I felt.
Standing there in the campground wash station with soap still dripping from my hands, I felt more alone than I had since arriving in Kentucky. Whatever those test results contained, I would face them by myself, just as I'd faced most things in my life.
The drive to the medical lab felt both endless and far too short, my mind cycling between hope and dread with each mile. By the time I pulled into the parking lot, my palms were damp with nervous sweat and my mouth felt dry as cotton.
The waiting room was sterile and bright, filled with the antiseptic smell that all medical facilities seemed to share. I gave my name to the receptionist, then sat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, watching other patients come and go while I waited for my name to be called.
"Bernadette Waters?"
A technician in scrubs appeared at the counter, holding a manila envelope. My legs felt unsteady as I approached, and I had to clear my throat twice before I could speak.
"That's me."
She handed me the envelope with professional efficiency, as if she were delivering test results for a routine blood panel rather than potentially life-altering information about my genetic heritage.
"Have a good day," she said with a smile that suggested she had no idea what this moment meant to me.
