Page 19 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
I took a deep breath and the confession tumbled out. "I came to Kentucky to find my biological father. My mother diedwithout telling me who he was, but she mentioned he worked in the bourbon industry. That's why I took this job—I thought if I gave tours, met people in the business, maybe I'd find him."
Jett's hands tightened on the steering wheel, but he said nothing, letting me continue.
"Yesterday I thought I'd found him. A man named Keith Banyon who knew my mother thirty years ago. But..." My voice cracked slightly. "He's not. He can't have children. His daughters are adopted. So I have to start all over."
The bus rolled to a stop at the campground entrance, but neither of us moved. Jett sat in stunned silence, processing what I'd just revealed.
"Jesus, Bernadette," he said finally, his voice rough with emotion. "That's... that's huge. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"Because it's pathetic," I said, gathering my things with shaking hands. "A grown woman chasing after a father who probably doesn't even know she exists."
"It's not pathetic," Jett said firmly. "It's human. And if you'll let me, I'd like to help you find him."
The offer hit me like a physical blow, so unexpected and generous that tears threatened to spill over. "You would do that?"
"Absolutely."
"I'd like that," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."
His eyes shone in the waning light. "Of course. See you tomorrow."
I jumped off the bus before the emotion overwhelmed me completely. I still felt overwhelmed at the task ahead of me. But my feet felt lighter knowing I had an ally in Jett.
August 23, Saturday
estersfruity and floral aroma compounds formed during fermentation
THE VINTAGElittle black dress had belonged to my mother—a relic from some long-ago occasion when she'd needed to look elegant. I'd found it pressed between tissue paper in the bottom of a drawer, the silk still lustrous despite its age. The fit was nearly perfect, skimming my curves in ways my oversized polo shirts never could, and paired with strappy sandals I'd splurged on at a discount store, I felt transformed.
My mother's pendant rested against the dress's modest neckline, her young face catching the light from Goldenrod's entrance lanterns as I approached the distillery. The building had been transformed for the evening—string lights draped between the oak trees, the scent of grilling food mingling with the familiar aromatics of aging bourbon, and the warm glow of candles flickering in mason jars scattered across cocktail tables.
Dylan appeared at the entrance as if he'd been watching for me, and the expression that crossed his face when he saw me made my pulse quicken with something close to triumph.
"Bernadette," he breathed, his green eyes widening with unmistakable appreciation. "You look... incredible."
"Thank you," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. The dress, my mother's dress, seemed to be lending me her confidence along with her style.
"Come on, let me introduce you to everyone." He offered his arm and I took it, feeling as if I was stepping into an exciting new world.
The party buzzed with perhaps fifty guests—a mixture of industry professionals, family friends, and what appeared to be local dignitaries. Everyone moved with the ease of people accustomed to such gatherings, their laughter mixing with the gentle clink of crystal glasses and the soft jazz trio playing near the tasting room entrance.
Jessica appeared first, resplendent in an emerald cocktail dress. Her smile was genuine and welcoming as she took my hands in both of hers.
"Bernadette! How lovely to see you again. And that dress is absolutely stunning—vintage?"
"It was my mother's," I admitted, touched by her genuine warmth.
"She had exquisite taste. Boyd, come meet Dylan's friend."
Boyd Biggs was tall and distinguished, with the kind of salt-and-pepper gravitas that suggested boardrooms and tee times. His handshake was firm, his smile kind, and when Jessica whispered something about me being the tour guide Dylan had mentioned, his expression was interested rather than dismissive.
"Any friend of Dylan's is welcome here," he said simply, but his eyes held the same warmth I'd seen in his wife and son.
Portia materialized beside us in a flowing dress, her blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon. Her greeting was polite but cool, and as the evening progressed, she managed to work subtle criticisms into our conversations.
"That's such an interesting necklace," she said at one point, studying my mother's pendant with calculating eyes. "So bold to wear a photograph. Very... bohemian."
But Dylan's obvious delight in my presence, the way he kept finding excuses to touch my arm or lean close to explain some aspect of the bourbon-making process, kept my confidence buoyant despite his sister's barbs.
