Page 4 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
"What a nice surprise," Boyd said.
"Not really," Portia pointed out dryly. "She's a bourbon tour guide, after all."
Jessica ignored the barb. "We were just tasting a twelve-year-old vintage. Want to try it?"
I shook my head. "I shouldn't because I'm working."
"Just a taste," she said. "Dylan mentioned you have a good palate."
Portia's eye roll spurred me forward in defiance. "Just a taste."
Boyd poured a finger's worth of the bourbon into a globed Glencairn glass, then extended it to me.
I took the glass and felt very much like I was being tested. I swirled the amber liquid in the glass to release the aromas, then pushed my nose into the glass to take them in. Then I sipped the bourbon and allowed it to wash over my tongue, then "chewed" the liquid to release the flavors.
"What do you taste?" Boyd asked.
"Caramel," I said. "And something nutty… pecans?"
Boyd smiled wide. "Very good."
"Dylan was right," Jessica said. "You have a good palate."
Portia gave a little snort. "We should let Bernadette get back to work." She nodded to the rowdy table of customers with "Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours" stickers on their shirts. "She has tips to earn."
"Portia," Jessica murmured.
"She's right," I said, then set the glass on the table. "Thank you for letting me taste the bourbon."
I left their table, my cheeks aflame, and joined the table of bachelor-party dudes. I tried to impart some tasting advice, but they were slamming shots. I endured their suggestive remarks until I couldn't anymore, then I walked back outside to get some fresh air. Portia's palpable disapproval of me hit on all my soft-tissue spots of not being worthy. In her own way, I'm sure she thought she was being kind, warning me that her brother was way out of my league.
I glanced at my phone to see if Dylan had responded to my last text. He hadn't.
I bit into my lip. Maybe Portia wasn't being polite about the situation… but she wasn't wrong either.
September 4, Thursday
pot stilla traditional batch distillation apparatus used in smaller or craft distilleries
THE TWOGuys Detective Agency felt like a sanctuary after yesterday's humiliation at Goldenrod. A scented air diffuser tickled my nose as I settled into the plush chair across from Octavia's imposing desk. Sunlight streamed through venetian blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across the manila folder she placed between us with ceremonial precision.
"Sam Church," Octavia announced, opening the folder to reveal photographs, documents, and what appeared to be official records. "Age fifty-three, born in Versailles, Kentucky. Currently lives in a house next to the cooperage with his wife."
My pulse quickened as she spread the contents across her desk like tarot cards revealing my future. The first photograph showed a man with weathered hands working over a wooden barrel, his graying hair tied back in a ponytail, safety glasses perched on his nose. He looked ordinary, approachable—nothing like the larger-than-life figure I'd built in my imagination.
"Married twice," Octavia continued, consulting her notes with professional detachment. "First marriage lasted eight years, ended in divorce. He married Carol Browning in 2010. No children from either relationship."
No children. The words echoed in my mind with devastating possibility. If Sam Church was indeed my father, I might represent his only biological offspring.
"Criminal history?" I asked, noting the official-looking documents in the pile.
"One arrest. In 1997 he pled guilty to auto theft. Served six months in county lockup, but he's been clean ever since."
I studied the photograph more closely, searching for some family resemblance in the weathered features. Did I have his nose? His jawline? The uncertainty was maddening.
"Employment history?"
"Bourbon, bourbon, bourbon." Octavia pulled out another sheet. "He worked in bourbon warehouses throughout his twenties—Heaven Hill, Wild Turkey, Jim Beam. Manual labor, moving barrels, maintaining inventory. Then eighteen years ago he transitioned to cooperage work."
