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scalding overheating mash, which can deactivate enzymes or affect flavor

THE NEON sign of the Red Pegasus bar flickered sporadically in the gathering dusk.

The exterior brick was stained with decades of city grime, and the small windows were so dark I couldn't see inside.

As I pushed through the heavy door, I was assailed with musky aromas—cigar smoke, spilled whiskey, and something indefinably masculine that spoke of countless nights and countless stories.

The interior was dimly lit by amber-tinted fixtures that cast everything in sepia tones.

Red vinyl booths lined the walls, their surfaces cracked and patched with duct tape, while a handful of regulars hunched over their drinks at the scarred wooden bar, while young hipsters crowded around the billiards tables.

The jukebox in the corner played something slow and mournful, the kind of song that matched the atmosphere perfectly.

I slid onto a barstool and ordered a glass of white wine from the bartender—a heavyset man with graying hair and tired eyes who looked like he'd been here since the place opened.

"Haven't seen you before," he said, setting down a glass that had seen better days. The wine was warm and slightly sour, but I sipped it anyway, trying to imagine my mother in this space thirty years ago.

On the other side of the bar, a well-dressed man stood by a table of customers, laughing and glad-handing. He sent a hand signal to the bartender who pulled a bottle of bourbon from beneath the bar and proceeded to pour four drinks, neat. The bartender winked at me.

"Gotta love a guy who works for the biggest liquor distributor in town."

The man walked over and handed the bartender a credit card. "Thanks, Sam. These are on me. And pour one for yourself."

"Appreciate it, Keith."

While the bartender ran his card, the man looked in my direction and gave me a passing smile. He was handsome, probably mid-fifties. Then his gaze landed on my necklace and he squinted.

My pulse rocketed up. "Do you recognize her?"

He angled his head. "Who is she?"

"Her name is Ginger Waters. She used to work here."

Keith's expression shifted from polite interest to genuine surprise, his eyes widening as he looked at me more carefully. "Ginger Waters? Jesus, I haven't heard that name in... it's got to be thirty years."

"You knew her?" I asked, my pulse hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it.

"Yeah, I knew Ginger." Keith's face broke into a grin that transformed his features completely. "In fact, we might've dated a few times."

The world seemed to tilt around me. My hands gripped the edge of the bar so tightly my knuckles went white, and I felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

This man—this well-dressed handsome stranger who sold liquor and schmoozed with customers—had dated my mother.

He could be the mysterious Bourbon Man that Suzy remembered.

This man could be my father.