Page 7 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
"Go on," Jett murmured, his hand briefly touching the small of my back. "It's now or never."
We approached as Sam was wrapping chisels in oiled cloth. Up close, I could see the network of fine scars on his hands—evidence of years working with sharp tools and unforgiving wood.
"Mr. Church?" My voice came out higher than intended, and I cleared my throat. "I'm Bernadette Waters. That was a fascinating demonstration."
He looked up with the polite attention of someone accustomed to festival interactions, his eyes a surprising shade of green flecked with gold. "Thank you. Are you interested in cooperage work?"
"Actually, I was hoping to speak with you about a personal matter."
His expression shifted to wariness. The tools in his hands stilled as he studied my face more carefully. "What kind of personal matter?"
"It involves something that happened nearly thirty years ago." The words felt clumsy on my tongue, inadequate for the magnitude of what I was trying to communicate.
Sam's gaze dropped to my necklace, and I watched his pupils dilate as he focused on my mother's photograph nestled against my collarbone. The recognition that flickered across his features made my heart hammer against my ribs.
"This isn't the time or place for that kind of conversation," he said quietly, his voice dropping low enough that only Jett and I could hear. Around us, festival goers continued their cheerful revelry, oblivious to the tension crackling in our small circle.
"I understand completely," I said quickly, desperate not to lose this opportunity. "I'll meet you wherever and whenever is convenient for you. I just need to talk."
Sam resumed packing his tools, but his movements had lost their earlier fluidity. He was thinking, weighing options, calculating risks. Finally, he pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and scribbled something on the back.
"My cooperage is on Versailles Road, about ten miles outside Lexington." He handed me the card without making eye contact. "Monday morning, nine o'clock."
I nodded eagerly. "I'll be there. Thank you."
Sam shouldered his tool bag and walked away without another word, disappearing into the festival crowd with the purposeful stride of someone fleeing an uncomfortable situation.
I stared down at the business card in my trembling hands. "Samuel Church - Traditional Cooperage" was printed in simple black letters, with his hand-scrawled address on the back. Istared at the card that might hold the key to everything I'd been searching for. Monday morning couldn't come fast enough.
September 7, Sunday
low winesthe initial distillate from the beer still, typically 30–40% alcohol by volume
I SATin a panel discussion in a large white tent that offered blessed refuge from the afternoon sun, though the canvas walls did little to muffle the festival's cheerful cacophony outside. Folding chairs arranged in neat rows faced a modest stage where five industry experts sat behind a table draped in Kentucky Bourbon Festival banners.
I balanced my notebook on my knee, pen poised to capture insights that might improve my tour presentations. Beside me, Jett sat with his arms crossed, looking mildly skeptical about the entire proceedings. His dark hair was slightly damp with perspiration, and I was hyperaware of the warmth radiating from his body.
"Flavored bourbons represent the fastest-growing segment of our industry," announced the moderator, a distinguished woman from the Kentucky Distillers' Association. "Today we'll explore how these innovations are attracting new consumers while honoring traditional craftsmanship."
The panelists introduced themselves in turn—a master distiller from a craft operation, a marketing executive, a retail buyer, a flavor chemist, and Tom Feldon, Agricultural Liaison. Tom had the kind of weathered face that spoke of years spent outdoors coordinating between distilleries and the farmers who supplied their raw materials.
"One of the most exciting developments we're seeing is honey-infused bourbon," Tom said when his turn came to speak. "The natural sugars and floral notes complement bourbon's vanilla and caramel characteristics beautifully."
I scribbled notes about flavor profiles and consumer demographics, genuinely fascinated by the technical aspects of product development. The chemistry behind taste preferences seemed almost magical—how certain compounds could trigger emotional responses, how tradition and innovation could dance together in a glass.
"We're particularly fortunate here in Kentucky to work with local apiaries that produce exceptional honey," Tom continued, his gaze scanning the audience. "In fact, we have one of our premier suppliers here today."
My pen stopped moving as Tom's eyes found Jett in the crowd, and a knowing smile crossed his weathered features.
"Jett Flannery from Flannery Apiaries," Tom announced, gesturing toward us. "His wildflower honey took Best in Show at the State Fair, and it's helping us create a sub-category of bourbon that appeals to enthusiasts looking for a sweeter, more approachable profile."
The tent erupted in appreciative applause, heads turning to locate Jett. I watched his cheeks flush with a mixture of pride and embarrassment as he raised his hand in a modest acknowledgment. The recognition was clearly unexpected but deeply gratifying.
I joined the applause enthusiastically, my notebook sliding off my lap as I clapped. The sound of genuine achievement deserved genuine celebration, and seeing Jett recognized for his expertise filled me with an odd sense of vicarious pride.
"You don't have to applaud," Jett murmured as the attention shifted back to the panel, his voice carrying amused self-consciousness.
"I want to," I said firmly, retrieving my fallen notebook. "That's amazing, Jett. Your honey is helping create an entirely new category of bourbon."
