Page 19 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

inoculation introducing yeast into mash to begin fermentation

Morning traffic moved sluggishly through Lexington's tree-lined streets, the air already thick with humidity that made my van's air conditioning work overtime.

Keith's Lexus moved with the smoothness of Japanese engineering, while Ginger rattled and wheezed her way through the stop-and-go rhythm of suburban commuting.

He drove with the unhurried precision of someone following a familiar routine, signaling well in advance and maintaining the exact speed limit.

Even his driving suggested the kind of measured, responsible life Octavia's report had painted—no sudden moves, no road rage, just the steady progress of a man comfortable with his place in the world.

The first stop was a Starbucks drive-through on Nicholasville Road, where the gray Lexus joined a line of similar luxury vehicles piloted by people who could afford eight-dollar coffee without checking their bank balance first. I watched from a gas station across the street as Keith rolled down his window to place his order.

From this angle, I could see his profile—the strong jawline, the graying hair neatly combed, the expensive sunglasses that probably cost more than my monthly budget.

He emerged from the drive-through with a large coffee and what appeared to be a croissant wrapped in white paper, the breakfast of someone who didn't have to worry about stretching groceries until payday.

I followed as he navigated back into traffic, Ginger's engine protesting as I accelerated to keep pace.

The next stop was a dry cleaner in an upscale shopping center, where Keith parked briefly to drop off what looked like several dress shirts and a suit.

The transaction took less than three minutes—the kind of efficient errand run that spoke of established routines and sufficient disposable income to outsource life's mundane tasks.

My mother had never been able to afford dry cleaning. We carried our clothes to the laundromat in mesh bags, quarters counted carefully before each trip. I remembered her attempts to create professional appearances with thrift store finds and sheer determination.

After he left the dry cleaner, he drove out of the city and past horse farms to the entrance of a country club, where a uniformed guard waved him through the security gate.

The manicured grounds stretched beyond the entrance like something from a magazine—pristine golf courses, tennis courts with perfect white lines, a clubhouse that looked more like a mansion than a recreational facility.

I pulled into a public parking area across the street, watching as the Lexus disappeared up a winding drive lined with flowering shrubs.

The contrast between Keith Banyon's Tuesday morning and any Tuesday morning of my childhood was breathtaking in its scope.

If Keith Banyon was indeed my father, if he'd known about my mother's pregnancy and chosen to walk away, then the man had a lot to atone for.

The chasm between his comfortable life and the struggles my mother and I had endured felt vast and unforgivable, measured not just in money but in security, stability, and the kind of peace that came from never wondering where your next meal would come from.

I sat in my rusted van, staring at the country club's pristine entrance, and wondered if some betrayals were too large to bridge, no matter how much time had passed.