Page 31 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

batch fermentation a single fermentation cycle run in one tank, typical in bourbon production

THE SUNDAY tour group—ten members of a Louisville book club celebrating their annual bourbon education outing—filed through Angel's Envy's gleaming entrance with the kind of reverent excitement that came from visiting the city's only full-production distillery in the downtown walking district.

"Take your time exploring the lobby," I told the group as they dispersed among the educational displays and gift shop offerings. "We'll meet at the tour entrance in twenty minutes."

The reception area hummed with polished efficiency, tourists consulting maps and asking questions about tasting flights while the scent of charred oak drifted from somewhere deeper in the facility.

I approached the main desk where a young woman with short-cropped hair and a professional smile looked up expectantly.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm hoping to reach someone who works here—Chaney Church? I'm trying to locate an old family friend." The lie rolled off my tongue with practiced ease, though my stomach clenched with a mixture of hope and dread that accompanied each new lead.

The receptionist's expression shifted slightly, becoming more guarded. "May I ask what this is regarding?"

"It's personal," I said carefully. "Nothing business-related. Just hoping to reconnect."

She studied my face for a long moment, clearly weighing whether to accommodate my request. Finally, she picked up the phone and dialed an extension.

"Chaney? There's someone here asking to speak with you... says she's looking for an old family friend." A pause. "Okay, I'll ask." She looked back at me. "Can you give me your name?"

"Bernadette Waters."

Another brief conversation, then the receptionist nodded and handed me the phone. "She says it's fine."

"Hello?" The voice that answered was unmistakably female and young, probably mid-twenties. My heart sank slightly—I'd been hoping Chaney was a man, that this might finally be the lead that connected directly to my father.

"Hi, Chaney. Thank you for taking the call. I'm trying to track down someone who knew my mother about thirty years ago. His last name was Church, he worked in the bourbon industry, and that's all I have to go on."

"Church..." she repeated thoughtfully. "Well, I'm the only one in my family who's ever worked in a distillery. Sorry I can't help more."

"That's okay," I said, though disappointment settled heavy in my chest. "Thanks for taking the time to talk."

After hanging up, I wandered over to the lobby's historical displays to rejoin my tour group, trying to shake off another dead end.

Ancient bottles lined glass cases beside vintage advertisements and ornate glassware that spoke of bourbon's evolution from frontier necessity to artisanal craft.

The artifacts were genuinely fascinating—hand-blown bottles with imperfect glass, faded labels promising medicinal benefits, elegant decanters that had graced Victorian sideboards.

"Excuse me?" The receptionist's voice cut through my historical reverie. "Chaney called back. She wants to talk to you again."

My pulse quickened as I returned to the desk and accepted the phone again.

"Hi, it's Bernadette."

"I'm so glad I caught you," Chaney said, her voice carrying new excitement. "After we hung up, I realized I do have a relative who works in the bourbon industry, kind of. My uncle is a cooper—he builds and repairs the oak barrels used in the aging process."

"A cooper," I repeated, my mind racing. From my research, I knew coopers were essential to bourbon production, craftsmen whose work directly impacted the final product's flavor and quality.

"He lives outside Lexington and he's in his mid-fifties, so the timeline would match what you're looking for."

My hands trembled slightly as I pulled out my notebook. "What's his name?"

"Sam. Sam Church."

The words hit me like electricity. Sam Church. A cooper who worked with bourbon barrels, the right age, living in the right area. This felt different from the other leads—more specific, more connected to the actual bourbon-making process.

"Do you have contact information for him?"

"Let me call my mom and get his phone number for you. Hang on."

As I waited, clutching the phone, hope fluttered in my chest. Sam Church. A name that felt real, substantial… possible.