Page 25 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

pH monitoring checking acidity during fermentation to maintain healthy yeast conditions

THE AUGUST sun beat down mercilessly as I scrubbed at a stubborn water stain on Ginger's side panel, my t-shirt already soaked with perspiration despite the early hour.

The campground was quiet except for the distant sound of children playing in the lake and the rhythmic scritch-scritch of my sponge against the van's faded orange paint.

Cleaning had always been my therapy, a way to create order when everything else felt chaotic. Today, with Dylan's departure weighing on my mind and the search for my father stretching ahead like an unmarked road, I needed the meditative rhythm of soap and water and elbow grease.

The van's interior had been transformed by the cabinets Jett had helped me install, but as I organized my few belongings, everything felt temporary again.

The bulletin board with its colorful map of distilleries mocked me with its incomplete information, all those colored pins representing possibilities that had led nowhere.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to Suzy's number, hoping my mother's former friend might remember some detail that could point me in a new direction. The call connected after several rings, and I could hear the background noise of what sounded like an airport terminal.

"Bernadette, honey, I can't talk long," Suzy said breathlessly. "I'm running to catch a flight to Denver."

"I just wanted to ask if you remember the names of any other friends my mother had back then, anyone who might know about her boyfriends."

"Oh, sweetie, I wish I could help, but it's been so long and I'm terrible with names anyway." There was a pause filled with airport announcements and the sound of rolling luggage. "But you know what? I've been thinking about something I told you that I don't think was right."

My pulse quickened. "What do you mean?"

"Remember I mentioned Church Man? I said we called him that because he was always talking about God and religion?"

"Yes."

"Well, I was lying in bed last night thinking about those days, and I don't think that's why we called him Church Man at all." Her voice carried the excitement of recovered memory. "I think his last name was Church. We called him Church Man because his name was something Church."

The sponge slipped from my hand, landing with a wet slap on the gravel. "His last name was Church?"

"I'm pretty sure that's right. God, I wish I could remember his first name, but you know how it is when you're twenty-two and half the guys you meet blur together. But Church—that name is sticking with me now that I'm really thinking about it."

"This is huge, Suzy. Thank you so much."

"I have to run, honey, but good luck. I hope this helps you find what you're looking for."

After she ended the call, I stood beside my half-cleaned van, heart hammering with renewed hope. Church. A last name was infinitely more useful than a vague nickname.

The dejection that had settled over me like a heavy blanket suddenly lifted, replaced by the energy of a new lead. I wasn't starting over—I was starting fresh, with actual information that could lead somewhere real.