He is a lonely old man with frayed jeans and two old dogs who look like a combination between Dalmatians and setters. They come up to the girls as they get out of the van and each of them reaches out for them, petting their ever-shedding white and black fur onto the green grass of southern Illinois.

When we arrive at the door, the hours for the adjacent restaurant are posted, and having seen not a soul in the parking lot, and not being within those hours, we are a bit frustrated that we’ve woken the baby for nothing. As we turn to leave, he rushes to the door and in a thick southern accent begs us to come inside.

His black cat moans and meows behind the counter as we look at the half open taster bottles. Before we can begin talking, he asks the girls to come behind the counter and check out his cat named Whine. He spells the name out for them. They look up at him expectantly, not understanding.

“Where y’all from?”

“Colorado!” Isabella pipes up.

His bushy white eyebrows rise up in surprise. “Y’all drove a long way then!” He puts his hand under his chin, only half believing us. “Where in Colorado?” he inquires, somewhat suspiciously.

“Denver.” Isabella shoots me an accusatory look, whispering, “We’re from Aurora.” I explain in a similar accusatory whisper, “No one has ever heard of Aurora.”

“I’ve been to Colorado. Boulder. I liked Boulder, all the nice bike trails.” He has already examined the bike rack, trailer, and Bruce tells him of our ride today. “Yep, Boulder is a beautiful place.”

We stand for a moment like old friends who are recently reacquainted, the years and comfort level lost somewhere between then and now.

“Are y’all just looking, or would you like to try some wine?”

Bruce jumps in with a quick yes and I stare out onto the beauty of the vineyard. A small wooden bridge over a stream leads to its presence on the hill, where the grapevines grow as thick as a leafy forest of taste on this early summer day.

We taste three wines and pick two to take home, but before we can even hand him our credit card he says, “You’re in education, aren’t you?”

We hear the story of his math-teaching career, his superintendent position. Even after we have closed the sale, he identifies with perfect accuracy the ages of all three girls, and proudly shows us an aerial view of his wine bottle shaped pond, pointing to its location on the other side of the deck.

I am walking down the steps toward the car, baby in arms as Bruce clutches the bag of wine, but he beckons us to tour the restaurant.

It is a perfect wedding reception. White linen tablecloths, a wraparound deck, a fireplace in the center of the room, vineyards on all sides and the pond in the forefront. He offers us a somewhat grease-stained menu that is filled with random fonts and what I’m sure is a pathetic web site.

“How long are y’all visiting your sister?” because of course by now we’ve explained the whole situation of the four girls instead of three.

“The whole summer.” His eyes light up, eyebrows rising again, this time in hope.

“Let me show you girls a barn swallow nest.” It is built on top of a security camera, the babies’ yellow beaks opening and closing expectantly amidst the typically fluffy black fur. They are mesmerized. He knows them well, my girls, children.

“Maybe we’ll come back sometime for dinner,” Bruce says aloud, partially to me, partially to him.

But I am thinking of the hour and a half drive, of the trip to Tennessee, of camping and swimming and all of Kentucky that we haven’t seen, of the Frost poem, “knowing how way leads on to way…” and even with the imperfectly edited menu that seems to boast some delectable treats at somewhat reasonable prices, I know that we will likely never return.

We finally part ways from the man who perhaps hasn’t spoken to anyone in hours, days. The gravel road leads us back to the miniature highway, absent of cars, and as I look back, I say, “What a perfect, private place for a wedding.”

“I’m going to have my wedding there,” Isabella replies. “He was such a nice man.”

We come to a small chapel, and I smile back, “Sounds good.”

The two bottles of wine dance together in the back seat, waiting for the right moment to be opened and cherished on the tongue, tasting all over again this day on the road not taken, the road that led us here to brighten someone’s day, to brighten our day.