I twisted my hands in my lap, still uncertain but committed now. "Before we start, I need to ask you something."
"Of course."
"Will you feature Marv's business prominently? And favorably?" I met her eyes. "Marv gave me a job when I needed one, and he's a decent man trying to rebuild after a difficult situation. Plus it'll help Jett."
Naomi nodded, making a note. "I can do that. What else?"
"Happy Trails Campground. Lou and Tracy Oney have been incredibly kind to me. If you mention where I was staying, please make it clear they run a safe, welcoming place. What happened with Teddy Reeves wasn't their fault, and it has nothing to do with my search."
"Noted." She wrote again. "Anything else?"
I thought about Dylan and his family, about the devastation on their faces when James was arrested. "The Biggs family—Dylan, Jessica, Portia—they're victims in this too. Whatever James did, they didn't know. They don't deserve to be vilified."
"Fair enough." Naomi set down her pen and reached for the recorder. "Ready?"
No. I wasn't ready. I'd never be ready to dissect my mother's life and my desperate search for answers. But Naomi was right—the story would be written regardless. At least this way, I could ensure my mother was portrayed with the complexity and compassion she deserved.
"Ready," I said.
Naomi pressed the record button. A tiny red light blinked to life, capturing everything that followed.
"Let's start at the beginning," she said gently. "Tell me about your mother."
I looked out the bus window at the gray December afternoon. Somewhere in this state, possibly at the bottom of a river, lay the remains of a man who might be my father. My mother was buried in Tucson, with a small state-provided grave marker.
And here I sat, preparing to tell their story to a stranger.
I heaved a sigh that had been building for over a year—since my mother's death, since my decision to come to Kentucky, since I'd started this journey. The breath felt heavy leaving my lungs, carrying with it some of the weight I'd been holding.
Then I exhaled completely and began.
"Ginger Waters was a complicated woman and a loving mother," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "She struggled with depression and anxiety long before I was born, back when mental health issues carried more stigma than understanding…."
December 21, Sunday
age statementa required statement if the bourbon is aged less than four years
THE TOURbus rolled through the late afternoon, carrying ten passengers in various states of pleasant intoxication. Our final stop had been at a craft distillery that poured generously, and the group had taken full advantage. Their laughter and animated conversations filled the bus with warmth.
I sat in the rear, watching over everyone and feeling satisfied that everyone had had a good time. Naomi sat in the front passenger seat behind Jett. She'd joined us for the last two stops—research for the article, she'd said—and had apparently participated a bit too enthusiastically in the tastings.
Her hand rested on Jett's shoulder, fingers caressing him. She leaned in close to murmur something in his ear, laughing at her own joke. Her movements had that loose, languid quality of someone who'd crossed the line from buzzed to tipsy.
Jett's expression remained neutral, his attention focused on the road, but he didn't move her hand away.
I looked down at my notes, reminding myself firmly that it was none of my business. I was leaving Kentucky in ten days. Whatever dynamic existed between Jett and Naomi had nothing to do with me.
Not that Jett would ever choose me over her anyway.
Naomi was beautiful, successful, and confident. What did I have to offer? A van, a half-finished degree, and a trail of personal disasters.
Besides, Naomi had done me a solid. The interview yesterday had been surprisingly therapeutic, exactly as she'd promised. She'd listened without judgment as I talked about my mother'sstruggles, our nomadic life, the six-month search that had led me here. She'd asked thoughtful questions and taken careful notes.
"I'll send you the article before it goes to print," she'd promised when we finished.
That meant something. Trust. Respect. A recognition that this was my story as much as it was news.
So what if she was a little handsy with her boyfriend? What business was it of mine?
