"You loved this place," I said at the final stop, the urn nearly empty. "Now you're part of it forever."
I scattered the last of the ashes, then stood watching the Kentucky River flow past. Tears streamed down my face, but they felt cleansing rather than bitter. I'd found my father. I'd learned his story. And now I'd given him back to the land.
It wasn't the ending I'd wanted, but it was the ending we had.
I drove back toward the campground, the empty urn on the passenger seat, my heart heavy but somehow lighter than before. Closure, I realized, didn't mean happiness. It just meant knowing. Being able to move forward without the constant weight of unanswered questions.
My phone pinged with a notification. I waited until I reached a stoplight to check it.
A direct message on Instagram from Lenore Martinez—my old friend from Arizona, the one with the successful media company and theForbesrecognition.
Bernadette! So good to hear from you! I'd love to catch up—here's my number. Call me anytime! ??
A phone number followed, along with three photos—Lenore at various company events, looking successful and happy and exactly like the friend I remembered, just more polished.
Something warm bloomed in my chest. Lenore had responded. She wanted to reconnect. I wasn't returning to Arizona with nothing—I was returning to the possibility of rebuilding old friendships.
December 30, Tuesday
quality controlfinal inspection step to ensure each bottle meets brand and safety standards
THE REDPegasus bar looked exactly as it had six months ago when I'd first walked through its doors—dim lighting, cracked vinyl booths, the smell of bourbon and old wood smoke hanging in the air. But this time, I wasn't a stranger searching desperately for clues. This time, I was saying goodbye.
Suzy sat across from me in one of the booths, a glass of bourbon, neat, in front of her, her eyes warm with the kind of understanding that came from shared history.
"I think you made the perfect choice," she said, referring to yesterday's ash-scattering. "Spreading Boyd's remains along the Kentucky River, near the distilleries he loved. Your father would've appreciated that."
"I hope so." I swirled the bourbon in my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. "It felt right. Like I was giving him back."
"He would've been proud of you, you know. Of what you did, coming all this way to find him. Of who you are."
The words made my throat tight. "You think?"
"I know." Suzy reached across the table and clasped my hand. "Ginger would've been proud too. You honored both of them by not giving up."
The bar door opened, letting in a blast of cold air. Keith Banyon walked in, spotting us immediately and heading over with a genuine smile.
"Bernadette." He pulled me into a hug before I could stand. "Thank you for inviting me."
"Thank you for coming." I gestured to the booth. "This is Suzy—she worked here with my mom back in the day."
"I remember you," Keith said, recognition dawning on his face. "You tended bar. Always had a good word for everyone."
"That was a long time ago," Suzy said, but she was smiling.
Keith slid into the booth beside me, and the bartender Sam brought over a glass of bourbon for him without being asked.
"On the house," Sam said. "For old times' sake."
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, three people connected by a woman who was gone and a story that had finally reached its conclusion.
"For what it's worth, Bernadette," Keith said, his voice carrying unexpected emotion, "I wish I was your father."
I looked at him, surprised. "Really?"
"Really. You're remarkable, Bernadette. Any father would be lucky to claim you as his daughter." He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. "I know I'm not Boyd, and I can't replace what you lost. But I'd like to stay in touch when you go back to Arizona. If you're open to that."
"I don't want to intrude on your family," I said carefully. "Your wife, your kids—"
