Page 8 of Bourbon Girl: part 4 of 6
"That's actually why I'm here. I have another candidate—a man named Tom Feldon. But his reaction to my news was... mixed."
Octavia leaned back in her chair, her expression shifting into what I'd come to recognize as her analytical mode. "Define mixed."
I recounted the meeting at the Winged Pegasus—Tom's shock, his admission about memory gaps from heavy drinking, his admission that he wasn't close to his two kids, his request for time to process everything. Octavia listened without interruption, occasionally making notes on a legal pad.
"So he didn't deny the possibility," she said when I finished. "But he's not exactly embracing it either."
"Exactly. And now I'm sitting here wondering if I should push harder, give him more space, or just accept that this might be another dead end."
Octavia set down her pen and studied me with an intensity that made me slightly uncomfortable. "Can I ask you something? Let's say Tom comes back tomorrow and confirms he's your biological father. Then what?"
The question caught me off guard. "I... what do you mean?"
"I mean, what happens next? What do you expect from him? What do you want this relationship to look like?"
I opened my mouth to respond, then closed it again. The truth was, I hadn't thought much beyond the moment ofconfirmation. The search had consumed so much of my energy that I'd never seriously considered the aftermath.
"I guess I want to know him," I said slowly. "Learn about his other kids, his life. Maybe have some kind of ongoing relationship."
"And if he doesn't want that?" Octavia's voice was gentle but unflinching. "If he acknowledges paternity but makes it clear he's not interested in playing father to a grown woman he's never known?"
I sighed. "I suppose I'd have to respect that."
Octavia nodded, then leaned forward slightly. "Sometimes the family we choose matters more than the family we're born into. Sometimes the people who show up for us consistently are worth more than the ones who share our DNA."
An image of Jett flashed through my mind—his steady presence, his willingness to help with my search, the way he'd sat beside me last night offering silent support.
"You think I'm chasing something that doesn't exist," I said.
"I think you're chasing something that might not exist in the way you imagine it," Octavia corrected. "Tom Feldon might be your biological father. But that doesn't automatically make him your dad."
I left the detective agency with more questions than answers, Octavia's words echoing in my head as I walked back to my van. The distinction she'd drawn between father and dad felt significant, though I wasn't sure I was ready to fully process what that meant for my search.
But as I drove back toward Happy Trails, one thing had become clear: I needed to seriously consider what I was hoping to gain from finding my biological father—and whether those hopes were realistic or just another form of wishful thinking.
October 8, Wednesday
stavea narrow wooden plank used to form the body of the barrel
THE MORNINGtour group consisted of five women from Louisville celebrating a friend's promotion. Their laughter echoed through the bus as we made our way through the countryside, but I found myself distracted, my thoughts drifting to Dylan and if he was enjoying his time in Texas. He texted me often, but typically he talked about his job or just said he missed me.
When we arrived at Goldenrod Distillery and the group dispensed to browse on their own, I walked into the bar, noting Dylan's replacement behind the counter. The place seemed less appealing and less energetic without him. I'd told myself I was going to put the brakes on whatever feelings that were developing between us. But the hollow feeling in my chest suggested otherwise.
"Bernadette."
I turned at the sound of my name, spoken with crisp precision that immediately put me on edge. Portia stood behind me. Her blond hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail. She looked professional and intimidating in a navy blazer with ornate silver buttons.
"Hello, Portia."
She looked my costume up and down. "Keeping it classy, I see."
My cheeks flamed. "It's for my job."
"Dylan's in Texas."
"I know. He came to see me. We talked."
"Did he tell you our parents forced him to go, to get away from you?"
