October 8, Wednesday
stave a narrow wooden plank used to form the body of the barrel
THE MORNING tour group consisted of five women from Louisville celebrating a friend's promotion.
Their laughter echoed through the bus as we made our way through the countryside, but I found myself distracted, my thoughts drifting to Dylan and if he was enjoying his time in Texas.
He texted me often, but typically he talked about his job or just said he missed me.
When we arrived at Goldenrod Distillery and the group dispensed to browse on their own, I walked into the bar, noting Dylan's replacement behind the counter.
The place seemed less appealing and less energetic without him.
I'd told myself I was going to put the brakes on whatever feelings that were developing between us.
But the hollow feeling in my chest suggested otherwise.
"Bernadette."
I turned at the sound of my name, spoken with crisp precision that immediately put me on edge. Portia stood behind me. Her blond hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail. She looked professional and intimidating in a navy blazer with ornate silver buttons.
"Hello, Portia."
She looked my costume up and down. "Keeping it classy, I see."
My cheeks flamed. "It's for my job."
"Dylan's in Texas."
"I know. He came to see me. We talked."
"Did he tell you our parents forced him to go, to get away from you?"
I balked. "No."
"Dylan has a tender heart. He's always had a weakness for strays—injured birds, abandoned puppies, lost causes. It's one of his most endearing qualities, really, but it does make him vulnerable to people who mistake his kindness for something more significant."
The word 'stray' hit me like a physical blow, reducing everything I thought I meant to Dylan to the level of charity case. I opened my mouth to respond, but Portia wasn't finished.
"The thing is, Dylan's future is already mapped out.
Graduate degree in distillation science, apprenticeship with the master distillers here, eventual partnership in the family business.
It's all been planned since he was twelve years old.
" Her blue eyes, so much colder than Dylan's warm green ones, fixed on mine with laser precision.
"You're not part of that plan, Bernadette. "
"Shouldn't Dylan get to decide who he wants to spend time with?" I finally found my voice, though it came out shakier than I'd intended.
Portia laughed, a sound like ice cubes clinking in expensive crystal. "Dylan has no idea what he wants yet, which is why our parents made the decision for him. Sometimes love requires protecting people from their own poor judgment."
The dismissive endearment made my hands clench into fists at my sides. "You don't get to make decisions about other people's lives."
Portia gave a little laugh. "When those lives affect our family's legacy, our business, our reputation? When someone from nowhere with no background and no future tries to attach herself to our family name? Of course we do. And Dylan will thank us eventually."
Before I could formulate a response that wouldn't make me sound exactly like the desperate stray she'd painted me as, Portia turned and walked away, her heels clicking against the wooden floors with the rhythm of a countdown timer.
I stood there for a long moment, my cheeks burning with humiliation and my heart hammering against my ribs. The worst part was that I couldn't entirely argue with her assessment. I was exactly what she'd called me—a stray, looking for someone to take me in.