Page 55 of The Vineyard Crush

His question hangs in the air, tentative as a new calf taking its first steps. I realize, with a pang, how rarely I engage in his world. Always too busy mending fences, balancing books, keeping our legacy from crumbling like the old barn out back.

Before I can answer, my phone chimes. Normally, I’d ignore it—part of my “no distractions while driving” rule. But something, an instinct as keen as the one that tells me when a storm’s rolling in, makes me glance down.

It’s from Emma.

Another chime, and an image appears. There, captured in pixels, is my kitchen counter—a sight I’ve seen thousands of times, yet never quite like this. My neatly written list is there, all the usual suspects: feed for the horses, milk, eggs, Cody’s favourite cereal. But next to it, in hastily scrawled curved handwriting, are Emma’s additions.

“Dark chocolate (70% or more—trust me!)”

“Fresh basil and garlic (Lily wants to eat pesto tonight! I am cooking)”

“Fancy coffee beans (you deserve better than that sludge)”

“Ice cream (Rocky Road for movie night, again?)”

Each item is a brushstroke, painting a future I hadn’t dared to envision. Movie nights. Home-cooked meals that aren’t just fuel. Small indulgences, not as rewards for hard work, but simply because… I deserve them?

But it’s the last item that catches in my throat like a swallow of whiskey:

“Sketchbook & pencils (I saw your old drawings. The world needs more of your art, Ridge)”

I stare at those words, something inside me cracking open like a geode—rough exterior giving way to a hidden brilliance. Years ago, before calves and crops and collapsing marriages consumed my life, I used to draw. Horses mostly, capturing their power and grace in charcoal lines. It was a quiet passion, one that wilted under the relentless Maine sun and the weight of expectations.

Yet here’s Emma, a woman who’s known me for mere weeks, unearthing a part of myself I’d buried so deep, I thought it was lost to the soil. She’s not just seeing me; she’s excavating forgotten pieces, holding them up to the light, and saying they have worth.

“Dad? You okay?” Cody’s voice snaps me back. I realize I’ve been staring at my phone, one hand gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles have gone white.

I clear my throat, feeling exposed, as if Emma’s message has somehow peeled back layers I’ve kept intact for years. “Yeah, bud. I’m good.” I pause, then add, “You know what? Let’s get that video game. And… maybe we could play together this weekend.”

His face lights up, brighter than our porch light that guides me home on late nights. “Really? That’d be awesome!”

The truck’s engine ticks as it cools, a familiar cadence that usually signals the end of another day’s labor. But today, as Cody and I return from our grocery run—now including art supplies and video games—it feels like a drumroll, heralding something… different.

“Slow, Cody!” I call after my son as he bolts towards the house. My words evaporate in his wake, as effective as shouting at a summer dust devil. At his age, everything’s a race, every moment charged with an urgency I’ve long since relinquished.

I shake my head, a smile tugging at my lips. Who listens to the old man, anyway?

Grocery bags rustle as I navigate through the front door, the weight a testament to Emma’s expanded list. It’s not just food I’m carrying, but possibilities—dark chocolate squares that promise indulgence, coffee beans that whisper of quiet mornings, a sketchbook that feels both foreign and achingly familiar in my grasp.

As I approach the kitchen, my steps falter. The floorboards, usually creaking out a metronomic rhythm to my tread, seem to hold their breath. Something’s… different.

I round the corner and—Jesus Christ.

It’s as if someone dropped a grenade into a flour mill during a paint factory strike. Every surface—counters, floor, even parts of the ceiling—is blanketed in a layer of white, interrupted by splashes of color that look suspiciously like my carefully-curated wine collection.

But the chaos isn’t what stops me dead in my tracks. It’s the scene playing out within it.

Emma and Lily are in the eye of this domestic storm, twirling and leaping as if the mayhem is their personal dance floor. Taylor Swift’s voice—a fixture in my house ever since that morning I awoke with Emma in my arms—fills the room. But it’s almost drowned out by their enthusiastic, if not quite pitch-perfect, accompaniment.

They’re using wooden spoons as microphones, Emma’s curls a wild halo, dusted with flour that makes her look like she’s been kissed by starlight. Lily, in a rare moment of unbridled joy, matches Emma’s energy.

Over by the counter, another scene unfolds. Ethan, his usual stoic demeanor cracked, sits with Avery on his lap. My youngest, barely visible beneath a layer of flour that makes her look like a tiny, giggling ghost, is utterly enchanted by the spectacle. Even Ethan, my rock through every storm, is smiling—a sight as rare and precious as rain in August.

“Guys?” I venture, my voice hesitant. I’m afraid to shatter whatever magic has transformed my kitchen into this joyful pandemonium.

Four pairs of eyes swivel toward me. For a heartbeat, everything freezes—Emma mid-twirl, Lily’s spoon-microphone halfway to her mouth, Avery’s flour-caked hands suspended in mid-clap. In that snapshot moment, I see my life as it was, and what it could be.

Then, like a dam breaking, chaos resumes.

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