Page 15 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
"There's no chemistry," I continued. "I thought when I met him, if he really was my father, I'd feel some kind of connection. Some instinctive recognition. But there's nothing."
"Yeah, sometimes it's like that," Suzy said gently. "Biology doesn't guarantee chemistry. I've known adopted kids who were closer to their parents than some people are to their biological families."
The observation carried the weight of experience, and I found myself wondering about the complexities of Suzy's own family relationships.
"Maybe the connection comes later," she continued. "After you get past the awkwardness of the situation."
"If the test is positive," I said. "He might not want any relationship at all."
"Then that's his loss, honey. But at least you'll know the truth."
After we ended the call, I continued folding clothes with mechanical precision, my thoughts churning like the washer beside me. The truth. That's what I'd come to Kentucky seeking, but now I wondered if the truth would be worth the potential heartbreak.
The potential rejection.
Movement outside the laundry room's small window caught my attention, and I looked up to see Teddy Reeves standing near the picnic shelter. The young woman Marilyn stood beside him, her arms wrapped around herself defensively. Even from this distance, something about their interaction set off alarm bells in my mind.
Teddy's body language was all wrong—there was something predatory in his posture, the way he positioned himself between her and any potential escape route.
I abandoned my laundry and stepped outside into the light rain, my sneakers squelching against the wet gravel as I approached them.
"Marilyn!" I called out with forced cheerfulness. "There you are. I was looking for you."
It was a complete lie, but it had the desired effect. Teddy straightened and stepped back.
"Oh, hey Bernadette," he said, his voice carrying an edge of irritation.
"I need your help," I said to Marilyn. "To mark the hem on a skirt I need to alter."
Marilyn's dark eyes flicked between Teddy and me, reading the subtext in my obvious interruption. Something like relief flickered across her features.
"Sure," she said quietly.
Teddy's jaw tightened with barely concealed anger. "We were in the middle of a conversation."
"It can wait," I said firmly, moving to position myself between him and Marilyn. "Can't it?"
For a moment, tension crackled in the humid air like electricity before a storm. Then Teddy shrugged with exaggerated casualness and walked away, his shoulders rigid with frustrated purpose.
"You didn't have to do that," Marilyn snapped once he was out of earshot. "I can take care of myself."
"I'm sure you can. But be careful around older men."
Her laugh was harsh and bitter beyond her years. "Mind your own business, lady. I've been handling guys like that since I was twelve."
The casual way she delivered those words knotted my stomach.
"Hey, Teddy," she called. "Wait up."
Then she threw me a look of defiance and stalked after him.
September 16, Tuesday
entry proofthe alcohol level at which bourbon is placed in barrels for aging (max 125 proof)
THE LATEafternoon sun slanted through the oak trees as I walked back from the dock, my book tucked under my arm and my mind still lost in the historical account of women who'd fought to establish themselves in Kentucky's male-dominated bourbon industry. The peaceful rhythm of lapping water still echoed in my ears, mixing with the distant sound of children playing and the gentle hum of RV generators.
But I knew something was wrong the moment I approached my campsite.
