Chapter 13
Thirteen
If Chicago is a city built by glass and steel, Fontain, North Carolina is leaves and vines. The town sits smack dab in the middle of the state’s wine country in the Yadkin Valley.
A lot of people don’t even know we have vineyards, but there are over a million acres dedicated to the fruit in this region of the state alone.
It doesn’t have the same name recognition or prestige as Napa, but it’s gaining traction.
With its proximity to Charlotte and other larger towns in the southeast, tourists flock here every year, especially in the summer and fall.
The disaster area I was expecting couldn’t have been further from the reality of what the Nickelses’ vineyard is.
Glass of Vine, as the sign indicates, looks as picturesque as most vineyards in the area.
Maybe more so. Defined by rolling hills covered in trellised vines, an old white farmhouse, a small pond, and a couple of outbuildings, if the red For Sale sign was gone, it could be a photograph for the region’s tourism.
Barely down the driveway, the beauty of the property itself is evident, but it’s the hazy horizon line of mountains in the distance that makes my gaze linger a little longer in every direction.
I forgot how gorgeous it is out here. How wild and free despite the hand of man.
I’ve been out of the city for almost three weeks, but when I get out of the car, it’s the first time my lungs seem to breathe at full capacity.
An inhale followed by an unhurried exhale that smells like wide open spaces and sunshine.
Grass and trees and wildflowers in bloom. A little sweet, a little earthy.
It’s hot—early September usually is—and my blue jeans and T-shirt are almost too much for the temperature. But like the firm press of a thumb in a deep tissue massage, it feels good. A warmth made to be absorbed through closed eyelids and a quiet pause.
If the vineyard is facing tough times, I can’t tell by how meticulously the property’s been maintained. The grapevines are green and healthy, the grass between every row is cut—there’s not a weed in sight. Unless there’s poison in the fruit, I have no idea why anyone would sell it.
Gavin steps next to me as I take in the view.
“Tell me what I’m looking at.”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “This here’s what we like to call a vineyard, Miss Reese.”
I give him a deadpan look. “Thanks for the intel, Captain Obvious.”
He chuckles through a breath but doesn’t offer more. Instead, he looks at me the way I look at something I’m trying to understand. The way I scrutinize numbers on paper before making a decision about the viability of a company.
I blow out a sharp breath. “What?”
“You’re being weird.”
“You don’t even know me. You have no idea if I’m being weird.”
He squints at the horizon. “You are.”
“I am not,” I insist.
“You are,” he volleys back. “You were mouthy and mad at me for existing when I was mowing your mom’s yard. Then—”
“I was not mouthy and mad at you for existing, I was mouthy and mad at you for mowing with the world’s loudest lawnmower four inches away from a woman whose ears are hypersensitive due to brain surgery.” On cue, a lawnmower fires up in the distance. “And there was a sign.”
“Then you put on those ridiculous shoes to prove a point to me.”
Damn him.
“I was not trying to prove a point. I always wear those shoes.”
“And when I asked you out, I think you wanted to say yes.”
Damn him again.
“Did you get that from the part where I told you no?”
“And you were fighting a smile when you saw me with the lasagna but didn’t want your sisters to know you wanted to smile.”
I give him a sweet smile. “I always smile at cockroaches before I kill them.”
“And then you find out I’m some kid you knew twenty-some years ago and now you’re—” His brows raise, and he looks me up and down. “Kind of crazy.”
“How am I crazy?”
He booms out a laugh. “You wouldn’t let me talk the whole drive over, for one.”
“I was driving that”—I gesture at my mother’s car—“ridiculous toy and didn’t want my coffin to be a lime-green German sardine can. It’s called concentrating.”
“Why are you mad it’s me?”
“I’m not mad it’s you,” I insist. “I don’t care who you are. You’re—” I blow out a frustrated breath and try to wrangle my erratic thoughts. “I’m not mad.”
“You seem mad.” He spreads his arms wide, adding, “You want a hug?”
I bristle. “I hate hugs.”
Too fast for me to stop it, he hugs me. “Like this?”
I put my hands on his chest and push with a grunt. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He stumbles backward with a laugh.
“Why did you do that?” I straighten my shirt, scowling. I willingly hug eight people on earth—seven now that Darren’s been doing yoga—and Gavin the Vulgarian isn’t one of them. There’s no justifiable reason for strangers to embrace—it’s weird. “What is wrong with you? Don’t touch me.”
