Page 38 of Quiet Beautiful Things

I watch as she gets pulled into a hug by her grandmother. Blake stands next to them, a look of longing on his face.Has he still not hugged his daughter?

Allie takes Maisy’s hand, and they skip happily up the front stairs and through the door.

I look around at all the buildings, shocked that there are so many. I like wine, but I truly know nothing about the process of making it.

“What are these buildings?” I sign, then furrow my brows and gesture around.

“This is our main building,” Blake says. “It has tasting rooms and offices.” He points. “Over there is our bottling facility. Next to it is our warehouse.” He points in the opposite direction, still keeping his face toward me, which I appreciate. “That’s our reception hall. We host events. Weddings and stuff. That’s what Allie does. In fact, my brother will be getting married here soon.”

“Can I see your office?” I sign.

The sparkle and grin tell me he knows what I said. “Right this way,” he replies.

Allie and Maisy are nowhere to be found when we go inside. I assume Allie is giving her niece a tour. I’m sure there’s a lot to see. I’d like to see it all myself.

Past the reception area and some private rooms with mahogany bars lined with countless bottles of wine, there is a hallway of offices. Blake stops and motions to one, and I walk inside. It’s like any other office. Desk. Computer. A few guest chairs. But what strikes me in particular is the sole picture sitting on the desk. It’s a framed photograph of Maisy. From what I know, he’s only been coming to work for a few hours every morning. He must be incredibly busy during that time, yet he made a point of getting this picture.

“What?” Blake says in reaction to my look of surprise.

Me: I’m impressed that you have a photo of Maisy here.

He narrows his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I? You should see my dad’s office. You’d think it was a shrine to his family.”

I smile because I’m sure that means he, too, has a picture of Maisy.

Lucky, lucky girl.

Blake gives me a tour, having to text most of the time because, well… apparently I don’t speak winery. We eventually make our way around to where we started and meet up with everyone in one of the tasting rooms. A snack has been laid out, and Sarah offers me a glass of wine.

I give his mom a shake of my head. “I’m working,” I sign.

She doesn’t understand.

“She said she’s working,” Blake tells her.

Sarah gives me a dismissive wave of the hand. “Aren’t we all.” She pours herself a small amount, then raises a brow at me.

I roll my eyes and sigh. I hold up one finger and then sign, “Small.”

She cracks a smile and pours me a little.

Blake: Don’t mind her. She’s suspicious of anyone who comes to a winery and doesn’t do a tasting.

Me: Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude.

Blake: You weren’t. But thanks for placating her.

I raise my glass to Sarah and taste. The deep robust flavor rolls around my tongue, bursting in my mouth and awakening my taste buds as if they’ve been as dormant as the grapevines.

“Wow. Good,” I sign emphatically.

Sarah smiles triumphantly. Then she hands a glass to Maisy. I’m flabbergasted. I mean, I don’t know anything about growing up in a winery, but do they expect Maisy to…drink?

Blake doubles over, his shoulders shaking with laughter. I still don’t know what to make of it. I swat his arm and ask, “What?”

He must have said something to his family, because they all join in the laughter.

Blake: It’s non-alcoholic grape juice. Who do you think we are?

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