Page 24 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
Jett was organizing his paperwork when he glanced up from his clipboard. "Got any plans tonight?"
"The usual exciting lineup," I said with mock enthusiasm. "Ramen noodles and whatever's on the campground's spotty Wi-Fi."
"Feel like another adventure?"
My pulse quickened with unexpected anticipation. "Sure. What kind of adventure?"
"Give me thirty minutes to grab a shower and I'll show you." He started the engine, the diesel rumbling to life. "Wear something comfortable for walking."
Back at my campsite, I shed the burgundy polo shirt that had become my uniform and dug through my limited wardrobe options. I settled on dark jeans and a soft green sweater that brought out my eyes—at least, that's what my mother used to say. The evening air carried autumn's first whisper, cool enough to make the sweater feel perfect.
I found myself humming as I touched up my makeup, surprised by the lightness in my chest.
Jett returned in jeans and a navy flannel shirt that made his dark eyes even more striking. As we drove east on Interstate 64,the setting sun painted the hills in shades of amber and rust, the first autumn leaves catching fire in the fading light.
"Is this another Bigfoot Festival?" I teased.
"Not this time," he said with a smile. Then he sobered. "How are you feeling about Sam Church?"
The question should've brought back yesterday's crushing disappointment, but somehow it didn't sting as sharply. "It was hard at first. But honestly? It's probably for the best. At least he gave me some pictures."
"Did they give you any clues?"
I reached into my purse and pulled out the four photographs Sam had handed me before our awkward goodbye. "Maybe."
The first photo showed Sam and my mother sitting at what looked like a restaurant booth. He had his arm around her shoulders, but her smile seemed forced, her eyes distant. Something about her body language suggested she was already pulling away, even as the camera captured what should have been a happy moment.
"She doesn't look happy," I murmured, studying her expression.
The other three were group shots—friends gathered around tables or posing outside bars. Sam had written names beside some faces in faded blue ink. Keith Banyon stood in the background of one photo, younger but unmistakably the same man I'd followed around Lexington. Suzy appeared in all three pictures, her platinum hair teased high in true early-nineties fashion.
"There's a woman named Wanda here," I said, pointing to a redhead with a bright smile. "And this guy is Jim. These two have question marks—Sam couldn't remember their names."
"So you've got more leads."
"I'm going to show these to Suzy and Keith, see if they recognize anyone." I tucked the photos back into my purse as Jett's turn signal began blinking.
The sign read "Morehead - 2 Miles." I remembered seeing it during our drive to Olive Hill, but we'd blown past without stopping.
"Storytelling festival," Jett explained as we pulled into a parking area beside a natural amphitheater carved into a hillside. "Tonight's the open mic."
The amphitheater was carved into the landscape like an ancient Greek theater, its stone seating arranged in perfect semicircles around a simple wooden stage. Mature oaks and maples created a natural backdrop, their leaves beginning their transformation into autumn's palette. The air carried the scent of woodsmoke and hot apple cider from a concession stand.
Every seat was filled, the crowd a mix of ages and backgrounds united by their obvious appreciation for the spoken word. We found spots on a stone ledge near the back as a middle-aged woman took the stage.
"My daddy carried Mama's teeth back and forth to the nursing home every single day for three years," she began, her voice carrying perfectly in the natural acoustics. "Not because she needed them to eat—Lord knows the food there was soft enough for a baby. But because he knew she felt like herself with those dentures in place."
The audience chuckled knowingly as she painted a picture of enduring love measured in small acts of devotion. When she described her father carefully wrapping the dentures in tissue paper each night "so the other residents wouldn't steal them," tears mixed with laughter throughout the crowd.
A man in his sixties followed with a tale of childhood adventure—a twelve-year-old boy and his best friend camping overnight in search of the legendary bobcat that supposedlyhaunted their county's woods. His voice dropped to whispers during the scary parts, had us all holding our breath when the boys heard rustling outside their tent.
"Turned out to be Mrs. Hinton's escaped goat," he concluded to explosive laughter. "But we didn't stick around to make formal introductions."
A teenage girl with intricate braids read two poems she'd written about small-town life—one celebrating Friday night football games and summer festivals, the other mourning the friends who left for college and never came back. Her words painted pictures of belonging and loss that resonated in my chest.
"This is so nice," I whispered to Jett during applause between performers.
He nodded, his eyes bright with genuine pleasure. "This is Kentucky culture at its finest. Real stories from real people."
