Page 14 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
Keith studied the image, then angled his head. "Yeah, that's him. Older now, obviously."
I put the phone away, another piece of confirmation logged.
He finished his coffee and met my gaze across the table. "Look, I don't know how this is going to turn out for you, Bernadette. But I hope—I really hope—that if Boyd Biggs is your father, he steps up. Ginger deserved better than she got, and so do you."
The sincerity in his voice made my throat tight. "Thank you."
"Good luck with whatever comes next."
We parted ways in the parking lot, Keith heading back to his life, and me returning to my van with one more piece of the puzzle confirmed.
November 14, Friday
seasonal variationtemperature and humidity changes that impact barrel interaction over time
THE WAFFLE HOUSEoccupied the far end of the strip mall, its yellow sign a beacon of greasy comfort food that had probably been feeding late-night drunks and early-morning workers for decades. Octavia had suggested it as a meeting place—close to her office, private enough for sensitive conversation, and serving the kind of breakfast that could fortify you for difficult news.
I slid into the booth across from her. The table was slightly sticky despite a recent wipe-down. The smell of coffee, bacon, and hash browns hung thick in the air.
"You look exhausted," Octavia observed, pushing a laminated menu toward me.
"Couldn't sleep." I'd spent the night staring at my van ceiling, spiraling through worst-case scenarios.
"Then let's get some food in you." Octavia flagged down a server who appeared with coffee pot in hand, filling our mugs without asking. We ordered—scattered, smothered, covered hash browns for both of us, plus eggs and bacon—then settled in for the conversation I'd been both anticipating and dreading.
Octavia pulled a manila folder from her bag, setting it on the table between our coffee mugs. "I've been digging into Boyd Biggs's background. Found some interesting things."
My hands wrapped around the warm mug. "Tell me."
"By all accounts, he's an upstanding citizen. No criminal record, no scandals, active in community organizations. Serves on the boards of several charitable foundations alongside his wife. Their public image is spotless." She flipped open the folder,revealing printouts of news articles and social media posts. "He's been married to Jessica for twenty-five years. They have two children—Dylan and Portia, as you know."
"His parents are both deceased," Octavia continued. "His only sibling was a brother who died in prison."
I looked up sharply. "Prison?"
"Drug trafficking. Served six years of a ten-year sentence before he died." Octavia's expression was neutral, presenting facts without judgment. "Boyd apparently tried to help him multiple times, paid for rehab, hired lawyers. But the brother kept going back to the same patterns."
A brother who died in prison. Parents gone. No aunts, uncles, cousins mentioned in any of the articles Octavia had compiled. I studied the photograph of Boyd from a charity gala, his arm around Jessica, both of them smiling for the camera. Successful, established, alone in the world except for the family he'd created.
"We actually have something in common," I said quietly. "No extended family."
"That occurred to me too." Octavia sipped her coffee. "Though he managed to marry into a bourbon dynasty."
The server arrived with our food, plates piled high with cholesterol and carbohydrates. We paused the conversation while she distributed everything, refilled our coffee, and bustled away to the next table.
"So Boyd married into money and legacy," I said, picking up my fork. "Portia made a point of telling me I was an outsider trying to horn in on their family legacy. That I didn't understand what it meant to have generations of history."
Octavia's eyebrow arched. "That's rich."
"What do you mean?"
"That's the pot calling the kettle black." She stabbed a piece of bacon with emphasis. "Boyd Biggs did exactly what Portia's accusing you of doing. He was an outsider who married into theHarrington dynasty. He didn't have bourbon royalty in his blood any more than you do."
The observation landed with unexpected force. I'd been thinking of Boyd as inherently part of that world, as someone who belonged in a way I never could. But he'd been an outsider too, once. He'd married his way into the legacy that Portia now defended so fiercely.
"How did he and Jessica meet?" I asked.
Octavia consulted her notes. "Industry event in the late nineties. According to one interview I found, it was love at first sight." She paused. "Though I'm sure the fact that she came with a distillery and family connections didn't hurt."
