Page 7 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

wild yeast naturally occurring yeast in the environment, sometimes used for unique flavors

THE MAPS navigation guided me through progressively narrower streets lined with towering oak trees.

Each turn took me deeper into a neighborhood that whispered old money and established roots—the kind of place where families had lived for generations and mailboxes bore surnames that appeared on street signs and hospital wings.

Keith Banyon's address led me to Ashland Avenue, where historic homes sat back from the street like gracious dowagers, each one unique but harmonious with its neighbors.

I slowed to a crawl, reading house numbers etched into stone pillars and wrought iron gates until I found the one I was looking for.

The house took my breath away.

It wasn't the largest on the street, but it possessed an elegance that spoke of careful restoration and unlimited resources.

Built of warm honey-colored brick with white trim and black shutters, it featured the kind of architectural details that modern construction couldn't replicate—carved stone lintels above tall windows, a slate roof that had weathered to soft gray-green, and a wraparound porch supported by graceful columns.

But it was the landscaping that truly transformed the property into something magical.

Every inch of the front yard had been designed with an artist's eye—sweeping beds of hostas and ferns beneath the mature trees, explosions of colorful annuals bordering the curved walkway, and climbing roses that cascaded over a pergola near the front entrance.

The scent of jasmine and gardenias drifted through my open window, sweet and intoxicating in the humid air.

This was the kind of home I'd dreamed about as a child, moving from one temporary apartment to another with my anxious mother. I'd imagined living somewhere permanent, somewhere beautiful, where I could plant flowers and know I'd be there to see them bloom.

I pulled Ginger to the curb across the street, the van's engine ticking as it cooled. The contrast between my rust-spotted, dented home and the manicured perfection surrounding me couldn't have been starker. I might as well have parked a carnival ride in the middle of a museum.

Movement caught my eye near the side of the house.

A slender woman in khaki gardening pants and a wide-brimmed straw hat emerged from behind a trellis of climbing hydrangeas, carrying a watering can and pruning shears.

She moved with the confident efficiency of someone who knew every plant in the garden, stopping to deadhead spent blooms and adjust a drooping stem.

Was this Keith's wife? I studied her profile as she worked, trying to imagine what it would be like to call this place home, to wake up every morning surrounded by such carefully tended loveliness.

The woman must have sensed my scrutiny because she straightened and turned toward the street, one hand shading her eyes as she stared directly at my van.

Even from this distance, I could see her frown of curiosity—or perhaps concern.

Ginger was clearly out of place here, as conspicuous as a weed in a rose garden.

Heat flooded my cheeks as I fumbled to start the engine.

The van wheezed to life with its characteristic rattle, and I pulled away from the curb with as much dignity as I could muster.

In the side mirror, I caught a glimpse of the woman still standing in her perfect garden, watching my retreat with obvious bewilderment.

As I drove back toward the campground, the image of Keith Banyon's beautiful home burned in my mind. If he was indeed my father, he'd built himself a life of quiet prosperity and tasteful comfort—everything my mother and I had never had.

The question that haunted me as I navigated back to my temporary world was simple: where exactly did I fit into that picture?