Chapter Three Memphis
Chapter Three
Memphis
The shower soothes my aching muscles as the hot water hits my back. It drips down over my body, providing some much-needed relief.
I haven’t worked out that intensely in quite some time, keeping most of my energy and attention on the goings-on of the vineyard and all the moving parts that I have to tend to. I actually had to dust off the weight set that sits in the makeshift gym in the back corner of the garage, which makes me think it’s been at least a few months.
This morning, for the first time in who knows how long, I flew out of bed at six o’clock with a scrambled mind and enough energy to power the new generator we just installed on the west side of the property. I’m not a gym bro by any means, but keeping fit used to be a regular part of my routine. As exhausted as I am right now, it also feels amazing to get back to something I used to love so much.
The mental strength required to push myself. The physical fatigue in my muscles. The ability to take out my emotional stress.
Of course, what didn’t feel amazing was how my mind was seemingly incapable of staying on topic. I’d intended to spend the time mentally going over the list of final tasks I need to complete before the harvest season begins next weekend.
Did I think about that at all?
No.
Instead, I was too busy fuming over everything that happened with Vivian last night. From her whiplash behavior at the bar, to the way she seemed to tease me in the kitchen, and then my dad showing up and flipping the lights, exposing us making out like horny teenagers.
I think the most irritating part of it all is that now I’ll have to see her again, when that’s the exact opposite of what I want.
When Murphy said she was staying with us for one night, I assumed she was stopping through town before heading somewhere else. Not that she was bunking with my sister for a single night before ... what? Finding a room somewhere?
I’d thought maybe a one-night hookup might relieve some of the tension that has been living in my every muscle. In the past, it’s been fairly cut-and-dried with women I meet out in town who are passing through for wine tastings or some other event. There was no risk of needing to see anyone ever again.
Now, I’m facing potentially weeks of dealing with the regret of having even talked with her in the first place.
Not that talking was the only thing that happened.
I grit my jaw, the memory of her sweet mouth on mine something that has been hovering on the edge of my subconscious since our 3 a.m. rendezvous.
The truth is that it’s a problem of my own making. Walking out to the kitchen in the middle of the night had been my first real mistake. I knew it was probably our houseguest snooping around, and I’d still given in to the urge to head out there.
When I first walked in, she’d been leaning back against the counter in the dark in a little pair of shorts and a T-shirt that read Fashion is my second favorite F-word . I almost wanted to stand quietly in the dark and watch her as she scooped my ice cream into her mouth. But I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I felt like poking the bear.
Among other things.
I groan in irritation at myself, lathering up my body as the ebb and flow of our conversation replays in my mind. First feisty. Then calm. Then flirty.
It’s wild to me how quickly the mood shifted. Though maybe I can attribute that to the fact I didn’t want to be fighting with her in the first place.
No, I’d much rather have been doing something else. Evidenced by the equally foolish mistake I made when I leaned into her as she sat on the bar.
My hand dips, gripping my shaft between soapy fingers, and this time when I groan, it’s not irritation I feel. It’s pleasure.
And then she fed me that bite of ice cream ...
I thrust into my fist, my mind creating an alternate reality where we didn’t get interrupted. Where she put ice cream on my lips and then sucked it off and then sucked me off. Where I could have tugged off her clothing and slid into her right there, on the counter, the perfect height for me to fuck into her tight heat. Where I could have bent her over the kitchen table and taken her from behind, my hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.
It’s the last image that sends me over the edge, my body vibrating with my release.
Fuck.
I lean forward and brace myself against the shower wall, my forehead flat against the tile as I catch my breath.
Jerking in the shower is how I handle my stress more often than I care to admit, but normally my mind scatters across all my memories and desires to bring me over the edge. That was ... different. Specific. Singularly focused on Vivian and this one encounter.
The woman is ... something. Though I’m not sure exactly what.
Beautiful, obviously.
A spitfire, absolutely.
But there’s something else there as well. Something I don’t fully understand.
As much as it turns me on, though, my attraction to her is also a horrible complication.
I slap the shower handle and step out, making quick work of drying off and slipping on a pair of jeans and a vineyard polo—my normal work attire.
The reality is that I don’t have time to be standing in the shower, thinking about some woman and what my fantasies about her mean. I don’t have space among the rest of the mental load I’m carrying to figure out whether my attraction to her is anything more than inconvenient.
I meant what I said as we stared at each other in the harsh light of the kitchen after my father left the room. Her presence in town is going to be exactly what I said—inconvenient for me. A nagging thing in the back of my mind, distracting me from the very important, complicated shit on my plate.
Thankfully, our interaction wasn’t all the sordid things I’d imagined doing to her. It was, in full truth, just a kiss.
And that’s all it needs to be.
