Page 29 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

fermentation cap the foam and solids that form on top of actively fermenting mash

THE TOUR bus hummed with the sound of satisfied customers as we pulled into Buffalo Trace's visitor parking lot, but I barely registered their excited chatter about the upcoming tasting.

My stomach churned with a mixture of nervous energy and the lingering sting of Teresa's latest round of corrections, delivered with her usual theatrical dismay throughout the morning's journey.

"Remember to project your voice, Bernadette," Teresa had announced loudly enough for the entire bus to hear. "And please, try to smile with your eyes, not just your mouth. Customers can tell when you're just going through the motions."

I'd gritted my teeth and nodded, forcing myself to maintain professional composure while inwardly seething. The group of wine enthusiasts from Chicago had looked increasingly uncomfortable with each public critique, their initial excitement dampening as they witnessed my systematic humiliation.

Now, as our customers filed off the bus toward Buffalo Trace's iconic entrance, I saw my opportunity. "I'll catch up with everyone in a few minutes," I called to the group. "Just need to check on something at the front desk."

The visitor center's reception area buzzed with activity, tourists collecting maps and asking questions about tour times. I approached the main desk where a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a Buffalo Trace polo shirt looked up expectantly.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"I hope so," I said, my pulse quickening as I launched into the lie I'd rehearsed during the bus ride. "I'm trying to reach an old friend who works here—Rebecca Church? We lost touch years ago, and I happened to be in the area."

The receptionist's expression remained friendly as she consulted what appeared to be an internal directory on her computer screen. "Oh yes, Rebecca's in accounting. Let me patch you through to her extension."

My heart hammered against my ribs as the phone rang once, twice, then a pleasant voice answered: "Rebecca Church speaking."

"Hi, Rebecca. I'm so sorry to bother you at work.

" The words tumbled out in a nervous rush.

"My name is Bernadette Waters, and I'm trying to find someone who knew my mother about thirty years ago.

She was friends with a man named Church who worked in the bourbon industry, and I'm hoping to track him down to pass along a keepsake. "

There was a pause, and I could hear the soft click of computer keys in the background. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that? You're looking for someone with the last name Church?"

"Yes, someone my mother knew in the early nineties. I know it's a long shot, but I thought maybe you might be related—"

"Church is my married name," the woman interrupted gently. "My husband's family are all in the medical field—doctors and nurses, mostly. I can't think of anyone on his side who's ever worked in bourbon."

My shoulders sagged. "I see. Well, thank you for taking the time—"

"I'm sorry I couldn't help. Good luck finding your mother's friend."

I ended the call and stood in the busy reception area, surrounded by the cheerful chaos of bourbon tourism.

This place represented everything I'd been searching for—the heart of Kentucky's bourbon heritage, the community where my father had supposedly once worked and made friends and lived a life I knew nothing about.

I gathered my composure and headed toward the tasting room to rejoin my group, where Teresa would undoubtedly find new ways to critique my performance while I smiled and pretended everything was fine.

Six more names on the list. Six more chances to find a connection that might actually lead somewhere.