November 6, Thursday
barrel rotation the practice of moving barrels within the rickhouse to ensure even aging
THE KNOCK on my van door came just as I was collecting leftover bread from my tiny pantry to feed the fish. Through the small window, I saw Jett standing outside, hands shoved in his jacket pockets against the November chill.
I opened the door, surprised. "Hey."
"Hey yourself." He shifted his weight, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. "Bad time?"
"I was about to feed the fish." I grabbed my jacket from a hook. "Want to come with?"
Relief crossed his face. "Sure."
We walked in comfortable silence down the familiar path toward the dock, dried leaves crunching beneath our feet.
The campground was quiet on a Thursday afternoon—most of the seasonal campers had already headed south for winter, leaving behind empty lots and covered picnic tables.
The shallow lake stretched before us, its surface smooth as glass under the gray sky.
I stood against the railing and opened the container, sprinkling crumbs across the water. Within seconds, silvery fish appeared, creating ripples as they surfaced to feed. Jett stood beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touched.
We watched the fish for a few minutes, the repetitive motion of feeding them oddly soothing. But I could sense Jett building up to something, the way tension gradually crept into his posture.
"Bernadette." His voice was gentle but serious. "What's going on with you?"
My hand paused over the container. "What do you mean?"
"Come on. The last few days—forgetting your lines on Sunday, avoiding Dylan, that whole confrontation yesterday." He turned to look at me directly. "Something's wrong. Really wrong."
The concern in his eyes undid me. The tears I'd been holding back for days suddenly blurred my vision.
"Boyd Biggs might be my father," I whispered.
Jett went completely still. The words hung in the cold air between us.
"What?"
"My mother's friend remembered his name. Boyd Biggs. He worked in bourbon when my mother knew him, and the timing—" My voice broke. "The timing lines up. Which means Dylan—"
"Could be your half-brother."
I nodded.
"Jesus." Jett breathed the word more than spoke it.
"Now you understand why I can't see him." The tears spilled over, hot against my cold cheeks. "Why I can't explain. Why everything is falling apart."
Jett reached over and clasped my hand, his fingers warm and solid around mine. The simple gesture of support made me cry harder.
"How can I help?" he asked quietly.
I shook my head, unable to speak past the tightness in my throat. His thumb traced small circles against my palm, patient and steady.
"You're helping," I managed finally. "Just by being here. By not running away from this mess."
"I'm not going anywhere."
The certainty in his voice made something in my chest loosen slightly. I squeezed his hand, grateful beyond words. We stood like that, hands linked, watching the fish gradually disperse now that the food was gone.
"Does anyone else know?" Jett asked after a while.
"The P.I. I've been working with. She's looking into Boyd's background, trying to confirm the timeline." I wiped my face with my free hand. "I haven't told anyone else."
"Your secret's safe with me." He gave my hand another squeeze.
"Bernadette! Jett!" Poppy's voice rang out across the campground. We both turned to see her waving from near the office, her bright purple coat visible even from a distance. "Y'all want some leftover chili? I made way too much!"
Jett released my hand slowly. "I should probably go. Need to get the hives winterized before it gets dark."
"Right. The bees. Thanks for checking on me."
He met my eyes with an intensity that made my breath catch. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Of course."
"It's going to be okay, Bernadette."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that somehow this impossible situation would resolve itself. But I couldn't shake the feeling that nothing would ever be okay again.