Page 18 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
The words hit me like a physical blow, even though I'd prepared myself for this possibility.
"I can't have children," he continued gently. "My wife and I tried for years before we decided to adopt. Sarah and Emma—they're both adopted. We brought them home as infants."
The parking lot seemed to tilt around me, and I gripped the steering wheel harder to steady myself. All those days of following him, all the research and surveillance, the carefullyconstructed fantasy of finally finding my father—all of it crumbling in an instant.
"But I am sorry about your mother," Keith said, reaching into his wallet and pulling out a business card. "Ginger was a sweet girl. If you'd like to talk about her sometime, call me. And I'll try to remember the names of other guys she dated back then. Maybe I can help you figure out who your father actually is."
He handed me the card through the window, his fingers briefly touching mine in a gesture of unexpected kindness.
"Take care of yourself," he said softly. "And no more following people, okay? It's a good way to get yourself in serious trouble."
As he walked back to his Lexus, I sat in my van fighting back tears of disappointment and embarrassment. Keith Banyon had turned out to be exactly the kind of man I would have wanted for a father—decent, successful, caring. The kind of man who would have given me the stable childhood I'd never had.
But he wasn't mine. Had never been mine. Was just another dead end in a search that seemed increasingly hopeless.
August 22, Friday
aroma compoundsesters and alcohols produced during fermentation that influence flavor and smell
THE TOURbus felt suffocating despite the air conditioning, and I could taste the metallic tang of anxiety on my tongue as I stood to address our group of eight retired teachers from Michigan. Teresa sat in the front row like a vulture perched on a fence post, her clipboard balanced on her crossed legs and her pen poised for maximum criticism.
"Welcome to Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours," I began, my voice sounding hollow in my own ears. "Today we'll explore Kentucky's... um... liquid heritage, beginning with the settlement of... the early settlers who..."
I faltered, the carefully memorized introduction crumbling as yesterday's encounter with Keith Banyon replayed in my mind. His kind but final words—I'm not your father—echoed over and over with the finality of a door slamming shut.
"Speak up!" Teresa interrupted sharply, her pen scratching across the clipboard. "Project from your diaphragm, not your throat. And what happened to the historical context about 1783?"
Heat flooded my cheeks as the retired teachers exchanged uncomfortable glances.
"Right, 1783," I stammered, trying to recover. "When the first corn-based whiskey was distilled by... by pioneers who..."
"Wrong!" Teresa called out, her voice cutting through the bus like a blade. "It was Elijah Craig in 1789, not 1783. Get your facts straight!"
The Michigan teachers looked mortified on my behalf, their initial enthusiasm dampening as they witnessed this public humiliation. I caught sight of Jett's angry eyes in the rearview mirror, but I gave him a little headshake to circumvent him stepping in.
The day continued in much the same pattern. Every stop brought fresh corrections, fresh mortifications, fresh reminders that I was failing at the one thing I'd thought I was getting good at. My confidence, already shattered by Keith Banyon's revelation, crumbled under Teresa's relentless assault.
By the time we returned to the office, the tip jar held a disappointingly light collection of bills, and the Michigan teachers filed off with polite but subdued thank-yous.
"Just when I thought you were getting better," Teresa admonished, "you're getting worse!"
"Sorry," I murmured. "I haven't felt well today. Um, cramps." It was the universal get-out-of-jail free card for any bad day.
She softened—a fraction. "Oh. Well… try harder next time."
"I will."
She disembarked, deflated.
Jett and I drove toward the campground in silence. I stared out the window at the passing countryside, seeing nothing but my own reflection in the glass—hollow-eyed and defeated.
"Alright," Jett said finally, his voice gentle but determined. "What's really wrong? I don't buy your excuse."
His words, delivered with such casual vehemence, surprised a laugh out of me despite everything. I turned to look at his reflection in the rearview mirror, seeing genuine concern in his dark eyes.
"It's complicated," I said quietly.
"Try me."
