Page 4 of Bourbon Girl: part 4 of 6
"Some of these you've already seen." I spread the photographs across the sticky table surface—the group shots Suzy had given me from Lexington and the pictures Sam Church had provided from his brief relationship with Mom. "And there's a new wrinkle. A man named Tom Feldon mentioned in passing that he knew my mother. I haven't asked him yet if they… dated."
Keith nodded. "I know Tom, and he was around back then, but he wasn't part of our group. But that doesn't mean he and Ginger weren't… friends."
I appreciated his discretion. It wasn't lost on me that I was basically looking for men who'd slept with my mother, and it felt as if I was invading her privacy.
Keith picked up each photograph methodically, holding them under the bar's dim lighting. His expression remained neutral, professional, like someone examining evidence in a case that didn't personally involve him.
"I recognize your mother, of course," he said, pointing to a candid shot of her laughing with a group of friends. "And there's Suzy. But these other faces..." He shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry, they're just not familiar."
Disappointment settled in my stomach like a stone. I'd been hoping Keith's longer relationship with Mom might have given him insight into her social circle, her patterns, the men she'd dated.
"Let me ask Sam and Frank," Keith said, gesturing toward the bar. "Between the two of them, they've probably met half the people who've ever lived in this county."
He carried the photos to the bar, spreading them out for the bartender and Frank, the owner. Frank lifted his hand in a wave to me, then studied the photos. I watched their animated discussion, saw them pointing at various faces, shaking their heads, picking up different images for closer examination.
"Nothing," Keith reported when he returned to our table. "Sam thought one guy looked vaguely familiar but couldn't place him."
I gathered the photographs back into a neat stack, trying not to let my frustration show. Every lead seemed to dissolve the moment I pursued it seriously.
"There is something interesting though," Keith added, pulling out one of Sam's photos. "This man here—" he pointed to a figure whose face was partially obscured, head turned down toward his drink. "He looks similar to this blurry guy in your photo from Suzy, doesn't he?"
I held the two images side by side, squinting at the indistinct features. There was a resemblance in build, in the way they held themselves, but nothing definitive enough to be useful. It was the guy Suzy thought could be "Bourbon Man."
"It might be Tom Feldon," I offered.
"Only he would know," Keith asked quietly.
I nodded, but I still hadn't decided whether to approach Tom. Part of me desperately wanted to know the truth, but part of me was scared of being wrong again. The weight of that uncertainty felt heavier tonight than it had all week.
October 4, Saturday
char levela standardized measurement of how much the barrel is charred (typically 1–4)
THE BIRDWHISTLETours office buzzed with unusual morning energy as Jett and I walked through the front door. Teresa stood behind the reception desk with the sort of predatory smile usually reserved for cats who'd cornered particularly plump mice. Even from across the room, I could tell she was practically vibrating with anticipation.
"Bernadette!" she called out with false cheer. "Perfect timing. We've made some exciting changes around here."
Marv looked up from his paperwork with the expression of a man who'd rather be anywhere else. Behind him, filing cabinets stood open like gaping mouths, their contents scattered across every available surface.
"What kind of changes?" I asked warily.
"Well, you know how you mentioned that our corporate uniforms were a bit..." Teresa paused dramatically, clearly savoring the moment. "Stodgy? Uninspiring? Lacking in authentic Kentucky charm?"
"I suggested something more regionally appropriate, yes."
"We took your feedback to heart." Teresa reached under the desk and produced a cardboard box. "We've decided to embrace the historical roots of Kentucky hospitality. You know, really lean into the authentic tavern experience." She placed the box in my hands, then gave me a light shove toward the bathroom. "You'll want to change before the customers arrive."
I carried the box toward the small restroom at the back of the office, acutely aware of three pairs of eyes following my progress. Behind the locked door, I opened the box with dread.
And rightfully so.
The costume spilled out of the box like a practical joke come to life. White peasant blouse with dramatically puffed sleeves. Brown corset-style vest that laced up the front. A long, full skirt in some sort of homespun-looking brown fabric.
"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered to my reflection in the wavy mirror.
But as I stared at the ridiculous outfit, something shifted in my perspective. If Teresa thought she could humiliate me into quitting by forcing me to dress like a refugee from a Renaissance faire, she had seriously underestimated my tolerance for absurdity. I'd been living in a van, chasing after phantom fathers, and surviving on instant coffee and hotdogs for months. A silly costume was hardly going to break my spirit.
I changed into the barmaid getup with the resigned efficiency of someone who'd learned to roll with whatever curveball life decided to throw. The corset was surprisingly well-made, cinching my waist in a way that was actually flattering. The skirt swished when I walked, and the whole ensemble had an undeniably theatrical flair.