“Just seeing if you were serious,” he says. “You were. Anything else you hate that I should know about?”
“Dancing, actually.” I give him a smile I don’t mean. “Which you’ll never be close enough to try.”
“No dancing, noted.” His smile might be tattooed there. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re mad, though.”
I bat my fight around my mouth with my tongue. He’s kind of right. It’s not mad as much as blindsided. By him. By Amanda being gone.
In my pause, he takes his hat off, rakes a hand through his unruly head of hair, then returns the hat to his head—backward—and settles his hands on his narrow hips.
“I’m not mad,” I finally say with less fight in my voice.
“I’m surprised. And I don’t like to be surprised.
I have a lot going on and—” I can’t bring myself to admit that I didn’t know about Amanda and Greg.
“And you being you caught me off guard.” My eyes wander over this very grown-up version of a kid I once knew.
“I never expected you to be a man, I guess.”
Another laugh, this one with a sound as big as the sky. “You think I was going to grow up to be a woman?”
I fight a smile. “Deceased at the Alamo, actually.”
He flicks the tip of his nose with his thumb. “What do you like, then?”
My eyes narrow.
“You don’t like surprises or hugs or dancing.” He scratches his chin, the hairs of his beard making a coarse sound beneath his fingers. “What do you like?”
Why does that question make me feel naked? “Like?”
“Yeah. Like. Anything. Movies. Hobbies.” What is it with people and hobbies? In my silence: “What kind of music do you listen to?”
“I don’t have time for music.” I turn to the vines, coolly saying, “And I like you telling me what we’re looking at.”
“Is the reason you won’t go out with me because I’m thirty and cut grass?”
“As a matter of fact, it is.” This moron laughs. “Now tell me what we’re looking at or I’m leaving.”
He sighs, dramatically bereft, then takes in the same scene as me and complies. “Mom and Dad bought the house on twenty acres a few years ago. An active retirement plan, as they called it. Dad couldn’t sit still after he left the classroom, and they dumped all their money into it.”
I had Mr. Nickels as a teacher in high school—I liked him.
He liked reminding me that I taught his son to read.
I’d raise my hand to answer a question, and he’d often call on me with a, “If Ms. Conway is answering, we all better listen. My son can vouch for that.” I’d roll my eyes, he’d smile, sometimes tell a stupid joke—I guess that’s where Gavin gets it—and class would go on.
Other than the few times my mom and sisters brought it up, that was the last time I thought about Little Gavin.
And now here he is. Not so little and telling me about his mom’s failing vineyard.
Life: what a trip.
“Property is twenty acres but there’s ten acres under two varieties,” Gavin continues.
“Vines you see were already established and thriving when they bought it.” He points to a white building that could be a house as much as an updated barn.
It has dark-stained double doors, lots of windows, and a high roof.
“That is—was—the retail shop and tasting room.”
I can easily imagine it as a venue for weddings or parties, or like he said, store and tasting room. “Was?”
His long sigh could tell a whole story. “Things were different after Greg.”
The air doesn’t change—it’s still hot as hell, the bugs still buzz a late summer song as a single cloud doesn’t drift through the bright blue sky—but it goes heavy with unspoken grief. This time not about Amanda, but about him losing his brother.
I fantasize about killing my sisters every time I see their faces but wouldn’t want to live in a world that they aren’t in.
“I’m sorry,” I say genuinely. “That they’re gone. I—” Our eyes meet. “I didn’t know.”
His eyes widen—he’s shocked by this—but instead of reading me the riot act, he says nothing, melting my shame into gratitude.
“A few months after that, my dad’s cancer came back.” He looks out over the vines. “A few months after that, he passed. That was about six months ago.”
Once again, the world stays the same, just a few tons heavier.
I lost my dad a decade ago, but I feel the bruise of his absence just the same.
I was him and he was me. Two nerds driven by the puzzle of numbers and making decisions based on black and white information.
The difference between us was that he was content with Fontain-sized numbers, and I never was.
At a row of vines, I pinch a leaf between my fingers and rub a small circle, the velvety underside and raised veins soothing to the touch.
A ripening cluster of grapes is framed by a wiry tendril tucked just beneath.
I don’t know much about the crop, but I know we’re approaching harvest season. September’s a big month for the region.
“Chambourcin,” Gavin supplies as I gently prod the fruit. “Harvest starts in a few weeks. Good crop this year.”