Page 94 of The Difference Between

Exhale—balloon.

Banyan tells me to come back to my body, and the balloon vanishes. I feel my legs and the grass and the late-morning sun.

A bell chimes and my eyes fly open. Where did Banyan get a bell?

“How’s that?” he asks.

I self-assess; I’m relaxed. And, at the thought of the balloon, slightly panicked. I’m panicked calm. “Weird.”

Because it is weird. Ten minutes ago, I felt nothing but annoyed, but now there’s a bone-deep calm. Fizz Co numbers aren’t playing in the background, there’s no to-do list I’m worried about. I’m simply in this vineyard in this moment.

But also . . . that balloon.

He rubs the tip of his nose and says to the grapes, “Peace on earth, ladies.”

I stand and brush the grass off my legs. “Let’s get to work.”

The rest of the day is dedicated to being in the tasting room to cover flight options and descriptions. I’ve always thought one grape equals one wine, but that’s not the case at all. With two varieties grown on the property—Seyval blanc and chambourcin—we produce six wines.

To limit my alcohol consumption, I only take small sips, but the flavors they pack are robust and nuanced.

With crisp, refreshing notes of fruit and vanilla, the Annealed Reserve is by far my favorite, but there’s something for every palate. The Incalmo Port is rich and spicy while the Etched Reserve has a merlot-like quality. Banyan thinks a sangria with the Gather would do well. He mixes a sampling up—it’s phenomenal—but it probably wouldn’t be very popular in the fall as the flavors scream sunshine and summer.

“Unless,” I say, eying the port. “We try something with this.”

Banyan clanks his glass to mine. “Fire Lady’s onto something.”

Learning about the wine is fascinating. And fun. A puzzle trying to put all the flavors where they belong while figuring out the language to sell them. I like wine, but I don’t know it—not at this level. Not yet.

Done for the day, Banyan stands and slips his headphones over his ears.

“Why did today work?” I ask. “The meditating, I mean. The last tries were a bust, but today—the balloons—why?”

“Ahhh.” Banyan drops the headphones to his neck and grins before tapping the side of his crooked nose. “There it is.” He claps and rubs his hands together. “You found the thing.”

“The thing?”

“The balloon you couldn’t get rid of is the thing you want.” My stomach flip-flops. That can’t be right. “Or person.” He winks then slips his headphones back to his ears. “See ya tomorrow, Fire Lady.”

The door clicks closed behind him.

I scowl at the closed door. Banyan is not the expert on my wants. He’s not even a real expert on wine—he’s a criminal!

“I want Fizz Co,” I say to the empty tasting room. “And a baby. And I want this vineyard to turn a profit.”

With the soft reopening this weekend, the space looks as it should—clean, organized, and welcoming. I’ll be here behind the counter and Banyan will be in the vines educating the visitors—with his shirt buttoned up.

School bus brakes cut through the quiet. Out the window, Addie bounces off the bus, waving when she sees me before going in to see her grandmother.

This is our afternoon routine. She visits Nancy—Nan, as Addie calls her—while I wrap things up before we go to Mom’s to practice her lines.

I lock the door to the tasting room, but instead of going straight to Nancy’s, I veer left. Down the rows, across a patch of field, and around a small pond . . . to Gavin’s shop. It’s empty.

I’ve been so busy the last two weeks, this is the closest I’ve been to it, and it looks exactly as it does from across the property. It’s large, white, and a style I’d classify as economical.

The section with garage doors doesn’t have any windows. I tug on one of the metal handles of the doors on rollers; it doesn’t budge.

At the portion I assume where Gavin wanted to live, there are windows—lots of them—and a dark wooden door like a normal house. With cupped hands, I peer at the bare-bones interior.