Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
Nash is right on time—in a button-up shirt covered in wine bottles, no less—with fourteen guests in his blue Thirsty for History bus.
Just as planned, he gives them a brief overview of what to expect—a no-frills boutique vineyard with options for tastings, retail, and free tours with our onsite expert.
Not wanting to seem too eager or pass out, I wait inside as everyone else greets Nash and the guests of all ages. They step off the bus and pause briefly to take in the view, using words like gorgeous and peaceful to describe the property.
It really is, especially today. It’s a perfect temperature under a sunny sky. The earliest of fall yellows and reds on the trees and vines pop against the clear blue of the sky as the slightest breeze blows.
I couldn’t have planned better weather if I tried.
Nancy wanders in, taking in the details quietly until she’s across the empty bar from me. There’s a big smile on her face as the doorway frames the people bringing to life a dream she once dreamed.
“How’s it feel?” I ask, watching Gavin and Nash slap backs and shake hands before Gavin focuses his attention on the guests and Nash turns his to Bennie and Rue. My beloved sister has already abandoned her post. “Seeing people out here again?”
Nancy’s smile stays, but there’s moisture in her eyes and cracks in her words.
“Like they’re here and gone all at once.
” She sniffs then laughs. “Like I’ve never been more happy or sad.
” She takes the napkin I offer to blot her tears then wipe her nose.
“God, Reese. Bud would have loved to see you being part of this. Greg too. And Amanda.”
That one stings a little. I would love for her to be here—all of them.
Nancy chuckles. “Gavin loves it enough for all of them, I guess.”
On reflex, my eyes find him in the parking lot. He’s holding Addie like a football, and she squeals with delight. I wish I had a camera to freeze the moment.
“He’s a good one,” Nancy says, seemingly reading my mind. “I’d have never made it through the last years without him and everything he’s given up for us.”
Before I can ask what she means, the first guests are inside, oohing and ahhing at the grapes on the ceiling and the view through the windows. Nancy gives me a warm smile, pats my arm, then slips out the door to stand next to her son.
Here we go.
I take a breath then cheekily say to the room, “Anyone here for wine?”
Cheers erupt—how odd to be working for people out to relax and have fun—and they fill the seats at the bar.
Most of the guests want flights, but a few want a full glass right out of the gate; I pour those in the handblown glasses.
Banyan appears in the doorway, coolly asking, “Anyone care to meet the ladies?”
I smile at the guests instead of growling.
“Our viticulturist”—the title is so very generous—“Banyan, is happy to walk you through the vines and answer any questions. All the grapes in our wine are grown right on site. Harvest starts next week, so he should have a lot to say.”
The people with the single glasses go straight to him—bless their hearts—and I almost feel bad for not issuing a warning. One woman is pushing eighty—she might not survive him.
As they walk out the door, Banyan’s nasally voice says, “Who here has ever touched the soft flesh of a woman’s thigh?”
I focus on the people and flights at hand, lining up the cheap glasses adorned with the Glass of Vine logo I rush ordered.
I didn’t change a thing on the logo. Not because I didn’t have the time—though I didn’t—but because the glass and the vine twisted together are perfect.
Unique and eye-catching. And with Greg’s glass, it works. Perfectly.
“We’ll start with our Gather Seyval,” I explain as I work, “made with our Seyval blanc grapes. They’re fermented in stainless-steel tanks instead of oak barrels to highlight the bright flavors.
” I move along the bar, pouring a tasting’s worth of wine into each glass without spilling.
“You may notice notes of pear and citrus, similar to a sauvignon blanc or Pinot Grigio.”
They sip, voice opinions, and a few ask questions.
I know the answers because I’ve studied. I’ve asked Banyan and Nancy a million questions, spent hours on calls and exchanging emails with the crush facility in Charlotte—which I also explain the process of.
“Wine names are interesting,” one woman says. “Where do they come from?”
“All named after parts of the glassblowing process,” I explain, making a mental note to do better research on the terms. “The previous owners had a son who did it.” I point to the ceiling, still shocked that the quarterback Greg I once knew created that. “Made that too.”
They talk amongst themselves, and I pour the next sampling—The Annealed Reserve, similar to chardonnay—then the next, Murrine Rosé. Which . . . there’s Remy out the window, clutching onto a bottle for dear life.
After most of the technical questions have been answered, one asks, “You from around here?”
