Page 6 of Bourbon Girl: part 4 of 6
The honey-infused whiskey poured like liquid amber, catching the sunlight as I poured three fingers' worth into each mug. The aroma rose between us—vanilla and oak enhanced by the floral sweetness of Jett's wildflower honey.
"This place is peaceful," Jett said, settling beside me on the dock's edge. His feet dangled toward the water, and I was acutely aware of how the ridiculous barmaid costume made me look likesome sort of historical reenactor who'd wandered into the wrong century.
"It's grown on me," I admitted. "Not exactly what I pictured when I imagined my Kentucky adventure, but there's something calming about the water."
Jett lifted his mug, his expression growing thoughtful. "To your mother," he said quietly. "A woman I never met, but who was responsible for bringing you to Kentucky. And ultimately, for us sitting here right now."
The unexpected toast caught me completely off guard. Tears pricked at my eyes as I touched my mug to his, the soft clink echoing across the water. Something fundamental had shifted between us.
"Thank you," I whispered, meaning it more than he could possibly know.
We sipped the bourbon in comfortable silence, the honey adding a complexity that made each taste linger longer than usual. Jett shifted closer on the dock, his shoulder brushing against mine, and suddenly the air between us felt charged with possibility.
He turned to face me, his dark eyes serious and searching. For a heartbeat, I thought he was going to kiss me. My pulse quickened as he leaned closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne mixed with the bourbon on his breath.
"I should go," he said abruptly, pulling back. "Before this gives me a buzz. I still have to drive home."
The moment shattered. I forced a smile, hoping my disappointment didn't show too clearly on my face.
"Of course," I said, pushing to my feet. "Let me make you some coffee for the road."
I prepared the strongest instant coffee my limited supplies could produce, stirring in extra sugar to combat the bitterness.When I handed him the steaming mug, our fingers brushed briefly—a contact that felt both electric and melancholy.
"Drive safe," I called, waving as the bus pulled away from the campground.
Standing alone in my ridiculous costume, watching his taillights disappear into the dusk, I realized how profoundly grateful I was to have Jett as a friend. Even if that's all we'd ever be.
October 6, Monday
coopera craftsperson who builds and repairs barrels
THE WINGEDPegasus felt different at seven in the evening—less casual than during my previous visit with Keith, more charged with anticipation. I smoothed my regular clothes (blessedly free of corsets) and tried to calm the nervous flutter in my chest as Jett held the heavy wooden door open for me.
"You sure you're ready for this?" he asked quietly as we stepped inside.
"As ready as I'll ever be," I replied, though my voice betrayed the uncertainty I was trying to hide. "Thank you for coming with me."
"No problem," Jett said simply, but the way he squeezed my shoulder suggested he understood exactly how much this moment meant to me.
Tom Feldon sat at the same corner table where I'd met with Keith, his weathered hands wrapped around a half-empty beer glass. He looked older somehow under the bar's dim lighting, as if the weight of my phone call asking for this meeting had already begun to settle on his shoulders.
"Bernadette," he said, rising to shake my hand. His grip was firm but brief, and I caught something guarded in his expression that hadn't been there during our casual encounter at Jett's farm. "And Jett, good to see you again."
We settled into chairs around the small table. A server appeared almost immediately, and I ordered a bourbon neat—something to steady my nerves and give my hands something to do.
Jett ordered the same, while Tom stuck with his beer, his fingers drumming a restless pattern against the glass.
"So," Tom said when our drinks arrived, "you mentioned on the phone that you had something important to discuss. Something about your mother?"
I took a deep sip of bourbon, letting the burn ground me before diving into waters that might change everything—or nothing at all.
"Tom, I came to Kentucky to find my biological father," I began, watching his face carefully for any flicker of recognition or understanding. "My mother died without telling me who he was, but she mentioned he worked in the bourbon industry. When you recognized her name the other day..."
Tom's expression shifted subtly, becoming more focused, more wary.
"I wonder if you might be my father," I said, the words tumbling out faster than I'd intended. "You knew my mother. You both would have been in Lexington around the time I was conceived. The timing fits."
The silence that followed felt endless. Tom stared at me across the table, his face cycling through surprise, confusion, and something that might have been panic. His beer sat forgotten as he processed what I'd just revealed.