Once I’ve finished getting ready for the day, I head to my office on the opposite end of my family’s ranch-style house.
When my great-great-grandfather arrived in Rosewood and purchased the first forty acres of this property, he built four small cabins on the west edge. One was a single-bedroom house that was just big enough for him and my great-great-grandmother and their baby to live in, and the other three were for the hands he hired to bunk in during the busy part of winery life—the harvest.
My eyes flick briefly to the photos on the wall of our family over the years, from the shot of my grandfather and my dad and me, to the aged and fading image of my great-great-grandparents standing in an empty field all the way back when Hawthorne Vines was just an idea. A hope and a dream.
Over the years, the property has changed a lot, each generation of Hawthornes putting their own stamp on what the vineyard was to grow into. We acquired another forty acres, doubling the property size, but also tripling the number of vines and expanding us into new varieties of grape. That first single-bedroom home was converted to an equipment shed after my great-grandfather had our current house built in the southeast corner of the expanded property.
I power up my computer and an aerial shot of the property fills the screen, the background image on my desktop and more proof that this place has grown so much.
It’s not just the acres of vines that have grown. There’s also a wine cellar and testing facility. A warehouse and an office building. And now a restaurant. The handful of employees that have full-time office positions work out of the building on the back side of the warehouse, and sometimes I head over there and work in the conference room.
But for the most part, I keep to my office here in the house, preferring the quiet and solitude. It’s nice to live and work in the same place, especially considering how often I’m sitting at this desk or roaming around the property handling things or putting out fires.
Although, every so often, I wish I was able to leave my office at five, head home, and completely check out from work. Put my feet up and enjoy some baseball for once. Or hang out in town with friends.
That’s not the way things look right now, though.
I haven’t watched a baseball game in years, and the best I can do when it comes to keeping up with the few friends I still have in town is a monthly pool game and beers at The Standard.
It’s not ideal, the fact that I have almost no life outside of this vineyard. But that’s the reality of the mess my father has all but dropped in my lap, and there’s no use dwelling on it when there are far more pressing issues.
I’m in my office for an hour before I hear movement in the house, and my entire body tenses as I imagine Vivian strolling into my office. Or worse ... Murphy, ready to confront me for putting the moves on her friend.
But it’s my father who walks through the doorway instead. Which, I quickly realize, isn’t any better.
“Morning, Memphis,” he says, giving me an easy smile and crossing the room. He sets a mug of coffee down before me, then turns and takes a seat in one of the two armchairs facing my desk.
“Morning.” I eye the coffee briefly, then decide it’s probably a necessary evil considering the piss-poor sleep I got.
“Figured you could use a little caffeine boost this morning,” he says, his thoughts echoing mine.
Inwardly I groan, but I raise it to my mouth all the same, taking a sip and then placing it on a coaster.
“I’ve been thinking about the fact that we outsource printing our labels,” I tell him, changing the subject. “You know I’m a big fan of using local work, and Tony has always printed our labels, but maybe we ought to look into printing them ourselves.”
Dad bobs his head. “All right.”
I wait, hoping that he’ll contribute something ... anything. An opinion, an idea, even just some encouragement.
But he doesn’t. He takes another sip of his coffee and looks out the window, his eyes focused on the vineyard just beyond the walls of this room.
I’m not surprised, but it doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed.
I’m disappointed every time I try to engage with him about running this business and he seems checked out and disinterested. This vineyard is supposed to be my legacy, and it feels like he couldn’t care less about creating a smooth transition as it begins to pass into my hands.
But that disappointment is my own fault. I can’t expect him to be different today than he was yesterday, or the day before, or on any other day over the past few years as he’s been less and less involved and more and more disinterested in the goings-on around here.
Still, though ... I can’t help wishing it was different.
“We typically spend a few thousand dollars every quarter on printing labels,” I continue, still pressing. “But I found this company that creates wine label printers. And if we buy our own, it’s a one-time cost of a few thousand bucks. But in each subsequent bottling batch, we’re only out the cost of the labels and the ink, which would save us a lot if we ...”
“I think you should do what you think is best.”
My father’s interruption is, again, not surprising. But again, disappointing.
He gives me a pinched smile, then slaps his knee and pushes out of his chair. “Welp, I better get my butt out there. I can see Naomi already driving through the vines. I don’t want her to think I’m still lazing around.”
I nod, then turn my attention back to the computer screen. “Sounds good, Dad.”
I think he gives me a wave before he heads out the door, but I’m not watching for it so I don’t know for sure. Instead, I take the retreating sound of his footsteps echoing gently on the terra-cotta tile as proof, the noise fading as he moves through the house and away from my office.
Sighing, I lean back in my chair and rub my palm against the stubble I didn’t take the time to shave off this morning.
