Page 7 of Bourbon Girl: part 4 of 6
"Jesus," he breathed finally. "I... Bernadette, I honestly don't remember being with Ginger. Not in that way."
My heart sank, but I forced myself to remain calm. "You said you had good times together. What did that mean?"
Tom rubbed his forehead, suddenly looking every one of his fifty-plus years. "We hung out at the same bars, but ran in different crowds. The truth is, I was drinking pretty heavily back then. There are stretches of time from those years that are just... blank. Fuzzy."
The admission hung between us like a bridge I wasn't sure either of us wanted to cross.
"So it's possible?" I pressed gently.
"It's possible," he conceded, though his voice carried no enthusiasm. "But I can't give you the answers you're looking for. Not right now. I have two kids with my ex-wife, and we're not really close. They have their stepdad, and I—" He swallowed hard. "This is a lot to process."
Disappointment washed over me. I'd hoped for recognition, for some spark of memory that would confirm what I suspected. Instead, I was facing another wall of uncertainty.
"I understand," I said. "This must be overwhelming."
I pulled out my phone and scrolled to my contact information. "Here's my number. If you remember anything, or if you just want to talk about this more, please call me."
Tom took the information with hands that trembled slightly. Whether from nerves or emotion, I couldn't tell.
"I'll think about all this," he said carefully. "I just need some time."
He slammed his beer, then gave me a lingering stare, as if he was studying my face for signs of resemblance. After a nod to Jett, he stood abruptly and strode out.
My skin tingled as I watched him leave.
Jett looked at me. "How do you feel?"
"Like I'm collecting maybes instead of answers," I admitted. "But at least he didn't slam the door completely shut."
Even as I said the words, though, doubt gnawed at me. Tom's reaction had been shock rather than recognition, uncertainty rather than joy. Something told me I'd be waiting a long time for that phone call—if it ever came at all.
October 7, Tuesday
cooperagea workshop or factory where barrels are made
WHEN Ipushed open the glass door of the Two Guys Detective Agency, the scents of coffee and old shoes assailed me. An attractive woman I guessed to be in her fifties sat at the receptionist desk. Octavia and Linda were nowhere in sight, but I could hear their raised voices coming from a closed office door.
"Hello," the woman said, as if nothing was amiss. "How can I help you?"
"I'm Bernadette Waters," I said. "I don't have an appointment, but I was hoping to talk to Octavia for a few minutes about a, um, case, she's been working on." The voices increased in decibels. "But I can see, um,hearshe's busy."
"Hold on," the woman said with a pleasant smile. She opened a drawer and withdrew a silver whistle, then blew it shrilly.
I winced, but the voices ceased abruptly.
The office door opened, and Octavia poked her head out. She glared at the receptionist."What?"
The woman jerked her thumb toward me. "You have a client."
Octavia's gaze flitted to me, then she smiled. "Oh, hi, Bernadette."
"I should've called," I offered.
She gave a dismissive wave. "I need a break from my controlling sister," she said loud enough for her sister to hear. She stepped out and banged the door closed, then smiled. "Let's go to my office."
I followed her into her posh office where she situated herself behind her imposing desk. She gestured to a guest chair. "Have a seat. How's the search progressing?"
I settled into the chair. The mid-morning sunlight streaming through the blinds cast prison-bar shadows across the desk—an oddly appropriate metaphor for how trapped I felt in my current situation.
