Page 89 of Bourbon Bliss
“Two reasons. One, I’m fascinated by the fact that such enormous genetic diversity among our species can randomly produce these results. And two, you’re very pretty, so another woman would be fortunate to look like you.”
“Aw, thanks, Juney.”
I clicked back to the photo of not-Callie. “What do we need to do?”
“I’ll tell Dad,” she said. “But I can’t promise this will reopen the investigation. Not if the Kendalls believe she’s Callie. One grainy internet photo isn’t proof that she’s not who she says she is.”
“Okay.” I stood and closed my laptop. “Thank you for confirming my suspicions.”
“Juney, leave this to the authorities.”
I nodded. I didn’t like lying to my sister, so I decided not to do so verbally.
“And no more talking to people in biker gangs. Unless it’s the Dirt Hogs.” Bootleg’s own biker gang was a group of octogenarians who wore leather jackets and sat on their motorcycles outside the Still on Tuesday nights while their wives played bingo over at the Lookout.
“Thank you, Cassidy. I’ll see you at dinner tomorrow evening.”
“Bye, Juney.”
I left, my mind still buzzing with questions and possibilities. I didn’t have the answers. But I knew I was right about one thing. That woman wasnotCallie Kendall.
And I was going to prove it.
29
George
Nadine Tucker’s famous chicken and dumplings smelled like heaven. I sat in the living room of June’s childhood home, beer in hand, with her dad and Bowie Bodine. The TV was on, the sound turned low. June and her sister chatted with their mom in the kitchen while dinner simmered on the stove.
June’s parents had invited us over for Sunday dinner. Their house was cozy, with photos of June and Cassidy as kids on the walls. An old wedding photo showed a much younger Harlan and Nadine Tucker. June looked like her dad.
I took a drink of my beer and glanced around, suddenly having an odd flashback to earlier this year. Sitting in a club with music bumping through the walls, an overpriced drink on the table. People showing off their designer labels. Expensive shoes. What a show that had been. A shit-show. Groupies and hangers-on, people who only wanted a piece of your fame.
This was a world apart, and I loved every bit of it. Reminded me of where I’d come from, and where I wanted to be.
“All right, boys,” Nadine said, peeking her head into the living room. “Dinner’s ready.”
We gathered around the table Bowie and I had helped set. Harlan and Nadine at each end, Cassidy and Bowie on one side, June and I on the other.
“Well, isn’t this nice,” Nadine said, smiling at her daughters.
“Dinner looks delicious,” Harlan said as he ladled the thick chicken stew into his bowl.
Bowie looked like there couldn’t possibly be a happier man anywhere on earth. He smiled at Cassidy, giving her a quick kiss on her temple.
We all dished up, and the food tasted even better than it smelled.
“Mrs. Tucker—” I said, but she stopped me before I could compliment the meal.
“Call me Nadine. And do you prefer GT, or George?”
I thought about that for a second. “You know, I’ll answer to either. I’ve been GT since I was in middle school or thereabouts. By high school, even my parents called me by my initials. But I like my name. It’s old-fashioned, but I guess that’s why I’ve always liked it.”
“Were you named for someone?” Nadine asked.
“My grandfather,” I said. “I guess he was the original George Thompson.”
“You live in Philadelphia, is that right?” Nadine asked. “Is that where you’re from?”
