Page 5 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3

doubler a secondary pot still used to re-distill low wines for purity and flavor

THE FESTIVAL grounds sprawled before us like a carnival dedicated to liquid amber, white tents and colorful banners fluttering in the September breeze against a backdrop of tree-lined fields.

The air thrummed with bluegrass music and carried the mingled aromas of barbecue smoke and the sharp sweetness of bourbon samples being poured at dozens of vendor booths.

Heat flooded my cheeks as our passengers exchanged uncomfortable glances. Beside Teresa, Marv sat hunched in his seat like a deflated balloon.

In the rearview mirror, Jett's jaw worked like he was chewing nails.

"Thank you for the correction," I managed to say and even offered Teresa a smile.

The bus shuddered to a stop in a field designated for tour companies. As our passengers filed off with polite but subdued enthusiasm, I gathered my things with shaking hands.

"You did fine," Jett said quietly, his voice rough with barely contained anger. "Don't let that harpy get in your head."

I nodded mutely, not trusting myself to speak without either crying or screaming. I conceded I was nervous about the possibility of meeting Sam Church.

The festival buzzed with organized chaos as I made my way toward the demonstration areas, weaving between groups of bourbon enthusiasts. Laughter mixed with the calls of vendors hawking everything from bourbon-infused barbecue sauce to handcrafted whiskey glasses.

The cooperage demonstration area occupied a large tent near the festival's heart, complete with traditional tools and half-finished barrels arranged for educational display. My stomach clenched with anticipation as I approached, with Sam Church's photograph burning like a talisman in my pocket.

"Can I help you?" asked a bearded man in overalls who was arranging wood shavings around an enormous lathe.

"I'm looking for Sam Church. I understand he's demonstrating here this weekend?"

"Sam won't be here until tomorrow," the man replied, consulting a schedule posted on a wooden easel. "Saturday afternoon, two to four. You interested in cooperage work?"

"Something like that," I murmured, disappointment settling heavy in my chest.

"Bernadette?"

The familiar voice made me turn, and I found myself face-to-face with Keith Banyon. But this wasn't the stern confrontation from the medical building parking lot—this Keith wore casual festival attire and a genuine smile that transformed his entire demeanor.

"Keith! I didn't expect to see you here."

"Wouldn't miss it. This festival is the highlight of my year." He gestured to an elegant woman beside him with silver- streaked hair and kind eyes. "Bernadette, I'd like you to meet my wife, Kirsten."

My stomach dropped as I realized this was the woman I'd frightened with my amateur stalking attempts. "Mrs. Banyon, I owe you a huge apology. I'm so sorry I frightened you when I drove past your house. That was completely inappropriate."

Kirsten studied my face with the same intelligence I'd seen in her husband, then smiled with surprising warmth. "No harm done. Keith explained the situation, and I completely understand. We all have family mysteries we'd like to solve."

Her gracious response made my throat tight with emotion. These were good people—the kind who could have given a child stability, love, security.

"How is your search progressing?" Keith asked with genuine concern.

"I have a new lead. A cooper named Sam Church. Does that name mean anything to you?"

Keith's brow furrowed as he sifted through memories. "Church... Church..." He shook his head apologetically. "I'm sorry. My memory isn't what it used to be, especially for names from that long ago."

"That's okay. I know it's a long shot."

"Good luck." His expression grew paternal. "And call me if you need anything, okay? I mean that."

As Keith and Kirsten disappeared into the festival crowd, his arm protective around her waist, I stood alone in the cooperage tent surrounded by the tools of traditional craftsmanship.

Watching them walk away—this couple who embodied everything I'd never had—made my chest ache with longing so sharp it felt like drowning.

What would my childhood have been like with parents like that? Stable, loving, financially secure? Would I have grown up in that beautiful house with the perfect garden, attending good schools, never wondering where the next meal was coming from?

The thought felt like betrayal, and tears burned behind my eyes as guilt crashed over me in waves. My mother had done her best with the hand she'd been dealt. She'd loved me fiercely, even when her own demons made that love complicated and painful to receive.

I blinked rapidly, swallowing the tears before they could fall. Tomorrow, Sam Church would be here. Tomorrow, I might finally have answers.

But today, I mourned for the life that might've been, and for the mother who'd given me the only life she could.