Page 50 of The Difference Between

The door closes behind her, and I continue my assessment, Gavin tracking me as I go.

“What are you doing right now?” he asks, genuinely curious. “What do you see?”

I blow out a long breath and open yet another case of wine. “I see lost money because cases of wine are sitting here. I see zero return on the crush facility expenses. I see . . .” The room is big and there’s a lot of light. Shelves for retail. A huge bar that could hold fifteen-plus people at a time for tastings. A river rock fireplace. And of course, the ceiling covered in a light fixture way out of their budget. “Unmet potential to tap into the booming agritourism industry in the area but also an easy fix.”

“How so?”

“Place is gorgeous, you have the inventory, structures seem to be in good condition. They have any red flags on inspections when they bought the place? Water quality or rights issues?” He shakes his head; that’s good news. “All you need is a few people and some contacts to help push the inventory and it could be profitable.”

Out the back windows, a late-forties, early-fifties man walks into view. He’s wearing a white button-up shirt—unbuttoned—flowy pants with elastic bands at the ankles, and no shoes. His hair hits his shoulders—partially covered by a bandana—and a pair of headphones hugs his head with a cord leading to the pocket of his pants. He catches me looking and waves a set of hand shears.

“Who the hell is that?”

“Banyan,” Gavin says. “Fills his court-ordered community service hours by taking care of the vines.”

My eyes bug out of my head. “Court ordered?”

Gavin chuckles. “Got arrested for public nudity, but he’s harmless. A Buddhist. Pretty funny, actually.”

Banyan snips at a vine.

“I thought community service meant picking up trash on the side of the road in a neon vest.”

“Usually,” Gavin says, “but Mom lets the local 4H chapter come out here for field trips, so it qualifies.”

I watch Banyan, bopping his head while he what I’d dare call pets a leaf, for a full minute.

At the next box I come to, I expect more wine but find it filled with wineglasses. Stemless and tinted with a subtle shade of green and dinged with a purposeful hammered texture. I take one out. It’s handmade, I can tell by the slight abnormalities, but artfully done. I exchange it for another, same design and texture, just with a tinge of blue. The next purple. The next red.

“You guys have a thing for glass?” I ask, holding one up to the light.

“Glass?”

“The ceiling is covered in it and—” I gesture with the glass in my hand. “These are handmade.” There’s a stamp on the bottom. “HS?”

Gavin takes one and runs a finger along the lip.

“You grow up to be a glassblower, Davy Crockett?” I tease.

He laughs a little. “That what you think?”

My gaze drops to his grass-covered boots. Gavin did not make the glass.

“Friend of my dad’s,” he explains in my silence. “Made all this when they first bought the place. Gave them a good deal. Went with the Glass of Vine theme.”

I glance at the grapevine-covered ceiling. Some people are so good at what they do it’s criminal. “He’s good.”

The door opens and Nancy appears with—of course—a smile on her face. “Addie will be out in just a minute. She loves new folks.” She waves a manila envelope, spiral notebook, and calculator my way. “Brought the numbers.”

My eye twitches.

“Your numbers are in a notebook?”

Her eyes narrow. “Where else would they be?”

It’s hard not to cry.

“Who takes care of the property?” I ask.