Page 24 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
distiller's beer the fermented mash before it enters the still
THE SCENTS of charred oak and vanilla welcomed me as I pushed through Goldenrod's heavy wooden doors, leaving behind our group of bourbon enthusiasts from Chicago who were engrossed in their guided tasting.
The afternoon light streamed through tall windows, casting amber patterns across the polished floors and highlighting the dust motes that danced in the air like tiny spirits.
Dylan looked up from behind the bar where he'd been arranging bottles for an evening event, and his face brightened with the kind of unguarded pleasure that still made my pulse quicken despite everything.
"Bernadette," he said, moving toward me. "I was hoping you'd stop by."
"Couldn't resist," I admitted, settling onto one of the leather bar stools. The ritual felt comforting—Dylan reaching for lemonade, the ice cubes clinking against crystal, the sweet-tart taste that had become synonymous with stolen moments in his presence.
"I've been thinking about what I said last week," he began, his voice carrying an unusual note of uncertainty. "About coming to your place. I didn't mean to pressure you."
The consideration in his tone made my chest tight with guilt. Here was this thoughtful, attractive man trying to respect boundaries I'd created out of pure shame, apologizing for wanting to spend private time with someone he was dating.
"I appreciate that," I said carefully. "Maybe we could find middle ground?"
His expression brightened immediately. "What did you have in mind?"
"You mentioned wanting to teach me more about the distilling process. Maybe I could come back when you're not working? See parts of the operation tourists don't get to experience?"
"Sunday evening?" he suggested eagerly. "After we close to the public, I could show you the mash rooms when they're running full production. The sound and smell are completely different when all the equipment is operating."
"That sounds perfect."
We made plans while I finished my lemonade, our conversation flowing with the easy rhythm that had developed between us over weeks of stolen moments.
When I rejoined my tour group, Dylan walked me to the door, his hand briefly touching the small of my back in a gesture that sent warmth spreading through my chest.
The ride back to Happy Trails felt different, charged with anticipation for Sunday's private tour and the promise of uninterrupted time with Dylan. But my mood shifted the moment I spotted Poppy waiting by my van, her usually animated posture subdued and her freckled face serious.
"This came for you," she said without preamble, holding out a white business envelope with the return address of a genetic testing laboratory. "The mailman asked me to make sure you got it right away."
My hands trembled as I accepted the envelope. The laboratory's logo was printed across the top in crisp blue ink, professional and clinical.
"Thanks," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
Poppy studied my face with the intensity of someone far older than twelve. "Important news?"
"Maybe. I don't know yet."
She nodded solemnly and headed back toward the camp office, leaving me alone with the envelope that might change everything. I started to tear it open, then stopped, my fingers frozen on the perforated edge.
This felt too momentous to face alone. Whatever these results revealed, Sam Church deserved to learn the truth at the same time I did. Despite his reluctance and his wife's hostility, this moment belonged to both of us.
I pulled out my phone and typed: The results are here. Can we meet tomorrow to open them together?
His response came back within minutes: Workshop. 2 PM. Come alone.
I slipped the unopened envelope into my purse, where it seemed to pulse with potential energy. By this time tomorrow, everything might be different.