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Margo tied the apron around her waist and smoothed it over her jeans and black t-shirt. Her shoulders sagged at the thought of having to smile and serve customers. The unusually hot summer meant few people took the detour to the Last Chance Cellar Door. Mostly, she heard only a soft buzzing, like a tired blowfly, as traffic sped towards the next town.

Max had already put up the flags with his usual quiet determination. She didn’t want to make things any harder for him today. Sometimes she wondered if he knew she couldn’t bear another season in this dry, dusty place. Margo watched a pandemonium of galahs wheel and cry overhead. She loved their vibrant colours but not the damage they could do. The vines were barely clinging on.

‘I’ve got a good feeling about today, darl. The heat’s eased and there’ll be plenty of people on the road, heading home or out for a Sunday drive. Could you knock up some of those pastries? I’ve already started on the salads. I’ll restock the tasting display and give you a hand,’ Max said, heading back towards the cellar.

Margo turned the oven on and began assembling ricotta and spinach pastry bites. If things went as Max predicted, she could always reheat the mini sausage, sage and onion rolls and a few gourmet pies from the freezer. The cheese platters were ready, and there was fresh fruit still to prepare.

She cut, rolled and sliced the pastries, brushed them lightly with egg wash, scattered sesame seeds over the tops, and slid them into the oven. Her mind drifted back to the same circling thought: how to tell Max she had to leave. He was optimistic about the next season, convinced the rains would come when they were needed and the harvest would escape blight. His optimism had carried her for the past couple of years, but it was no longer enough.

She’d set the timer and started cleaning the benches when she heard a car pull up. Margo paused, listening for voices. It was probably one of Max’s mates, dropping by for an interminable yarn to pass the time. But no, several car doors slammed and there was the thumping of feet. Great. A family. Keeping kids entertained at a winery was hard enough; the play area they’d cobbled together in the early days now looked shabby. Her fingers slipped along the frayed edge of the apron.

Margo looked up as a woman headed towards the entrance. Max was talking to the husband while the kids squealed their way towards the slippery dip, racing to be first. The woman walked quickly, her eyes fixed on the entrance to the tasting room. Margo noticed the cut of the woman’s dress and wondered what it felt like to wear something so stylish. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d bought clothing that wasn’t purely functional.

‘I know it’s not even midday, but I’ll have a glass of whatever chilled white you have,’ the woman said, settling onto a bar stool and dropping her oversized bag beside her.

Margo forced a smile and grabbed a large wineglass, pouring the woman a drink. She began her usual spiel about the vintage, but the woman raised a hand to silence her. Margo shrugged and stepped back, thinking she’d start on a fruit platter and find something for the kids. They’d run out of energy eventually.

Margo glanced over her shoulder. Max was outside. He was deep in conversation with the husband, and from his sweeping hand gestures she knew he was describing the vineyard, his face alight.

She heard the glass click on the counter.

‘Sorry if I was rude,’ the woman said. ‘We’ve been on the road for hours, and when we saw the sign for your winery, I told Dave if he didn’t pull in, he’d regret it. “Last Chance” — that’s just how I feel.’

‘One of those days?’ Margo asked, watching the woman trace a line through the condensation on the glass.

‘You have no idea,’ she replied. ‘I’m right on the brink. We’ve been away for a long-overdue family weekend, but I might as well be at home. He goes off with an old friend, and I’m stuck with the kids in a motel room. It’s like he doesn’t even see me anymore. No wonder people drink.’ She tilted the now empty wineglass, and Margo refilled it.

The woman went on, her voice edged with bitterness. Margo looked beyond her. Max was closer now, approaching the entrance. The soft rumble of his voice was carried through on a gust of warm air. He was probably telling the man how they’d found the property on a day like this, with the heat of summer easing and the promise of a life spent building something together. Max’s vision had always made room for her, as well as the vines.

He looked up, caught her eye, and smiled with a quick wink. Margo returned the smile, her shoulders relaxing as a blush rose along her throat. Maybe she could hold on a little longer.

This was written to a prompt at a local writing group (On the brink). It is an update of a story that was previously posted. The process of updating or rewriting stories is interesting and challenging.

Photo: vineyard at Angaston, South Australia