“Like I said before, Bryson handles the winemaking decisions—he's got the palate and the instincts for that. I handle logistics, scheduling, and making sure we have the right people and equipment where we need them when we need them. My sisters handle the books, payroll, and marketing. Riley handles social media and helps manage both the tasting room in town and the on-site one, with her sister, Erin. And Dad, well, he’s the heart. While he leaves most of the daily stuff to us kids, he does still own this place, and he can overrule if he wants.”
They stopped outside a glass-walled office that overlooked the production floor. Through the windows, Emery could see a man in his early thirties sitting at a desk covered with charts and computer printouts. He had sandy brown hair and the kind of weathered hands that spoke of years working with both soil and machinery.
"That's Gabe Maxwell, our Operations Manager," Devon said.
“I’ve met Gabe a couple of times.”
“He’s a good man. Been with us eight years now. Basically keeps this whole place running.” Devon knocked on the office door and opened it without waiting for a response. "Gabe, I believe you know Emery.”
Gabe looked up from his papers and stood to greet them, his face lighting up with genuine warmth. “It’s good to see you again, Ms. Tate. Devon's been singing your praises for weeks. Welcome to the Stone Bridge family."
"Please, call me Emery. And thank you—I'm excited to be here."
"Well, you've certainly picked an interesting time to join us. We're at the tail end of a late harvest, so things are intense right now.” Gabe's handshake was firm and calloused, his smile reaching his eyes.
Devon glanced at his watch. “I have a phone call I need to make, so I’m going to leave you two to get acquainted. Gabe knows this operation better than anyone—he's the guy who makes sure we actually have wine to sell when all our grand plans are said and done."
"Devon's being modest," Gabe said with a chuckle. "He's the one who keeps us all organized. But I'm happy to talk Emery through the technical side of things."
"Thanks," Emery said. "Where should I find you when we're done?"
“If I’m not back before you’re done, I’ll be in mine and Bryson’s office down the hall—Gabe's got a lot to discuss with you, and he actually enjoys talking about fermentation schedules and barrel rotation."
"Guilty as charged," Gabe admitted as Devon left. "Coffee? I've got a decent machine in here, and you're going to need caffeine if I start talking about malolactic fermentation as it’s implemented in organic wineries.”
"Coffee would be great, thanks."
He poured two cups from a machine that looked like it had seen better days but produced surprisingly good coffee. "So, business development focused on premium collectors. Walter filled me in on the broad strokes. Authentication and provenance documentation, building relationships with high-end auction houses—it's ambitious work."
"It is. And honestly, a little intimidating after..." She gestured vaguely, not wanting to rehash her professional downfall.
“Yeah, sorry. I did have a front row seat to what happened.” Gabe's expression darkened. “Harold can be quick to judgment.”
“Do you know him well?”
"Our paths have crossed a few times at industry events, and he’s not my biggest fan either, so we have something in common.” Gabe settled back into his chair.
Emery swallowed. “Mind if I ask why?”
“Well, that’s a dark and dangerous story that I’d rather not get into on your first day. But if you Google my last name, Maxwell and Callaway Wines, you’ll get a few articles, and Harold likes to remind me of the history,” Gabe said.
Something familiar tickled her brain—as if she should know this history.
“You're in good hands here. The Boones are solid people—they don't throw anyone under the bus, ever. Walter especially has this thing about second chances and loyalty. Once you're family, you're family." Gabe took a sip of his coffee. "Speaking of which, what are you thinking in terms of specific initiatives when it comes to the new premium wines line? Walter shot me a memo about a half hour ago. I was only able to skim it, but it looked impressive.” He spoke so fast it made her head spin, and something told her that was the point—getting her off the subject of why Harold didn’t like him.
Which made her even more curious.
They spent the next hour discussing her preliminary plans. Gabe listened intently, asking thoughtful questions and offering insights that showed both his deep knowledge of the operation and genuine enthusiasm for her ideas.
“He also highlighted the authentication process—the family has some incredible older vintages in their private cellar that would be perfect for that kind of program," he said, pulling out a thick binder. "Some bottles date back to when the grandfather first started making wine. Maybe thirty bottles total, but with proper authentication and marketing, they'd be incredibly valuable to serious collectors, but I’m sure Walter already told you about them.”
“Actually, he said I should talk to you about what might be a good fit. So, yes and no,” she said. “Could I see them sometime? I'd love to assess their condition, research their provenance."
Gabe placed his hand over his chest. “Walter has always been so good to me. However, those wines are stored in the family’s cellar. Devon can show you, but I do have a log of them.” Gabe flipped through pages of meticulous inventory records. “Anything that was produced commercially is stored in this building. Fair warning—I'm a bit obsessive about record-keeping. Everything's documented, cross-referenced, temperature and humidity logged daily."
"That's not obsessive, that's perfect. Collectors pay premium prices for that kind of documentation."
“I do it because one slip up, and we’ve got an entire bad run.” Gabe had a boyish grin. "You know, it's refreshing to work with someone who understands the premium market. Most of our focus has been on volume sales—restaurants, distributors, wine clubs. This collector-focused approach could really be a game changer for us.”
