October 6, Monday
cooper a craftsperson who builds and repairs barrels
THE WINGED Pegasus felt different at seven in the evening—less casual than during my previous visit with Keith, more charged with anticipation. I smoothed my regular clothes (blessedly free of corsets) and tried to calm the nervous flutter in my chest as Jett held the heavy wooden door open for me.
"You sure you're ready for this?" he asked quietly as we stepped inside.
"As ready as I'll ever be," I replied, though my voice betrayed the uncertainty I was trying to hide. "Thank you for coming with me."
"No problem," Jett said simply, but the way he squeezed my shoulder suggested he understood exactly how much this moment meant to me.
Tom Feldon sat at the same corner table where I'd met with Keith, his weathered hands wrapped around a half-empty beer glass. He looked older somehow under the bar's dim lighting, as if the weight of my phone call asking for this meeting had already begun to settle on his shoulders.
"Bernadette," he said, rising to shake my hand. His grip was firm but brief, and I caught something guarded in his expression that hadn't been there during our casual encounter at Jett's farm. "And Jett, good to see you again."
We settled into chairs around the small table. A server appeared almost immediately, and I ordered a bourbon neat—something to steady my nerves and give my hands something to do.
Jett ordered the same, while Tom stuck with his beer, his fingers drumming a restless pattern against the glass.
"So," Tom said when our drinks arrived, "you mentioned on the phone that you had something important to discuss. Something about your mother?"
I took a deep sip of bourbon, letting the burn ground me before diving into waters that might change everything—or nothing at all.
"Tom, I came to Kentucky to find my biological father," I began, watching his face carefully for any flicker of recognition or understanding. "My mother died without telling me who he was, but she mentioned he worked in the bourbon industry. When you recognized her name the other day..."
Tom's expression shifted subtly, becoming more focused, more wary.
"I wonder if you might be my father," I said, the words tumbling out faster than I'd intended. "You knew my mother. You both would have been in Lexington around the time I was conceived. The timing fits."
The silence that followed felt endless. Tom stared at me across the table, his face cycling through surprise, confusion, and something that might have been panic. His beer sat forgotten as he processed what I'd just revealed.
"Jesus," he breathed finally. "I... Bernadette, I honestly don't remember being with Ginger. Not in that way."
My heart sank, but I forced myself to remain calm. "You said you had good times together. What did that mean?"
Tom rubbed his forehead, suddenly looking every one of his fifty-plus years. "We hung out at the same bars, but ran in different crowds. The truth is, I was drinking pretty heavily back then. There are stretches of time from those years that are just... blank. Fuzzy."
The admission hung between us like a bridge I wasn't sure either of us wanted to cross.
"So it's possible?" I pressed gently.
"It's possible," he conceded, though his voice carried no enthusiasm. "But I can't give you the answers you're looking for. Not right now. I have two kids with my ex-wife, and we're not really close. They have their stepdad, and I—" He swallowed hard. "This is a lot to process."
Disappointment washed over me. I'd hoped for recognition, for some spark of memory that would confirm what I suspected. Instead, I was facing another wall of uncertainty.
"I understand," I said. "This must be overwhelming."
I pulled out my phone and scrolled to my contact information. "Here's my number. If you remember anything, or if you just want to talk about this more, please call me."
Tom took the information with hands that trembled slightly. Whether from nerves or emotion, I couldn't tell.
"I'll think about all this," he said carefully. "I just need some time."
He slammed his beer, then gave me a lingering stare, as if he was studying my face for signs of resemblance. After a nod to Jett, he stood abruptly and strode out.
My skin tingled as I watched him leave.
Jett looked at me. "How do you feel?"
"Like I'm collecting maybes instead of answers," I admitted. "But at least he didn't slam the door completely shut."
Even as I said the words, though, doubt gnawed at me. Tom's reaction had been shock rather than recognition, uncertainty rather than joy. Something told me I'd be waiting a long time for that phone call—if it ever came at all.