Page 8 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
Something shifted in his expression—surprise melting into something warmer and more complex. The distance I'd maintained between us seemed suddenly artificial, a barrier I'd constructed for reasons I couldn't quite remember.
"Thanks," he said quietly, his dark eyes holding mine for a moment longer than necessary before we both turned our attention back to the panel.
But I found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on discussions of market penetration and consumer preferences when the man beside me had just been publicly recognized as an innovator in an industry I was only beginning to understand.
September 8, Monday
high winesthe final product after redistillation, ready for barreling
THE GRAVELdriveway crunched beneath my feet as we approached Sam Church's cooperage, the morning air thick with dew and the sweet scent of wood shavings that drifted from his workshop. His operation sprawled across several acres of rolling farmland, with outbuildings arranged around a central barn that had been converted into what was clearly a master craftsman's domain.
"Thank you for coming with me," I said to Jett as we walked toward the main building, my voice tight with nerves that had kept me awake most of the night. "I know you probably have a million things to do on the farm."
"I told you I'd help," he replied, his presence solid and reassuring beside me. "Besides, I don't like the idea of you meeting this guy alone. Something about Saturday felt off."
The protective note in his voice sent an unexpected rush of warmth through my chest—not just gratitude, but something deeper. When had Jett become this steady presence in my life, this person I instinctively turned to when everything felt uncertain?
The workshop doors stood open, revealing an interior that took my breath away. Traditional cooperage tools hung from pegboards with museum-like precision, while wooden barrels in various stages of completion occupied workbenches throughout the cavernous space. The air smelled of oak and linseed oil.
Sam Church looked up from a barrel he was sanding, his work clothes already dusted with fine wood particles despite the early hour. In the natural light filtering through tall windows, Icould see the network of lines around his eyes, the careful way he moved that spoke of decades spent perfecting his craft.
"Mr. Church," I began, my voice steadier than I felt. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with us."
He nodded curtly, setting down his sandpaper and wiping his hands on a rag. "You said this was about something that happened thirty years ago."
The workshop suddenly felt enormous around us, filled with the ghosts of conversations that might change everything. I took a breath and launched into the story I'd rehearsed—my mother's death, her cryptic mention of a bourbon industry boyfriend, my search that had led me across the country to this moment.
Sam's expression remained carefully neutral throughout my explanation, but I watched his hands tighten around the work rag as I described finding his name through his niece at Angel's Envy.
"Ginger Waters," he said finally, her name falling from his lips like a prayer or a curse. "I haven't heard that name in decades."
"You knew her?"
"We dated for a while. Maybe six months." His voice carried the weight of old regrets. "She was beautiful, funny. Made me feel like I was the only man in the world when she smiled."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "What happened?"
"She just vanished one day. Stopped answering her phone, stopped showing up at the places we used to go. Someone told me she'd left town." He met my eyes for the first time since I'd started speaking. "You think I'm your father."
"I'm wondering, yes," I managed.
Sam's shoulders sagged and he sank onto a nearby stool, suddenly looking older than his years. "Jesus Christ," he whispered, burying his face in his hands. "I guess... I guess it'spossible. She never told me she was pregnant, never gave me a chance to..."
The silence stretched between us, filled with the weight of thirty years of unknowing.
"My wife," he said finally, his voice muffled by his hands. "This would destroy her. We tried for years to have children. She couldn't... we couldn't..." He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. "But I need to know the truth."
"There are tests," I offered quietly. "DNA tests that can give us certainty."
Sam nodded slowly. "I'll get one of those paternity kits for us, the mail-in kind." He stood abruptly, moving back toward the project he'd abandoned. "I have your number from when you called. I'll be in touch."
The dismissal was clear. As we walked back to Jett's truck, the September morning felt different—heavier, charged with dread.
"Do you think he'll actually follow through?" I asked as we reached the vehicle.
Jett's expression was grim. "Hard to say. He seemed pretty shaken up."
"He holds all the cards now. And he clearly sees this as a potential catastrophe."