It’s hard not to notice the weird place my father has been in recently.
Scratch that. Not recently. For years, at least.
It’s just become a lot more obvious in the past year or so.
I’ve been working this land and this business as my father’s right-hand man since I was a teenager, back when my grandfather was technically still in charge of the operations and my dad was his right-hand man. We were a team, the three of us.
And then, when my grandfather passed away when I was nineteen, everything changed.
My father was finally thrust into the role his father had been preparing him for.
But Dad wasn’t prepared.
He was a mess.
They’d had issues, the two of them. And I don’t think they’d resolved them by the time my grandfather passed unexpectedly. So when it came time to take the reins, my dad choked.
Maybe that sounds harsh. I don’t like thinking about my dad not living up to the responsibilities placed into his hands.
But it’s the truth.
Now, years later, I’m desperately trying to make sure that the damage he’s caused while he’s been in the top spot doesn’t reverberate outward and destroy everything our family has worked on for generations.
His recent attitude—the one he has affected over the past year or so—makes it seem like he’s finally completely checked out from the operational side of things. He’s been acting more like an employee than an owner and leaving most of the decisions in my hands—big ones, small ones, ones that could have a long-term effect on how things run around here.
The only thing he hasn’t done is actually sign the business over to me on paper, which I’m grateful for. Because I’m not sure I’m ready for that additional burden.
Not yet.
Not when we’re still struggling to climb out of this hole and I have so much to learn.
Still, most things do end up being my responsibility.
For better or worse, I’m the one making most of the decisions around here.
And my greatest fear is that a choice I make is going to be the final nail in this vineyard’s coffin.
Two quick knocks on the doorjamb pull me from my work hours later. I grin when I spot my baby brother.
“Hey, Memphis. Got a second?”
I nod. “Yeah, let me finish this up.”
Micah takes a seat in the armchair where my father sat earlier and waits silently as I wrap up an email. When I finally turn to look at him, I’m hit with a stark reminder of how similar he and my father actually are.
Murphy and I take after our mother, both in looks and temperament. Lighter hair, paler skin. Maybe a little obstinate, if I’m being honest.
Micah, with his quiet nature and olive tones, is all my dad.
Even the way he’s sitting, with his ankle resting casually on his other knee, his elbows on the armrests and his hands clasped loosely against his middle ... It’s uncanny.
“What’s up?”
“Did you have a chance to talk with Dad about staffing for the harvest?”
I rack my brain, trying to place when Micah and I might have talked about this before.
“I haven’t. Can you remind me what the issue is?”
“I think we need to bring in some additional hands—more than we normally do. And you said you wanted to talk with Dad about it first.”
I wince, not even remembering us having this conversation, and hating that I’ll need to be the bearer of bad news.
“I didn’t talk to Dad, but I’ll be honest, Micah. I don’t think we have the budget to hire additional temp workers,” I say, mentally combing through our employees. “I’m trying to keep a budget for fifteen temporary hands ...”
“Fifteen!” Micah interjects. “The last few years we’ve had twenty.”
“Well, we can’t afford twenty this year if we want to keep paying salaries to our full-time staff and not have to lay anyone off.”
He slumps back in his chair, dejection evident on his face.
“I was hoping we could have closer to thirty,” he says, though I can hear in the tone of his voice that he knows that would be far outside the realm of reality.
I haven’t shared much with my brother about the truth of our finances, but I doubt he’s completely in the dark about the situation. He’s a smart kid, and even though most of his attention is on the physical labor side of operations, his hands always in the dirt, I’m sure he’s noticed the way things have been getting trimmed back over the past seven or eight months.
Murphy and my aunt Sarah have been the only two who have really gotten any insight into the truth of what our budget looks like, but they’re pretty hush about it, encouraging me to guide things how I see best.
So even though Micah might not understand the why behind the recent changes, he doesn’t fight me when it comes to things that affect the bottom line. He knows how desperately I want this vineyard to return to its former glory.
Back when I was a kid, my grandfather talked about this place with pride. Even into my teenage years, Hawthorne Vines was winning prestigious awards and selling out of select vintages each year.
I want to get us back to that. Return us to a successful and thriving operation that all of us can be proud of. So I appreciate that he doesn’t push me on a lot of shit.
“It’s less than ideal. I get that. One day, I hope we can hire more again. But for now, you’ll have to trust that I’m doing the best thing.”
Micah gives me a smile. “I’m bummed, sure. But I get it. I’m sure we’ll be able to figure it out with just fifteen.” He pauses. “And I do trust you.”
My shoulders ease slightly at his words.
I appreciate that faith he has in me.
Or, at least, that he pretends to have faith in me.
All I can hope is that it pays off. That his trust is well placed. And that I don’t let everyone down in the end.