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The trail we were on wound around a vineyard, the rows of wire trellises covered with bright green vines loaded down with grapes.
“Why did no one tell me they didn’t like him?” I really wanted to know. Because almost everyone had said something similar since we broke up. And all the women seemed unsurprised he’d cheated.
“How would I have started that conversation?”
“Hey sis, your boyfriend is a jerk?” I lowered my voice, attempting to mimic his baritone.
“Okay, so when would you have been open to hearing that? When you first brought him home for Thanksgiving and he took the last slice of Dad’s pumpkin pie without asking?”
I shrugged, not sure that would have been a big enough offense to warrant the jerk label when we were still in the honeymoon phase of the relationship. I’d have forgiven him a lot back then.
“Or a year later when you moved into his house and you sold all your stuff so you wouldn’t have to get a storage unit? Because he wouldn’t make any room?”
That one made me wince. It was a direct hit focused on all my current insecurities about the last ten years with Matthew. But at the time, it wouldn’t have changed my mind. I knew because at least one work friend pointed it out to me and I ignored them. Hindsight was a cruel bitch.
“Or the Christmas he bought you a fax machine?” He tipped down his sunglasses and gave me a questioning look.
Only took Wilson three tries and he nailed it. The fax had been a disastrous Christmas gift. If Wilson had said something to me then, I might have listened. I’d been so pissed. People were hardly using fax machines anymore and Matthew kept repeating ‘It’s a multi-function printer slash fax’like that would fix the root of the problem. He’d bought me an outdated office machinefor Christmas. He was so inconsiderate he didn’t even get me any paper or ink.
“Yep, the fax machine Christmas, that was the moment. You all missed it.” I chuckled sadly and nodded my head. I should have walked away that Christmas or a million other times he showed his true colors. But middle-aged and single had sounded terrifying, so I made do.
Wilson parked the UTV and pulled me close for a one-armed hug. “Next guy you date, Cameron and I will both give him the third degree. And tell you if we think he’s an ass. Deal?”
“Awesome. Thank you.” At this point, I’d take all the help I could get. Not that I was man shopping; I had way too much work to do for Blue Star and the memories of one night with a certain grouchy cowboy to keep me warm at night.
We’d parked under an oak tree in front of an old wood building that looked at least a hundred years old. The peeling whitewash had an aged patina only time could create. Traditional black wood shutters hung over the long windows. The roof was tall with a single peak, and the shingles looked in good repair.
“Surprise. It’s your tasting room.”
“You didn’t tell me you had a building already.” I’d been researching semi-permanent structures that came prefabricated for a temporary solution. They were ugly and expensive. This was charming.
We mounted the wide steps, and Wilson tugged the big rolling barn door open enough for us to squeeze inside the cool space. One small victory: we had AC.
“So here it is.” Wilson led me into the dark interior.
The open room had to be like sixty or seventy feet long and half that wide. A few scurrying noises made me think of rats, not wine.
“It’s big.” I sounded like an ungrateful and totally overwhelmed jerk.
I’d marketed household consumer products like air fresheners and laundry detergents. My capabilities were about to be stretched to their limits. I had no experience in event planning or running a massive venue. Buying ad space, writing press releases, and running social media campaigns were in my wheelhouse. Standing in the dark, dusty, cavernous space felt more tangible than any of that. The building’s scale drove home how big of a thing I’d begged to take on.
I was excited about wine in a way I never was about glass cleaner. But reality was daunting. I’d forced my way into this position. I could not screw it up.
“It’s what we’ve got. No building permit required. No construction company needed.” He spread his arms wide and made a few slow circles. Swap his jeans and boots for a dirndl, he’d be Maria Von Trapp in the opening of the Sound of Music, spinning on a hilltop.
My first thought that it was an old barn had to be wrong. It had narrow plank wood floors that any decorator in Chicago would kill for despite the layer of dust and no horse stalls. It could be a church that had lost its steeple over the last hundred years. The layout was right.
Currently, it functioned as a storage building. A few old saddles and other stuff for horses lay on the ground to our left. Some rusty farm equipment sat in a sunbeam, and what I thought was a pile of stakes used to hold up the vines rested in the far corner.
“We’re going to need a cleaning crew and exterminator.” I took my turn walking in a circle; I didn’t twirl like he had, too overwhelmed by the magnitude of the undertaking ahead.
Wilson’s unconcerned meh didn’t make me feel any better.
Overhead, exposed rafters curved in elegant arches, reminding me again of a church. The shuttered windows were new but dusty and only allowed in slivers of light. I could imagine them open and sunshine bathing the inside. It would be stunning, especially with the addition of an oversized light fixture. It needed to be one-of-a-kind, oiled bronze, or something else rustic and chunky. I hoped there was a place to shop for it here in Elmer—everything had to be local.
“What was it?” Still taking it all in, I asked my brother without looking at him.
“One-room schoolhouse built in the late eighteen hundreds.” Wilson sounded smug.
