Page 17 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
"Right. Thanks for checking."
"Well, you take care now," Teddy said, already moving away.
I watched him shuffle across the gravel toward his tent, his gait unhurried and casual. But my heart hammered against my ribs.
Once he disappeared inside his tent, I circled my van slowly, checking for anything disturbed or unusual. The doors were locked—I'd made sure of that before leaving for the tour. No obvious signs of tampering. I crouched down to examine the undercarriage, looking for... what? I had no idea what a failing catalytic converter would look like anyway.
Nothing seemed obviously wrong.
I unlocked the van and climbed inside, immediately checking my belongings. Everything appeared untouched.
I locked the doors from the inside and sat in the driver's seat, staring at Teddy's tent across the lot. A single light glowed from inside. Was he watching me now through a hatch? Had he been watching all along?
The man gave me the creeps. The Oneys seemed to tolerate him as part of the campground's cast of characters, but I'd never felt comfortable around him.
I started the van instead, the engine turning over smoothly. No strange smells, no unusual sounds. Whatever Teddy had been doing, it apparently hadn't affected my vehicle's operation.
But the creeping sensation lingered.
November 17, Monday
color developmentabourbon’s deepening color as it absorbs compounds from the charred oak
JETT'S WORKSHOPsmelled of beeswax and wood smoke. The November sun streamed through the windows over our project. I stood at the long workbench he'd set up, watching him measure out beeswax pellets with practiced precision.
"The key is maintaining consistent temperature," he explained, gesturing to the double boiler on the hot plate. "Too hot and the wax scorches. Too cool and it won't blend properly with the honey."
I leaned closer, fascinated by the process. The beeswax melted into liquid amber, releasing a sweet scent that mingled with the honey he was warming in a separate container. This was a side of Jett I hadn't fully appreciated—the craftsman, the creator, someone who took raw materials from his hives and transformed them into something beautiful.
"Can I stir?" I asked.
"Absolutely." He handed me a wooden stirring stick. "Slow, steady circles. We want everything integrated but not agitated."
I began stirring, watching the wax swirl hypnotically. Jett moved around the workshop with easy familiarity, gathering glass jars, cotton wicks, and small labels he'd printed with "Flannery Apiaries Artisan Honey" and the farm's logo—a simple bee silhouette.
"You're really good at this," I observed. "The whole process—it's impressive."
He glanced up from preparing the wicks, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. "Been doing it since I was a kid. Mygrandmother taught me. She believed nothing from the hive should go to waste."
We worked in comfortable rhythm—me stirring while Jett prepared the containers, placing pre-waxed wicks in the center of each jar. When the beeswax reached the right consistency, he added the warmed honey in careful measures, showing me how to test the blend for proper viscosity.
"Now comes the fun part," he said, picking up the first jar. "Pour slowly and steadily. Fill to about half an inch from the rim."
I watched him demonstrate with two jars, then picked up the ladle myself. The warm wax mixture flowed like liquid gold, filling the glass containers with honeyed light. Something about the simple act—creating something useful and beautiful—felt meditative.
"You're a natural," Jett said, observing my technique. "Ever consider a career change to candle making?"
I laughed. "I think I'll stick with bourbon tours for now."
We filled jar after jar, the workshop gradually accumulating rows of cooling candles. Their scent filled the space—sweet, warm, vaguely floral from whatever flowers the bees had visited throughout the season.
"Speaking of the future," Jett said carefully, not looking up from the jar he was filling. "Any word on those DNA test results yet?"
My hand stilled over the ladle. "They said tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." He set down his jar and met my eyes. "You doing okay? With the waiting?"
I resumed pouring, needing something to focus on besides the knot in my stomach. "As okay as I can be. It's strange—I've spent months searching, and now that I might have answers..."
