Page 16 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
THE LATE afternoon sun slanted through the oak trees as I walked back from the dock, my book tucked under my arm and my mind still lost in the historical account of women who'd fought to establish themselves in Kentucky's male-dominated bourbon industry.
The peaceful rhythm of lapping water still echoed in my ears, mixing with the distant sound of children playing and the gentle hum of RV generators.
But I knew something was wrong the moment I approached my campsite.
Ginger's side door hung slightly ajar—not wide open, but enough to reveal that someone had been inside. My pulse spiked with alarm as I quickened my pace, noting the way the door's latch mechanism looked slightly bent, as if it had been forced.
"No, no, no," I whispered, dropping my book as I yanked the door fully open.
The interior of my carefully organized van looked like it had been hit by a tornado. Clothes were scattered across the floor, cabinet doors hung open, and my personal belongings lay strewn about with the careless abandon of someone searching for quick treasures.
The peanut butter jar where I kept my laundry quarters sat empty on its side, the loose change that represented weeks of careful saving completely gone.
My hands shook as I inventoried the damage—small electronics missing, the emergency cash I'd hidden in a book, even some of the cheap jewelry I'd bought at thrift stores.
But it was the violation of my mother's memory box that broke something inside me.
The wooden case lay overturned, its contents scattered like fallen leaves.
The miniature salt and pepper shakers were gone, along with the amber shot glass and several of the rings I'd been saving as the only tangible connections to her past. They were worth nothing to someone else, but to me they were everything.
I sank onto the van's narrow bed and let the tears come—ugly, choking sobs that seemed to tear themselves from some raw place in my chest.
Through my tears, I found myself thinking about Marilyn—her defensive hostility, the way she'd snapped at me yesterday when I'd tried to warn her about Teddy. She was young, clearly struggling financially, living in a beat-up tent with few possessions of her own.
The thought made me feel sick with guilt and suspicion in equal measure. What if my well-intentioned interference had made her angry enough to lash out?
But even as the suspicion formed, I knew I couldn't be certain. The campground had been dealing with petty thefts for weeks. It could've been anyone—another camper, someone passing through, even Teddy himself as some kind of twisted retaliation for yesterday's interrupted conversation.
The rain that had threatened all afternoon finally began in earnest, drumming against Ginger's metal roof. I was homeless, fatherless, possibly soon-to-be jobless, and now robbed of even the small mementos that connected me to the only family I'd ever known.