October 15, Wednesday
headspace the airspace left in the barrel after filling, which allows for expansion
THE TOUR bus hummed with the comfortable chatter of four retired teachers from Ohio as we wound through the countryside toward Goldenrod Distillery.
Their enthusiasm was infectious—they'd done their research, asked thoughtful questions about mash bills and aging processes, and treated the entire experience as an educational adventure rather than an excuse to drink before noon.
"The barrel charring process is what creates those vanilla and caramel notes you taste in finished bourbon," I explained as familiar landscapes rolled past the windows. "Each distillery has its own preferred char level, from light toast to heavy char."
"Fascinating," murmured Helen, the group's apparent leader, scribbling notes in a small notebook. "And this next stop specializes in what type of production?"
"Small-batch bourbon with unique finishing techniques," I replied, though my attention had already begun drifting toward what awaited at Goldenrod. "They age some of their bourbon in wine barrels for additional complexity."
As we approached the rustic building, I felt the tightness in my chest that came with visiting Dylan's family distillery.
The teachers gathered their purses and notebooks, chattering excitedly about the tasting they'd been anticipating, while I steeled myself for whatever emotional landmines might be waiting inside.
My phone buzzed with another text from Dylan, the fourth one this week.
Missing Kentucky weather. How's your day going?
His messages arrived with clockwork regularity—good morning texts, random thoughts about distillation he was learning in Texas, pictures of sunsets over Austin hills.
He'd even called twice when his schedule allowed, our conversations lasting until his phone battery died or duty called him back to work.
But despite the steady contact, Portia's cutting words from our last encounter still echoed in my mind with painful clarity.
Stray. Not part of the plan. Worm your way into places where you don't belong.
The accusations had burrowed under my skin like splinters, making me question every interaction with Dylan's family.
"Shall we head inside?" I asked the teachers, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. "The tasting room has excellent air conditioning."
We entered the space with its exposed brick walls and copper distillation equipment gleaming behind glass partitions. The scents of aged wood and vanilla wrapped around us like a bourbon-scented embrace, but today they brought more melancholy than comfort.
Behind the polished oak bar stood a man I didn't recognize—middle-aged, competent-looking, but lacking Dylan's easy charm and encyclopedic knowledge of the family business.
The substitute bartender moved with professional efficiency as he guided the teachers through their flight selections, but his explanations felt rehearsed rather than passionate.
I found myself studying his movements and comparing them to Dylan's theatrical flair, the way Dylan's eyes lit up when he described the marriage of grain and wood and time.
"And what about you, miss?" the bartender asked, noticing my distraction. "Care to try our signature bourbon?"
"Oh, I'm working," I replied automatically. "Tour guide."
The teachers scattered to explore the historical displays and retail area, leaving me to linger near the entrance while they absorbed the distillery's atmosphere.
I tried to lose myself in reading the informational plaques, but my thoughts kept drifting to Dylan's voice on our last phone call, the way he'd described the different aging climates between Kentucky and Texas.
Movement in my peripheral vision made me glance toward the hallway where historical photographs documented Goldenrod's transformation from tobacco barn to boutique distillery.
A tall figure in an expensive polo shirt studied one of the framed pictures with the kind of concentrated attention that suggested personal connection rather than casual interest.
Boyd Biggs.
My first instinct was to retreat toward the retail area and wait for him to leave, but as I started to turn away, he looked up and spotted me. Recognition dawned on his weathered features, followed by a smile that seemed genuinely pleased rather than politely obligatory.
"Bernadette," he called out, approaching with the confident stride of someone accustomed to being welcome wherever he went. "What a pleasant surprise."
"Hello, Mr. Biggs," I managed, acutely aware of my cheesy barmaid costume next to his expensive clothes.
His eyes crinkled with amusement as he took in my appearance. "The official tour guide ensemble, I see. Very authentic. Are you enjoying the work?"
Heat crept up my neck as I wondered if he, like his daughter, was laughing inside at my getup. My hand moved unconsciously to fidget with the chain of my mother's necklace, seeking comfort in the weight of her photograph against my chest.
Boyd's gaze followed the movement, his attention catching on the pendant with sharp interest. "That's a beautiful piece," he said, his tone shifting to something more thoughtful. "The photograph—is that family?"
"My mother," I replied, my fingers tracing the oval frame. "Ginger Waters. She passed away earlier this year."
Something in my voice must have conveyed the depth of that loss, because Boyd's expression softened with genuine sympathy. "I'm very sorry for your loss. She looks like she was a lovely woman—and I can see where you inherited your beauty."
The unexpected kindness in his words caught me off guard, especially after Portia's calculated cruelty. For a moment, I glimpsed the warmth that Dylan had inherited from his father, the quality that made the Biggs family formidable in business but approachable in person.
"Thank you," I said quietly. "That means a lot."
Boyd studied my face with the kind of careful attention that suggested he was remembering something his wife or daughter had told him. "If I recall correctly, someone mentioned you came to Kentucky searching for your father. That's quite an undertaking."
The casual way he referenced what I'd hoped to keep private told me that Naomi's loose tongue had indeed reached the entire family, but Boyd's tone held curiosity rather than judgment. I found myself nodding despite my earlier resolve to keep the Biggs family at arm's length.
"That's true," I admitted. "It's been... complicated."
"I imagine it would be." Boyd's smile was sympathetic. "I wish you the very best of luck. Family is the most important thing in life—the foundation that everything else is built on. I hope you find what you're looking for."
His words were delivered with the conviction of someone who'd spent his entire life surrounded by the kind of family legacy that most people only dreamed about.
"Thank you, Mr. Biggs," I said, touched by his sincerity despite the reminder of everything I lacked. "That's very kind."
"Not kind," he corrected gently. "Just true. And please, call me Boyd."
Before I could respond, the teachers reappeared from their exploration, Helen consulting her notebook with the purposeful air of someone ready to move to the next educational experience.
"Ready for the next stop?" she asked brightly.
"Absolutely," I replied, grateful for the interruption. "Let's load up."
As we prepared to leave, Boyd raised his hand in a friendly farewell.
Walking back to the bus, I found myself thinking about the unexpected kindness in his words, the way he'd spoken about family as if it were the most natural thing in the world to value those connections above everything else.
For someone like Boyd, who'd married into his place in a multigenerational business dynasty, family probably did feel like the foundation of existence.
But for someone like me—searching for fathers who might not want to be found, building a life from scratch with no inherited safety net—family felt more like a luxury I couldn't afford to count on.