Page 27 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
I kept my voice level. "You need someone to tell you how to run your company. Even a two-bit tour guide can see you're going in the toilet."
Teresa's mouth screwed up into a little bow. "That's not true."
Marve reclaimed the papers. "It is true, Teresa. Bernadette's right. You said you came back to change things, so let's change things."
"I'll leave you to talk," I said. "But I'm happy to help any way I can in the time I have left."
"You're leaving?" Marv asked.
"I'm going back to Arizona at the end of the year," I said. "But that only leaves us ninety days to turn things around."
I left the tour office, feeling resolved, and twenty minutes later, I pushed through the glass door of the Two Guys Detective Agency, the bell chiming my arrival. Linda's voice carried from the back office.
"—can't just disappear for three days without telling me where you're going, Octavia! We have a business to run!"
"It was surveillance work, Linda. Sometimes that requires irregular hours!"
"Hello?" I called.
"Bernadette," Octavia said with a welcoming smile. "Do you have news?"
"Sam Church wasn't my father," I said without preamble. "He was very nice about it, gave me some old photographs, but it's another dead end. I'm back to square one."
Octavia crossed her arms. "That's frustrating, but not unexpected." She bit into her lip. "Have you considered submitting your DNA to a genealogy tree?"
I shook my head.
"It's not cheap, and it takes time, but DNA testing through ancestry networks has become incredibly sophisticated. You submit a sample, and if any relatives—even distant ones—have also submitted samples, the system can identify potential connections."
More waiting, more uncertainty, but also a scientific approach that didn't rely on fading memories and incomplete records.
"I'll think about it," I said finally, turning to leave.
"Take your time," Octavia said. "But don't give up. Sometimes the answers find us when we're not actively searching for them."
I left, hoping she was right, because at the moment it was hard for me to remember why I'd started this journey to begin with. So far, nothing good had come from my impulsive trip to Kentucky.
My mind went to Dylan, then to Jett, and I blinked back tears.
Nothing good at all.
September 30, Tuesday
distiller's cutthe portion of distillate selected for aging based on taste and quality
THE SEPTEMBERbreeze carried the sweet scent of wildflowers and something indefinably green as I approached Jett's farmhouse, my stomach clenching with each step that brought me closer to his buzzing empire. The white hive boxes dotted the meadow like oversized dice, and even from fifty yards away, I could see dark clouds of bees moving in purposeful patterns around their entrances.
Jett emerged from the barn carrying a folding table, his sleeves rolled up despite the morning chill. "Thanks for coming," he called out, setting the table under a shade tree that was—mercifully—well away from the active hives.
"This is as close as I'm getting," I announced, gesturing toward the distant bee boxes. "Fair warning."
He laughed. "Noted. We'll plan this whole thing from a safe distance."
I spread my notebook and printed research across the picnic table, the pages rustling in the autumn air. "Before you invest time and money in putting together a honey tasting event, I think you should advertise it first and see if there's actual interest. Test the waters."
"Smart thinking," he said, settling onto the bench across from me. "What are you picturing?"
"Social media posts and ads, maybe an ad on tourism websites. Get people to sign up in advance so you know how much product to prepare." I flipped through my notes. "I've also been thinking about target markets—book clubs love unique meeting venues, cooking clubs would be interested inincorporating local honey into their recipes, nature enthusiasts would appreciate the educational component."
