Blood and Wine - Margot Scott Page 0,7
don’t get views like this in the city,” Edward says.
“My grandpa used to take us to Assateague to see the wild ponies every summer. We drove through a lot of country along the way.”
“Your mother always did love horses.” He smiles at me, and I find myself smiling back. As disappointing as my introduction to this side of my family has been, it’s nice to be around someone who knew my mom when she was young.
“What was she like back then?” I ask.
“Isabella was the most vivacious person I’d ever met. She was always dancing and singing. She liked to tell fortunes. I had her read my tea leaves every morning just to have an excuse to talk to her. Her knack for predicting things before they happened was extraordinary.”
“She had the Greyson gift.”
“You’re a Greyson.” He eyes me curiously. “Do you have the gift?”
I think about the incident with my luggage on the bed.
In general, people reacted one of two ways when they learned that my mom was “gifted.” Either they dismissed her as crazy and kept their distance, or they showed up on our doorstep in the middle of the night asking her to summon their dead relatives. Occasionally, the former became the latter, usually after a few drinks. I’m not sure which type Edward is yet, so I decide to keep things vague.
“Not really,” I say. “Sometimes I have weird dreams, or see strange shadows, but nothing like my mom. She was the real deal.”
He makes the turn for the winery. After a short break in the conversation, he asks, “Did she know she was going to die?”
My throat clenches. “I think she knew a lot sooner than she told me.”
“Did knowing it was coming make it easier?”
“I thought it would. But when you know tragedy’s inevitable, hope becomes a luxury. It would’ve been nice to hope, at least for a little while.”
He parks in front of the winery. Just as I’m pivoting to climb out, he says, “I never should’ve let things go as far as they did with your mother. Once you cross a line it just gets easier to cross another, and then another.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. “For what it’s worth,” I tell him, “Mom was a big believer in fate. Whatever’s meant to happen will happen, or so she’d say.”
He seems happy with this answer. “Well, regardless of how it all came to be, I’m glad you’re here now.”
We make our way to the stone terrace where couples and groups are seated at high-top tables enjoying glasses of wine and charcuterie. He waves to a black woman wearing a Red Cliff Vineyards apron. She waves back, finishes pouring from the bottle in her hand, and then comes to greet us.
“Mariah, this is Keema Jeffries,” Edward says. “She manages the tasting rooms. Keema, allow me to introduce my daughter.”
A look of surprise flashes across her face, but she recovers quickly. She asks me where I grew up and if I’m still in school. The usual stuff. It’s nice to finally meet someone who doesn’t immediately hate me.
Edward and I are about to head inside when Keema says, “Mr. Radcliff, I left a note on your desk. Tony hasn’t shown up for his shift in three days.”
He frowns. “That’s a shame. I liked Tony. If he doesn’t come back by Monday, you can post the job in the paper.”
The winery’s insides are just as elaborate as its outsides. Edward starts by taking me around the kitchens and banquet spaces before leading me into the production area. He shows me the conveyor belts where the grapes are sorted, and the various presses, crushers, and aerators that juice the grapes and oxygenate the wine. We tour the massive fermentation tanks and the storage areas.
Finally, he takes me to the place I’ve been dying to see: the gardens.
“Isabella spent a lot of time out here,” he says. “We kept the overall size the same, and then built this patio to expand the tasting area. People really seem to love it out here.”
“I can see why.” It’s late in the season, and many of the flowers have gone to seed, but plenty of others are in bloom. Walking the garden path is like stepping into a fairytale. I’m convinced there are pixies living in the trees.
Edward gestures for me to take a seat at one of the small, round tables.
“So, what did you think?”
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “I see why my mother loved it here.”
“Maybe