I pour the Torch Red. “Born and raised right here in Fontain, actually.”
“We’re up visiting from Charlotte,” a woman says.
“Us too,” the guy a couple seats down adds. “Belmont.”
They slip into chatter about Belmont and how charming it is. There’s a bookshop with a dog named Libby and a restaurant that serves buffaloaf.
A man pipes in with, “We’re down from Chicago.” He raises his glass. “Visiting our daughter—she lives an hour from here.”
I clank his glass with a bottle. “I’m a Chicagoan myself.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.” I grin. “Work on Canal Street.”
He looks around the tasting room and gives a disbelieving laugh. “Don’t look like it.”
“I work with vineyards.” Today. “Just here a few months.”
The conversation pivots, but they keep me in it. We talk about books and travels and good wines and bad wines. We talk about nothing. One guy talks too loud and one woman keeps clearing her throat, but somehow, I’m not annoyed. On the contrary, I pour wine and volunteer information.
About myself.
As they sip their last tasting, the Incalmo Port, Addie rushes through the door and climbs onto a stool.
“You got ID?” I tease.
She laughs and pushes the bridge of her glasses. “Andrew, I’d like a beer,” she says in her rounded-off voice.
I know this game. “A beer?”
“Mm,” she says with a serious face. “Good stuff.”
I smile before she does.
It’s from Overboard.
My gaze flicks down the bar. Nearly everyone is smiling at her—it’s impossible not to—but there’s some reservation there too. Recognition. They see her Down syndrome.
Gavin told me that first day she’s just another person, and every minute I’m with her I know she is. The difference between her and us is one chromosome that I’ve nearly forgotten because it’s the least important thing about her.
He was wrong the other night when he said I’d done something for her—I haven’t—but she’s done something for me that I never knew I needed.
She accepts me—fully—everything my sisters tease me relentlessly about and Trish sent me away for, Addie appreciates.
Without me working for it. I’ll be damned if I won’t give her that same acceptance and appreciation in return.
“Addie here helped with the menu,” I explain as I crouch down to a small refrigerator and retrieve four bottles of grape juice. “Didn’t think it was fair the grown-ups got to have all the fun.”
They chuckle at this.
Addie was sitting right next to me when I was looking through American Restaurant magazine and landed on an article about a place in Key Largo. It’s a bar and grill with designated activities for kids so the adults can enjoy a drink in peace. Crow’s Nest, it was called.
“Do that,” Addie said, pointing at a group of kids Hula-Hooping under palm trees.
And while I couldn’t manage it for today—maybe not even this season—I loved the idea. A place kids could run wild and parents relax. The kind of place I’ll want to take my kid someday.
Addie collects the bottles in her arms and says, “Miss Reese said drunk kids are bad for profit margins.”
A man raises his wine. “Miss Reese is a smart lady!”
“That’s what Uncle Gav says.”
Then she’s gone, shouting thank you as she runs straight to Gavin who’s waiting for her outside.
His eyes meet mine as he unscrews the lid of her juice, and for a split second, I think I could do this every single day for the rest of my life.
I could give Addie juice and pour wine for tourists and look for Gavin across rooms and crowds and rows of vines.
I could do it despite his job or his age or any other one of the differences between us.
“I’ll take two bottles of the Gather,” the man from Chicago says.
I grab the bottles, pausing at the scene out the windows.
Banyan is holding the weird instrument in his hands while the older woman blows into it before laughing. The rolling hills of grapes lead to trees then the hazy promise of mountains that lie just beyond. A blur of motion cuts the scene as the kids race by. It’s . . . perfect.
The man waiting clears his throat, reminding me he’s there.
I give him the wine and he thanks me, gesturing with his chin to the view. “Sure as shit beats the hell outta Canal, eh?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer before crossing the room to meet his wife at the register.
“It’s a damn good view,” Trish had said that day as we looked out over the city from her office. “But it isn’t the best one you’ll see in a lifetime. Not by a long shot.”
I never believed she could have been right.
A woman orders a glass of the Annealed Reserve and sets off the whirlwind of the rest of the day.
Nash picks guests up and drops more off. Much like I expected, the majority of the customers are from his tours, but there are a few stragglers who stop because they were driving by and saw the crowd. People are nothing if not predictable.
All afternoon, Banyan saunters the vines, saying God knows what and blowing into his neck horn, but doesn’t earn a single complaint.