Page 11 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
"Of course. Come into my office." She gestured toward a doorway behind the reception area.
Octavia's office was more luxurious than the reception area by far. I was getting the sense that the two sisters were very different in almost every way.
"Sit," she said, settling behind her desk and pulling out a yellow legal pad. "I'm guessing this isn't a social call."
I perched on the edge of the visitor's chair, my purse clutched in my lap like armor. "I think I found him. My father."
Octavia's pen stopped moving across the pad. "Think?"
"His name is Keith Banyon. He works for a liquor distribution company, and he knew my mother thirty years ago, he told me they dated." The words tumbled out in a rush. "But I don't know what to do next. Before I confront him, I'd like to know what kind of person he is, what kind of family life I might be disrupting."
"Smart approach," Octavia nodded approvingly. "Charging in blind rarely ends well. What information do you have on him?"
I pulled out the scrap of paper with his address and the notes I'd made from my online searches. "Current address, workplace, marriage license. I also have his car information—gray Lexus sedan." She rattled off his license plate number.
Octavia's eyebrows rose slightly. "Pretty thorough. How did you get the vehicle information?"
"I waited and watched until he left the bar."
"And did you go to his house?"
Heat crept up my neck. "I drove by." I swallowed hard. "Twice."
"Okay." She made more notes on her pad. "Look, I can do some digging—background check, financial records, talk to neighbors, maybe stake out his routine for a few days. Get a sense of who he is when he thinks nobody's watching."
"I don't have much money," I said quickly, my stomach clenching at the thought of detective fees I couldn't afford.
Octavia waved her hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. Consider it professional development—we don't get many paternity cases."
The relief that washed over me was so intense I almost teared up. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. But I need you to promise me something." Her expression grew serious. "Cool your heels until you hear from me. No more drive-bys, no 'accidental' encounters at his office, no showing up at his favorite restaurant. Let me do my job."
I nodded eagerly. "I promise."
"Good." She stood. "Give me a week or so. I'll reach out when I have something substantial."
As I walked back to my van through the oppressive heat, I felt lighter than I had in days. For the first time since arriving in Kentucky, I wasn't carrying the weight of my search alone.
August 13, Wednesday
final gravitythe specific gravity reading after fermentation, used to calculate alcohol content
THE SCENTof aged oak and leather enveloped me as I pushed through Goldenrod's heavy wooden doors. My palms were damp with nervous sweat. Despite Dylan's encouraging text message, I'd spent the entire morning debating whether to stop by. In my mind I kept seeing him being cozy with the blond woman.
The tasting room hummed with afternoon activity—tourists clustered around high-top tables sampling flight boards, the gentle clink of glasses mixing with conversations about vanilla notes and finish. Behind the polished bar, Dylan looked up from arranging bottles, and his face immediately brightened when he spotted me.
"Bernadette!" He set down the bottle he'd been holding and moved toward me with obvious pleasure. "I was starting to wonder if I'd scared you off with that private tasting."
"No, not at all," I said quickly, settling onto one of the leather bar stools. "I've just been... busy with work. My boss's, er, wife is implementing some changes."
His expression suggested he didn't entirely believe me, but he didn't push. Instead, he reached for a pitcher of lemonade, the ice cubes clinking against the glass as he poured. "Same as usual?"
"Perfect."
The lemonade was tart and sweet on my tongue, exactly as I remembered, but I found myself holding back despite Dylan's warm welcome.
"How is business?" he asked, leaning against the bar.
