A knock on my office door shakes me out of my romantic reverie, Tristan’s blurred outline visible through the milky glass window. I quickly glance around, but there’s no evidence of the pastry sexual awakening that occurred here earlier, and all my clothes are buttoned, zipped, and right-side on.
“Come in.”
The knob turns, then Tristan’s shoving the door open with his hip, his arms full of teetering boxes. He takes one look at me and rolls his eyes. “You have sex hair.”
I run a hand over my head, smoothing the snarls. Crumbs fall onto my shoulder, and Tristan’s frown grows. Oops.
“Erm, what’s in the boxes, Stan?”
One auburn eyebrow arches but he lets me change the subject. “I was cleaning out the storage room, and I found these.” He pauses to swallow, looking suddenly unsure. “There’s some pictures of your parents in here, when the vineyard was starting out. Wanna see?”
“Really? Yeah!” I put a bright smile on my face, and relieved, he lifts the lid of the first box and hands me an old brittle clipping.
It takes my breath away. My mom and dad, arm in arm, standing in front of the original Bluebell Vineyards sign that Dad painted by hand. Behind them are our vineyards, or where they would be, one day. In this shot, only a fraction of the property has been cultivated so far. The headline reads:BLUE RIDGE—AMERICA’S NEXT NAPA?which makes me smile. The article goes on to detail my parents’ story—how they met, how they picked the land, and how their first growing season was going. Bluebell Vineyards was one of only two vineyards in the North Georgia mountains back then, and nobody knew if the great Georgia wine experiment would succeed. But while reading the words, my eyes are drawn up again and again to my parents’ beaming faces. This couple had no sad future waiting. It was all open fields under big blue skies, red clay and rolling hills. My finger brushes over their faces, holding the memory of this moment in time for them.
“Is there more?”
Hours pass as Tristan and I pore over every relic he’s uncovered. It softens my heart, seeing the history of Bluebell Vineyards laid out before me. A picture of my mom, laughing from behind the bar. Dad moppingthe winery floor, mouth open, undoubtedly singing along to some bad European techno. An idea’s building inside me, but the details are out of reach. I feel that tickling sensation whenever a good idea’s about to hit.
“Could you scan these pictures, Tristan? Digitize them so we can blow them up big, maybe as projections?”
Tristan’s brows draw together. “Yeah. Why?”
“What if you did an art installation for the showcase? My parents’ story and the history of Bluebell Vineyards and surrounding areas, but with your modern eye? Something beautiful and cinematic, something we could project against our walls, the forest—”
“The barn, the surface of the pond.” Tristan plucks my thread from the air and keeps it spinning, the cadence of his voice picking up to match mine. “The west hill, even. It has the right slope—we could project images onto the vines themselves after dark.”
“What if you could make it like—like a walking tour through the property, with little vignettes projected for people to experience?” My heart’s picking up speed.
Tristan’s eyes meet mine, and I see the same spark igniting his own creativity. Suddenly he stands, his hands still full of pictures. “Hey, do you mind if I head out early tonight? I wanna do some research on this.”
“Go for it.” I smile, feeling prickles of excitement at this new take on the local showcase’s theming.Everyday Bon Vivantwanted me to imbue my parents’ story into our vineyard’s experience, and I could do that and more, situating my family’s narrative among the area’s stories, too. Because this festival is about more than Bluebell Vineyards—it’s about Blue Ridge. The next Napa? No, maybe not, but it’s a one-of-a-kind place with one-of-a-kind people.
I want to share our stories.
I once read an article about how partners share stress, that it ping-pongs back and forth between them with greater intensity until there’s a constantthwap-thwap-thwapbetween your heart and brain and theirs, and you want to throw yourself into a lake to escape it.
As a confirmed spinster, I never thought that would happen to me.
Ialsonever thought it would involve Soccer Saturday.
“THAT’S RIGHT, DAR-DAR!” I scream from another plane of existence where I, Zoe Brennan,desperatelycare about the outcome of the peewee soccer league final championship. “GO, BENNY, GO!” At this point, I’m just screaming general encouragement. I don’t know what the hell is going on. While Laine’s addition to the coaching staff has made some mild improvement—the children scatter every time she yellsCLUMP!—it hasn’t done anything to decrease the overall chaos of six-year-olds attempting team sports. All I know is that it’s 1-1, we have somewhere between ten seconds and five minutes left, and I haven’t sat down for the entire second half.
The vibes areintense.
But Darla has the ball, and Benny’s at her side. Every time she dribbles a little too hard, Benny’s there to bring it back under their joint control, just like Laine’s worked with them out in the yard. As the youngest Woods twins approach their team’s goal, the oldest Woods twins are clutching each other, waiting with gripped fingers on each other’s biceps. Darla swings back to kick, andbam!The ball hits the post and bounces off, but Benny catches the rebound and kicks it in before anyone can do anything about it.
I’m … not sure you can do that in soccer? But even the teen ref is cheering. The goal brings Chance and Laine back to life, and now they’re jumping arm in arm before Chance runs out on the field and scoops up his kids, one on each side, and spins them wildly.
Laine, on the other hand, is now on top of the Gatorade table. I shake my head, laughing with the sweet relief we’re sharing now.
These sweet, incomprehensibleathletes.
After the game, the entire Woods clan is partying in the parking lot. Molly and Ezra are proud as punch and have gone full tent, handing out those gooey little Hawaiian roll ham sandwiches and a play-by-play of Benny and Darla’s best hits. I’m happily waiting my turn to congratulate Laine and Chance after the crowd of parents dissipates when a figure sidles up beside me. I glance out of the corner of my eye and nearly choke on my eggroll.
Rachel stands there, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
After a pause, I resume chewing. Slowly.
