“And?”
“Definitely worth savouring.”
He cocked his brow and slowly nodded in agreement as the words hung between us.“Mmhmm.”
––––––––
The tour started light.Jokes about stubborn doors and the way the floors creaked in certain spots.He showed me the production area, the barrels stacked neatly, the hum of quiet industry even after hours.
But somewhere between the barrel room and the small office tucked in the back, his tone shifted.
“This is where I spend most of my time.”he said, gesturing around the typical office space.
A long window beside the desk faced out toward the fields, a picturesque view.Lining the wall opposite the desk were several pictures and shelves with labelled bottles.
“Ah, my pride and joy wall.”He beamed and walked over to a picture on the wall.“This is an overhead of what the fields looked like when I started here.”
There wasn’t much to look at.Lots of trees.A house.Something like a barn maybe?
“And this was taken in the fall, ten years after I started.”He touched another framed photo hanging beside it.
The change was remarkable.Clearly defined rows in the field.The house.The work building.Everything was crystal clear.
“And the bottles?”My gaze ran over to the dozens of empties.
“Trial runs.”
I scanned the labels, my heart stopping as I stared at one long necked amber coloured bottle.“Ladybug and Nightlight?”
“Yeah,” he said without skipping a beat.“It was a limited release, full of passion and good spirits.”
Reading more into his words than maybe he intended, I swallowed a lump of grief.Lizzie had always loved ladybugs, and that had been his nickname for her, and because of my need for a light to lead the way, I earnednightlight.Seeing us like that, preserved and labelled, made my chest ache in a way I hadn’t prepared for.
“No, no, no.No tears.This is a tear-free space.”He eclipsed my view and gently guided me out of the small room.“That space is for crying.”He pointed out a long window toward the house where a swing swayed on the veranda.
I looked at him, surprised he had a spot.
“What?”He tossed his arms out to the side.“It has the best view.”
Gently smacking him, I inhaled and walked the length of the hall.“You’ve done well, Tristan.Really well.I’m very proud of you.”
He exhaled.“Thanks.Some days it doesn’t feel like it though.Some days it feels like I’m just...keeping the plates spinning.”
“Still,” I said.“They’re spinning.”
He looked at me, really looked, like he was measuring something he hadn’t expected.“I’m barely keeping afloat and most people tell me to hire someone else.Or sell.”
“And?”
“And they don’t know what it means to keep something alive because it mattered to someone you loved.”
The words landed heavy and true.
“I do,” I said quietly.
His shoulders eased a fraction.
We finished the tour, settling on the porch swing as the vines stretched away under the fading sky.He disappeared inside and came back with a blanket, and another bottle, topping up our glasses.
