Page 4 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
pot still a traditional batch distillation apparatus used in smaller or craft distilleries
THE TWO Guys Detective Agency felt like a sanctuary after yesterday's humiliation at Goldenrod.
A scented air diffuser tickled my nose as I settled into the plush chair across from Octavia's imposing desk.
Sunlight streamed through venetian blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across the manila folder she placed between us with ceremonial precision.
"Sam Church," Octavia announced, opening the folder to reveal photographs, documents, and what appeared to be official records. "Age fifty-three, born in Versailles, Kentucky. Currently lives in a house next to the cooperage with his wife."
My pulse quickened as she spread the contents across her desk like tarot cards revealing my future.
The first photograph showed a man with weathered hands working over a wooden barrel, his graying hair tied back in a ponytail, safety glasses perched on his nose.
He looked ordinary, approachable—nothing like the larger-than-life figure I'd built in my imagination.
"Married twice," Octavia continued, consulting her notes with professional detachment. "First marriage lasted eight years, ended in divorce. He married Carol Browning in 2010. No children from either relationship."
No children. The words echoed in my mind with devastating possibility. If Sam Church was indeed my father, I might represent his only biological offspring.
"Criminal history?" I asked, noting the official-looking documents in the pile.
"One arrest. In 1997 he pled guilty to auto theft. Served six months in county lockup, but he's been clean ever since."
I studied the photograph more closely, searching for some family resemblance in the weathered features. Did I have his nose? His jawline? The uncertainty was maddening.
"Employment history?"
"Bourbon, bourbon, bourbon." Octavia pulled out another sheet. "He worked in bourbon warehouses throughout his twenties—Heaven Hill, Wild Turkey, Jim Beam. Manual labor, moving barrels, maintaining inventory. Then eighteen years ago he transitioned to cooperage work."
"What changed?"
"Probably realized he could make better money as a skilled craftsman than a warehouse worker. Coopers are specialized—not everyone can build and repair bourbon barrels properly. He's worked for several operations, but is freelance now."
The pieces aligned with tantalizing precision. The right age, the right industry connections, the right timeline. My mother would've known him during his warehouse days, when he was young and probably charming in the way that dangerous men often were.
"He'll be demonstrating barrel-making techniques at the Kentucky Bourbon Festival this weekend," Octavia added, sliding a program across the desk.
I stared at the festival schedule, my hands trembling slightly. "I'll be there. We're taking customers there instead of the regular tours."
"Seems like fate," Octavia said with rare gentleness.
"But Bernadette, listen to me carefully.
" Her voice took on the serious tone I'd learned to respect.
"You've had twenty-seven years to imagine this moment.
You've rehearsed conversations, planned what you'll say, dreamed about what it might mean to find him. "
I nodded, recognizing the truth in her words.
"But for him, if he is your father, this will come completely out of nowhere. It might be the best surprise of his life, or it might be devastating news he never wanted to face." She leaned forward, her dark eyes intense. "Don't overwhelm him. Let him process before you drop the bombshell."
"How do I even begin that conversation?"
"Ask about cooperage, show interest in his craft. Mention you're in the bourbon industry too. Build some common ground before you reveal why you're really there."
I picked up the photograph, studying Sam's face for clues to his character. His expression was focused but peaceful, the look of a man who'd found his calling in the precise craftsmanship of barrel-making.
"How are things with your own father?" I asked, remembering Octavia's cryptic comments about family complications.
Her expression darkened. "Some days I wish I didn't know who my father was," she said dryly. "Knowledge isn't always the blessing we think it's going to be."
I thought about Keith Banyon's kind rejection and acknowledged Sam Church might not be as understanding.