Page 21 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
Hadn't I always planned to return to Arizona and complete my education? The degree would open doors to hotel management positions, restaurant operations, maybe even event planning—stable careers with predictable advancement paths and health insurance benefits. It was the sensible choice, the responsible choice, the choice my mother would have wanted me to make.
So what was stopping me?
I set the papers down and stared out at the darkening campground, watching fireflies begin their nightly dance among the oak trees. A family at a nearby campsite had built a small fire, and the scent of wood smoke drifted through my cracked window, mixing with the honeysuckle that climbed the fence behind my site.
The honest answer made my chest tight with vulnerability I didn't want to examine too closely. I'd been hoping—foolishly, perhaps—that finding my father would mean being folded into the warm embrace of a found family. That somewhere in Kentucky's gentle hills, I'd discover not just biological connections but emotional ones, people who would want to claim me as their own and give me the sense of belonging I'd never quite managed to find.
The fantasy had been intoxicating in its simplicity: a tearful reunion, explanations for past absences, invitations to family gatherings where I'd finally understand what it felt like to have roots that ran deeper than temporary addresses and short-term leases. I'd imagined holiday dinners and inside jokes, shared memories and the comfortable shorthand that came from growing up in the same place with the same people.
But Sam Church's reluctant participation in the paternity test had shattered that particular daydream. Even if the results proved he was my father, his obvious dread at the possibility suggested I'd be more burden than blessing, more complication than gift. His wife hostile reaction had made it clear I would never be welcomed into their carefully constructed life.
Still, I found myself reaching for a pen, then stopping with it poised over the signature line. The deadline for enrollment was only a week away, but something held me back from committing.
The paternity test results could arrive any day now. Whatever those results revealed would fundamentally change my understanding of who I was and where I came from.
I folded the enrollment papers carefully and tucked them into the manila envelope where I'd been keeping important documents. The college would have to wait a few more days for my decision. I'd invested too much time and emotional energy in this search to abandon it now, especially when I was so close to learning the truth.
September 24, Wednesday
distiller's beerthe fermented mash before it enters the still
THE SCENTSof charred oak and vanilla welcomed me as I pushed through Goldenrod's heavy wooden doors, leaving behind our group of bourbon enthusiasts from Chicago who were engrossed in their guided tasting. The afternoon light streamed through tall windows, casting amber patterns across the polished floors and highlighting the dust motes that danced in the air like tiny spirits.
Dylan looked up from behind the bar where he'd been arranging bottles for an evening event, and his face brightened with the kind of unguarded pleasure that still made my pulse quicken despite everything.
"Bernadette," he said, moving toward me. "I was hoping you'd stop by."
"Couldn't resist," I admitted, settling onto one of the leather bar stools. The ritual felt comforting—Dylan reaching for lemonade, the ice cubes clinking against crystal, the sweet-tart taste that had become synonymous with stolen moments in his presence.
"I've been thinking about what I said last week," he began, his voice carrying an unusual note of uncertainty. "About coming to your place. I didn't mean to pressure you."
The consideration in his tone made my chest tight with guilt. Here was this thoughtful, attractive man trying to respect boundaries I'd created out of pure shame, apologizing for wanting to spend private time with someone he was dating.
"I appreciate that," I said carefully. "Maybe we could find middle ground?"
His expression brightened immediately. "What did you have in mind?"
"You mentioned wanting to teach me more about the distilling process. Maybe I could come back when you're not working? See parts of the operation tourists don't get to experience?"
"Sunday evening?" he suggested eagerly. "After we close to the public, I could show you the mash rooms when they're running full production. The sound and smell are completely different when all the equipment is operating."
"That sounds perfect."
We made plans while I finished my lemonade, our conversation flowing with the easy rhythm that had developed between us over weeks of stolen moments. When I rejoined my tour group, Dylan walked me to the door, his hand briefly touching the small of my back in a gesture that sent warmth spreading through my chest.
The ride back to Happy Trails felt different, charged with anticipation for Sunday's private tour and the promise of uninterrupted time with Dylan. But my mood shifted the moment I spotted Poppy waiting by my van, her usually animated posture subdued and her freckled face serious.
"This came for you," she said without preamble, holding out a white business envelope with the return address of a genetic testing laboratory. "The mailman asked me to make sure you got it right away."
My hands trembled as I accepted the envelope. The laboratory's logo was printed across the top in crisp blue ink, professional and clinical.
"Thanks," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
Poppy studied my face with the intensity of someone far older than twelve. "Important news?"
"Maybe. I don't know yet."
She nodded solemnly and headed back toward the camp office, leaving me alone with the envelope that might change everything. I started to tear it open, then stopped, my fingers frozen on the perforated edge.
