Page 130 of The Difference Between

She motions to the kitchen table.

Being around this family as much as I have, I shouldn’t be surprised by what’s there, yet I am. Glass covers every inch of it. Vessels of every shape, size, and color. Bowls and platters. A wine decanter. A candlestick holder. Abstract sculptures to practical dinnerware.

At my wide eyes, she laughs. “You seem to like it.” She picks up a semi-translucent purple pumpkin with delicate tendrils of green coming from a stem. “I kept boxes of it for myself, but I’m downsizing so . . .” She sets the pumpkin down and sighs again. I wonder if she sees Greg in every reflection of light and artistic imperfection. “Anyway, I didn’t know if you wanted any of it for the tasting room. Or your house. Or whatever. No pressure, but it’s yours.”

“Nobody likes to talk about it,” I say, picking up a vase, smooth and cool to the touch. “Especially Gavin.”

She hums her agreement. “Everything changed when Greg died. It was the same day he got accepted to Corning—you know what that is?”

I shake my head, exchanging the vase for a platter.

“Prestigious museum of glass up in New York. He was going up there for an eight-week residency. Worked his ass off for it.”

“I didn’t realize.”

“Of course not.” She makes an amused sound. “Humble to a fault, that one. Probably don’t know about the commissioned pieces either.” She digs through a box and pulls out a stack of photos. Ceilings and walls and windows covered with glass fill every single one. Platters and globes and every shape in every color.

“Holy shit,” I whisper. Greg wasn’t just good, he was good.

Nancy laughs.

My eyes flick to hers. “When did he start doing this?”

“Soon as he could,” she says. “Got serious about it in high school.”

I do a double take. I knew Greg in high school, and he never once talked about glass. Amanda never talked about it. He was a football player. And apparently had a whole double secret, artistic life I never knew about.

“Was it his profession?” I could have sworn at my dad’s funeral he was an electrician.

“For years,” she says. “Made a name for himself. Made good money. And then . . .” She loses herself in the past before coming back to the present, bright smile returning to her face. “But lately?” She pauses. “He’s made more than he has in years.” Her brows lift. “I’m guessing that has something to do with you.”

He’s made more? But also . . . me?

That can’t be right.

Unless I’ve been wrong—there’s no way I got something this wrong. Greg made the glass and he is gone and this is Nancy’s way of . . . what? Hanging on? Unless it was never Greg and . . . no. That simply can’t be right. I misheard. “Nancy, do you mean tha⁠—”

I cut myself off as two cars come down the driveway toward Gavin’s shop. Then a third. Then Gavin’s truck.

I hope he wrecks.

“I forgot it’s Thursday,” Nancy says.

I pass the photos back to her. “Thursday?”

“One Thursday a month he opens the shop for the public. Thirsty Thursday he calls it.”

How nice.

“You should go,” Nancy says. “Addie likes to pop in. They all love her, and she loves the attention.”

“Maybe.” Nope. “I’ll come by tomorrow and take a few of these.” The platters would be great when I get snacks on the menu. The pitchers for water. “Thank you for offering.”

She follows me as I start to leave. “You know better than anyone there’s nobody else he’d want to have them.”

What?

My mind is reeling at what she’s implying, but I can’t make it make sense or bring myself to ask. Because if I’ve been wrong—I’ve been wrong, wrong. We pause on the porch, looking out over the vineyard to Gavin’s shop as an SUV parks.