A set of miniature salt and pepper shakers, hand-painted with delicate flowers.
An amber-colored shot glass, its surface catching the weak light.
Various rings of little value.
An ornate tassel with frayed edges.
A pair of stained glass earrings.
A red enamel collar pin in the shape of a Pegasus.
My mother's mementos. The items had vanished from my van weeks ago. I assumed Teddy had stolen the items, but it seemed too coincidental that the items had reappeared just as Marilyn had disappeared. Had she returned these items as some kind of silent apology or farewell?
I hoped she was okay. Despite everything, despite the accusations and the anger, I hoped she'd found somewhere safer to land than this campground had been for either of us.
I held the items to my chest.
Outside, the December wind rattled the van's frame. Inside, I sat surrounded by blankets and memories, wondering if it was time to admit I'd never find the answers I'd come looking for.
December 3, Wednesday
bottle weightthe mass of the empty bottle, affecting shipping and perceived quality
THE BARMAIDcostume felt different today—less like a character I was playing and more like a role I'd come to enjoy. I'd abandoned the Irish accent, though. Standing at the front of the bus, I pointed out landmarks and recited facts in my regular voice that had so annoyed Marv's wife Teresa.
"The bourbon industry generates over nine billion dollars annually for Kentucky's economy," I told the group of insurance salespeople from Michigan.
When we pulled into the parking lot of Goldenrod Distillery, my stomach clenched. I wasn't ready to face Dylan, and I didn’t want to risk running into another member of the Biggs family.
I gestured to the entrance. "You'll have about forty-five minutes inside, including a tasting flight. I'll meet you back here at the bus."
Jett gave me an understanding smile—he knew the whole sordid story.
The tourists filed off, chatting among themselves. I climbed off the bus to get some fresh air. Through the front window, I could see Dylan behind the bar, flashing his easy smile at the customers.
I turned and walked a few feet away, drawing a wool shawl around me to keep warm.
"Bernadette?"
At the sound of Dylan's voice, I turned to see him standing a few feet away, his expression cautious.
My pulse jumped. "Hi," I managed.
We stood in awkward silence for a few seconds with a cold wind cutting between us.
"I'm sorry," I blurted. "For causing problems, for the way I handled all of it. I never meant—"
"I know." Dylan's voice was quiet. "I've been thinking about it a lot. Trying to understand it from your perspective."
I blinked, pleased and humbled.
"I can't imagine what it must be like," he continued, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Not knowing who your father is. Growing up with that kind of emptiness. I've always known exactly where I came from. Sometimes it felt suffocating, the family legacy, the expectations. But it made me feel safe, and you've never had that."
I swallowed hard. "Thanks for saying that. Your father saved my life."
Dylan's expression shifted to confusion. "What do you mean?"
Surprised that Boyd hadn't said anything, I told him about the attack, omitting the fact that his father had offered me a large check.
