Page 1 of Bourbon Girl: part 4 of 6
October 1, Wednesday
barrelingthe process of filling a barrel with new distillate (white dog) for aging
THE MORNINGair carried the scent of campfire smoke and bacon as I approached the tour bus, my sneakers crunching against the gravel path. Through the open door, I could see Jett behind the wheel, his dark hair catching the early sunlight. The sound of the engine's rumble had become as routine as my bad morning coffee.
"Morning," I said as I climbed aboard, settling into my usual seat behind him.
"How'd you sleep?" Jett asked, catching my eye in the rearview mirror. He was referring to my reaction to yesterday's chance conversation with the bourbon industry's Agriculture Liaison Tom Feldon that had shifted my world.
"Like someone who might've found her biological father," I admitted, adjusting my tour guide polo. "I kept thinking about what Tom said. 'We had us some good times back in the day.' What does that even mean?"
Jett pulled away from the campground entrance, merging onto the quiet country road. "Could mean anything, that he and your mom were friends, worked together, dated..."
"If he's my father, he obviously doesn't know it. What if after all this searching, all these dead ends, he just... appeared?"
"Have you decided how you want to approach him?"
I stared out the window at the rolling Kentucky countryside. I now understood the premise of "Fall" because it seemed as if everything was falling—the temperature, the fire-colored leaves, and the general pace of life. "No. After Keith Banyon and Sam Church, after getting my hopes up twice only to have themcrushed..." I shook my head. "I want to think about it. Not just rush in and risk another disappointment."
The phone in my lap buzzed insistently. Dylan's name appeared on the screen, and my stomach clenched with a mixture of longing and shame. I let it go to voicemail.
"Dylan again?" Jett asked, noticing my expression in the mirror.
"He's been calling all week." The phone buzzed again—a text this time. I glanced at it reluctantly.
Please call me back. I don't care what Portia said. It doesn't matter.
My cheeks burned. I could still see his sister's smirk as she delivered her intel on me:She came to Kentucky to hunt for her biological father. Isn't that sweet? Oh, and the best part—she's homeless. Living in a van at a campground like a drifter.
"Is that Dylan?" Jett asked. "You have to talk to him sometime."
"I can't," I said quietly, shoving the phone back into my pocket. "The way he looked at me when Portia told him everything... it was pure pity."
"Maybe it was concern."
But I remembered how Dylan's expression had shifted from desire to something else entirely when he learned the truth about my circumstances. "Before I came to Kentucky, I thought finding my father would solve everything. "Now I know that might not happen, and I feel worse."
"Tom Feldon might be different," Jett said gently.
"But what if he's not? What if I approach him and he wants nothing to do with me?"
Jett nodded. "That could happen."
I sighed, leaning back in my seat. The tour bus rolled on through the Kentucky morning, carrying me toward another day of playing the part of someone who had answers, when the truthwas I'd never felt more lost. Somewhere out there, Tom Feldon was going about his morning routine, unaware that he might hold the key to everything I'd been searching for.
The question was whether I was brave enough to reach out.
October 2, Thursday
bourbon barrela specific type of 53-gallon charred new oak barrel used to age bourbon
THE LAUNDRYfacility smelled of fabric softener and industrial detergent, with the underlying aroma of someone's forgotten pizza from the microwave in the corner. I fed quarters into the ancient washing machine while Poppy sat cross-legged on the folding table, her bright purple sneakers swinging as she regaled me with the latest campground drama.
"I'm telling you, someone's been going through people's stuff." She unwrapped a piece of bubble gum with theatrical flair. "Mrs. Henderson from site twelve? She's missing her grandmother's bread bowl. And that guy with the Airstream? Someone took his lucky fishing lure."
I added fabric softener to my load, only half listening to Poppy's conspiracy theories. My mind kept drifting to Tom Feldon, to the conversation I needed to have but couldn't bring myself to initiate.
"And get this," Poppy continued, blowing a pink bubble that popped loudly. "Mrs. Garcia's camp chair disappeared Tuesday night. Right from outside her tent."
