Page 6 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
"Something like that," I murmured, disappointment settling heavy in my chest.
"Bernadette?"
The familiar voice made me turn, and I found myself face-to-face with Keith Banyon. But this wasn't the stern confrontation from the medical building parking lot—this Keith wore casual festival attire and a genuine smile that transformed his entire demeanor.
"Keith! I didn't expect to see you here."
"Wouldn't miss it. This festival is the highlight of my year." He gestured to an elegant woman beside him with silver-streaked hair and kind eyes. "Bernadette, I'd like you to meet my wife, Kirsten."
My stomach dropped as I realized this was the woman I'd frightened with my amateur stalking attempts. "Mrs. Banyon, I owe you a huge apology. I'm so sorry I frightened you when I drove past your house. That was completely inappropriate."
Kirsten studied my face with the same intelligence I'd seen in her husband, then smiled with surprising warmth. "No harm done. Keith explained the situation, and I completely understand. We all have family mysteries we'd like to solve."
Her gracious response made my throat tight with emotion. These were good people—the kind who could have given a child stability, love, security.
"How is your search progressing?" Keith asked with genuine concern.
"I have a new lead. A cooper named Sam Church. Does that name mean anything to you?"
Keith's brow furrowed as he sifted through memories. "Church... Church..." He shook his head apologetically. "I'm sorry. My memory isn't what it used to be, especially for names from that long ago."
"That's okay. I know it's a long shot."
"Good luck." His expression grew paternal. "And call me if you need anything, okay? I mean that."
As Keith and Kirsten disappeared into the festival crowd, his arm protective around her waist, I stood alone in the cooperage tent surrounded by the tools of traditional craftsmanship. Watching them walk away—this couple who embodied everything I'd never had—made my chest ache with longing so sharp it felt like drowning.
What would my childhood have been like with parents like that? Stable, loving, financially secure? Would I have grown up in that beautiful house with the perfect garden, attendinggood schools, never wondering where the next meal was coming from?
The thought felt like betrayal, and tears burned behind my eyes as guilt crashed over me in waves. My mother had done her best with the hand she'd been dealt. She'd loved me fiercely, even when her own demons made that love complicated and painful to receive.
I blinked rapidly, swallowing the tears before they could fall. Tomorrow, Sam Church would be here. Tomorrow, I might finally have answers.
But today, I mourned for the life that might've been, and for the mother who'd given me the only life she could.
September 6, Saturday
thumpera type of doubler that uses heat and vapor to redistill without an additional heat source
THE FESTIVALgrounds pulsed with Saturday afternoon energy as Jett and I navigated through clusters of patrons clutching tasting glasses and sporting Bourbon Festival T-shirts and hats. The weather had warmed suddenly, and the September sun beat down mercilessly. The air carried competing scents of kettle popcorn and oak smoke drifting from demonstration areas.
"Thank you for coming with me," I said to Jett as we approached the cooperage tent. My voice was tight with nerves that had been building all morning.
"No problem," he replied, his presence steady and reassuring beside me. "That's what friends are for."
The wordfriendswas both comforting and disquieting at the same time.
The cooperage demonstration drew a substantial crowd. Tourists were arranged in semicircles around workbenches laden with traditional tools. And there, in the middle of it all, stood Sam Church.
My breath caught as I took him in for the first time. The photograph Octavia had shown me hadn't captured his physical presence—the way he moved with quiet confidence, the easy strength in his weathered hands as he shaped wood with practiced expertise. He wore sturdy work clothes and a leather apron stained with decades of use, his graying hair pulled back to reveal a face that had aged well despite years of physical labor.
"The char inside these barrels isn't just for flavor," Sam was explaining to his captivated audience, his voice carrying the deep resonance of someone comfortable with public speaking."It acts as a natural filter, removing impurities while adding those vanilla and caramel notes we associate with fine Kentucky bourbon."
He held up a piece of charred oak, rotating it so the crowd could see the alligator-skin texture created by controlled burning. His movements were economical, purposeful—the gestures of a craftsman who understood his materials at a molecular level.
"A good cooper doesn't just build containers," he continued, running his thumb along the wood's surface with obvious affection. "We create the foundation for liquid magic. Every barrel I make will house bourbon for years, maybe decades. That's a responsibility I don't take lightly."
The demonstration concluded with enthusiastic applause, and I watched as Sam began packing his tools with the same methodical care he'd shown throughout his presentation.
