Page 115 of The Difference Between

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.”