Page 6 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3

thumper a type of doubler that uses heat and vapor to redistill without an additional heat source

THE FESTIVAL grounds pulsed with Saturday afternoon energy as Jett and I navigated through clusters of patrons clutching tasting glasses and sporting Bourbon Festival T-shirts and hats.

The weather had warmed suddenly, and the September sun beat down mercilessly.

The air carried competing scents of kettle popcorn and oak smoke drifting from demonstration areas.

"Thank you for coming with me," I said to Jett as we approached the cooperage tent. My voice was tight with nerves that had been building all morning.

"No problem," he replied, his presence steady and reassuring beside me. "That's what friends are for."

The word friends was both comforting and disquieting at the same time.

The cooperage demonstration drew a substantial crowd. Tourists were arranged in semicircles around workbenches laden with traditional tools. And there, in the middle of it all, stood Sam Church.

My breath caught as I took him in for the first time.

The photograph Octavia had shown me hadn't captured his physical presence—the way he moved with quiet confidence, the easy strength in his weathered hands as he shaped wood with practiced expertise.

He wore sturdy work clothes and a leather apron stained with decades of use, his graying hair pulled back to reveal a face that had aged well despite years of physical labor.

"The char inside these barrels isn't just for flavor," Sam was explaining to his captivated audience, his voice carrying the deep resonance of someone comfortable with public speaking.

"It acts as a natural filter, removing impurities while adding those vanilla and caramel notes we associate with fine Kentucky bourbon. "

He held up a piece of charred oak, rotating it so the crowd could see the alligator-skin texture created by controlled burning. His movements were economical, purposeful—the gestures of a craftsman who understood his materials at a molecular level.

"A good cooper doesn't just build containers," he continued, running his thumb along the wood's surface with obvious affection. "We create the foundation for liquid magic. Every barrel I make will house bourbon for years, maybe decades. That's a responsibility I don't take lightly."

The demonstration concluded with enthusiastic applause, and I watched as Sam began packing his tools with the same methodical care he'd shown throughout his presentation.

"Go on," Jett murmured, his hand briefly touching the small of my back. "It's now or never."

We approached as Sam was wrapping chisels in oiled cloth. Up close, I could see the network of fine scars on his hands—evidence of years working with sharp tools and unforgiving wood.

"Mr. Church?" My voice came out higher than intended, and I cleared my throat. "I'm Bernadette Waters. That was a fascinating demonstration."

He looked up with the polite attention of someone accustomed to festival interactions, his eyes a surprising shade of green flecked with gold. "Thank you. Are you interested in cooperage work?"

"Actually, I was hoping to speak with you about a personal matter."

His expression shifted to wariness. The tools in his hands stilled as he studied my face more carefully. "What kind of personal matter?"

"It involves something that happened nearly thirty years ago." The words felt clumsy on my tongue, inadequate for the magnitude of what I was trying to communicate.

Sam's gaze dropped to my necklace, and I watched his pupils dilate as he focused on my mother's photograph nestled against my collarbone. The recognition that flickered across his features made my heart hammer against my ribs.

"This isn't the time or place for that kind of conversation," he said quietly, his voice dropping low enough that only Jett and I could hear. Around us, festival goers continued their cheerful revelry, oblivious to the tension crackling in our small circle.

"I understand completely," I said quickly, desperate not to lose this opportunity. "I'll meet you wherever and whenever is convenient for you. I just need to talk."

Sam resumed packing his tools, but his movements had lost their earlier fluidity. He was thinking, weighing options, calculating risks. Finally, he pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and scribbled something on the back.

"My cooperage is on Versailles Road, about ten miles outside Lexington." He handed me the card without making eye contact. "Monday morning, nine o'clock."

I nodded eagerly. "I'll be there. Thank you."

Sam shouldered his tool bag and walked away without another word, disappearing into the festival crowd with the purposeful stride of someone fleeing an uncomfortable situation.

I stared down at the business card in my trembling hands.

"Samuel Church - Traditional Cooperage" was printed in simple black letters, with his hand-scrawled address on the back.

I stared at the card that might hold the key to everything I'd been searching for.

Monday morning couldn't come fast enough.