Page 5 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
"What changed?"
"Probably realized he could make better money as a skilled craftsman than a warehouse worker. Coopers are specialized—not everyone can build and repair bourbon barrels properly. He's worked for several operations, but is freelance now."
The pieces aligned with tantalizing precision. The right age, the right industry connections, the right timeline. My mother would've known him during his warehouse days, when he was young and probably charming in the way that dangerous men often were.
"He'll be demonstrating barrel-making techniques at the Kentucky Bourbon Festival this weekend," Octavia added, sliding a program across the desk.
I stared at the festival schedule, my hands trembling slightly. "I'll be there. We're taking customers there instead of the regular tours."
"Seems like fate," Octavia said with rare gentleness. "But Bernadette, listen to me carefully." Her voice took on the serious tone I'd learned to respect. "You've had twenty-seven years to imagine this moment. You've rehearsed conversations, planned what you'll say, dreamed about what it might mean to find him."
I nodded, recognizing the truth in her words.
"But for him, if he is your father, this will come completely out of nowhere. It might be the best surprise of his life, or it might be devastating news he never wanted to face." She leaned forward, her dark eyes intense. "Don't overwhelm him. Let him process before you drop the bombshell."
"How do I even begin that conversation?"
"Ask about cooperage, show interest in his craft. Mention you're in the bourbon industry too. Build some common ground before you reveal why you're really there."
I picked up the photograph, studying Sam's face for clues to his character. His expression was focused but peaceful, the look of a man who'd found his calling in the precise craftsmanship of barrel-making.
"How are things with your own father?" I asked, remembering Octavia's cryptic comments about family complications.
Her expression darkened. "Some days I wishIdidn't know who my father was," she said dryly. "Knowledge isn't always the blessing we think it's going to be."
I thought about Keith Banyon's kind rejection and acknowledged Sam Church might not be as understanding.
September 5, Friday
doublera secondary pot still used to re-distill low wines for purity and flavor
THE FESTIVALgrounds sprawled before us like a carnival dedicated to liquid amber, white tents and colorful banners fluttering in the September breeze against a backdrop of tree-lined fields. The air thrummed with bluegrass music and carried the mingled aromas of barbecue smoke and the sharp sweetness of bourbon samples being poured at dozens of vendor booths.
"Welcome to the Kentucky Bourbon Festival," I announced to our tour group of eight retirees from Indianapolis as Jett navigated the bus through congested parking areas. "Established in 1992, this annual celebration draws over fifty thousand visitors to—"
"Wrong!" Teresa's voice sliced through my narration like a rusty blade. She sat in the front row with her ever-present clipboard, her platinum hair sprayed into submission. "It was founded in 1992, not established. And it's actually closer to sixty thousand visitors now. Get your facts straight!"
Heat flooded my cheeks as our passengers exchanged uncomfortable glances. Beside Teresa, Marv sat hunched in his seat like a deflated balloon.
In the rearview mirror, Jett's jaw worked like he was chewing nails.
"Thank you for the correction," I managed to say and even offered Teresa a smile.
The bus shuddered to a stop in a field designated for tour companies. As our passengers filed off with polite but subdued enthusiasm, I gathered my things with shaking hands.
"You did fine," Jett said quietly, his voice rough with barely contained anger. "Don't let that harpy get in your head."
I nodded mutely, not trusting myself to speak without either crying or screaming. I conceded I was nervous about the possibility of meeting Sam Church.
The festival buzzed with organized chaos as I made my way toward the demonstration areas, weaving between groups of bourbon enthusiasts. Laughter mixed with the calls of vendors hawking everything from bourbon-infused barbecue sauce to handcrafted whiskey glasses.
The cooperage demonstration area occupied a large tent near the festival's heart, complete with traditional tools and half-finished barrels arranged for educational display. My stomach clenched with anticipation as I approached, with Sam Church's photograph burning like a talisman in my pocket.
"Can I help you?" asked a bearded man in overalls who was arranging wood shavings around an enormous lathe.
"I'm looking for Sam Church. I understand he's demonstrating here this weekend?"
"Sam won't be here until tomorrow," the man replied, consulting a schedule posted on a wooden easel. "Saturday afternoon, two to four. You interested in cooperage work?"
