Page 24

mash out the final stage of mashing, raising temperature to stop enzyme activity

THE EVENING air carried the scents of charcoal and grilling meat from campsites scattered throughout the grounds.

I was heading back to my cabin after a long day when I spotted the familiar figure sitting on a picnic table bench, a thin stream of smoke curling up from her fingers.

Octavia Guy sat alone in the gathering dusk, looking out of place and out of sorts.

The no-smoking signs were posted clearly around the campground, but I found myself not caring as I approached. There was something about her biting wit that drew me in, even as it made me nervous.

"Hey there," I called softly, not wanting to startle her.

She turned, and I caught the quick movement as she shifted the cigarette to partially hide it behind her back—a gesture more automatic than truly secretive.

"The mysterious tour guide," she said with a wry smile. "Don't report me to the camp rangers."

"Your secret's safe with me," I said, settling onto the opposite bench. The wood still held the day's warmth against my legs.

Octavia took another drag, the ember glowing orange in the deepening twilight. "I thought I might see you again."

"Why do you say that?"

"Years of reading people," she said simply. "Plus, you've got that look people get when they're carrying around a big question they can't answer on their own."

The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "I'm looking for my biological father. I came here, took this job, hoping somehow I'd find him. He allegedly works—worked—in the bourbon industry."

Octavia's eyebrows rose slightly, but her expression remained neutral. "That's a hell of a long shot. What do you have to go on?"

I told her everything—about my mother's death, the lack of information, my trip to Cincinnati to find Suzy, the photographs with the mysterious Bourbon Man.

As I spoke, the sounds of the campground faded around us: children's laughter from a distant tent, the crackle of campfires, someone playing a guitar badly but enthusiastically.

When I finished, Octavia nodded slowly. "You've done good detective work." She flicked ash onto the ground. "If I were in your shoes, I'd have one of those photographs of your mother made into jewelry. A necklace, maybe, or a pin. Wear it when you're giving tours."

"You think someone might recognize her?"

"It's possible. People remember faces, especially pretty ones.

And if she was as social as this Suzy woman described, chances are good she left an impression on people.

" Octavia took a final drag and stubbed the cigarette out against the table leg.

"Of course, there's always the risk that if your father does recognize her, he might not say anything. Might even avoid you."

The thought sent a chill through me despite the warm evening. "I know. That's what scares me."

"Yeah, well, fathers can be complicated," Octavia said, her voice taking on a harder edge. "Linda and I know a little something about having a troublesome father ourselves."

Something in her tone told me not to push for details, so I simply nodded.

She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a business card, the white rectangle crisp against the gathering darkness.

"Look, we're getting out of this place—thank God—tomorrow morning.

No offense to you nature lovers, but the only stars I want to sleep under are in five-star hotels.

" She handed me the card. "Call anytime.

Whether you need professional help or just want to talk to someone who gets it. "

I took the card, feeling the smooth cardstock between my fingers. "Thank you," I said, meaning it more than she could know.

"Don't mention it," she said, standing and brushing dirt off her jeans. "Good luck, Bernadette. I have a feeling you're going to need it."