Page 14 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
alcohol by volume (ABV) the percentage of alcohol in the distiller’s beer
THE AFTERNOON sun streamed through the van's open door as Poppy and I worked inside the cramped but increasingly organized space.
She knelt on the floor, carefully peeling the backing off adhesive LED strips while I held the small lights in position beneath the newly installed cabinets.
The van smelled of wood mixed with the lingering aroma of the peanut butter sandwiches we'd shared for lunch.
"A little more to the left," Poppy instructed, her tongue poking out in concentration. "Now press it down really hard so it sticks."
The LED strips cast a warm, even glow across the workspace, transforming the previously dark corner into something that resembled a functional office area. The effect was surprisingly dramatic—what had felt like living inside a cardboard box now had the cozy ambiance of a tiny studio apartment.
"This is so cool," Poppy breathed. "It's like a real house now."
I laughed. "Well, not quite, but it's an improvement."
Next, we tackled hanging the cork bulletin board above the fold-down desk. The board fit perfectly in the space we'd measured, and I felt a surge of satisfaction as we stepped back to admire our work.
"Now for the fun part," I said, retrieving the laminated map of Kentucky from my supply box.
The colored pushpins caught the LED light as I began repositioning them—red for major commercial distilleries, blue for craft operations, green for historic sites, yellow for places I'd researched but never visited.
A movement outside caught my eye, and I glanced through the van's window to see a young woman walking past with a laundry basket balanced on her hip.
She looked very young—fifteen?—with intricate tattoos covering both arms and dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
Her clothes were rumpled and worn, and there was something about her posture—shoulders hunched, eyes fixed straight ahead—that spoke of someone trying to remain invisible.
I lifted my hand in a friendly wave, but the woman's response was a cold glare. She continued past without breaking stride, her flip-flops slapping against the gravel path.
"Who was that?" I asked Poppy, who craned to get a better view out the back window.
"That's Marilyn. She's been here maybe a week, staying in that beat-up tent by the shower house. Mom and Dad told me to stay away from her—she doesn't talk to anyone and kind of gives everyone the creeps."
I watched the young woman disappear around a bend in the path, noting how thin she looked. "She seems awfully young to be camping alone."
"Dad thinks she might be a runaway," Poppy said in a conspiratorial whisper. "But Mom says some people just want to be left alone, and as long as she pays her fees and doesn't cause trouble, it's not our business."
The interaction left me unsettled. There had been something desperate in the young woman's glare, a defensive hostility that reminded me of a cornered animal. I filed the observation away and turned back to our project.
"Don't you have any pictures to put up?" Poppy asked, studying the bulletin board with its colorful map. "Like, of family or friends?"
My chest tightened. "I have a few."
I retrieved a small envelope from my supply box, pulling out the handful of printed photographs I'd managed to save from my mother's belongings.
Most showed the two of us at various ages—me as a gap-toothed eight-year-old with my arm around my mother's waist, the two of us at my high school graduation, a selfie we'd taken during one of her rare good days after the cancer diagnosis.
The photos felt precious and fragile in my hands as I carefully pinned them to the cork board.
Seeing them displayed there, creating a small shrine to our shared history, brought an unexpected wave of grief mixed with gratitude.
For all the moves and uncertainty, for all my mother's struggles with anxiety and depression, we'd had each other.
"She was really pretty," Poppy observed, studying the graduation photo where my mother wore a genuine smile despite the exhaustion visible around her eyes.
"She was," I agreed.
As we finished organizing the small workspace, my thoughts drifted to Keith Banyon and the questions that still needed answers.
I'd driven by his house again yesterday, unable to resist another glimpse of that beautiful garden and stately brick facade.
But true to my promise to Octavia, I'd resisted the urge to do anything more than observe from a distance.
The waiting was becoming unbearable, but I knew Octavia was right—charging in without information would likely do more harm than good.
Whatever Keith Banyon's story was, whatever role he'd played in my mother's life and my own conception, I needed to approach it with facts rather than desperate hope.
Even with its improvements, the van was a temporary arrangement, at best. Until I had answers about my father, I'd continue to exist in this liminal space between past and future, between questions and resolution.