Chapter Nineteen Memphis
Chapter Nineteen
Memphis
When I pull on the door to enter the restaurant, it doesn’t budge. I peer through the tinted glass, taking in the fact that the lights are off and the chairs are upside down, resting on the tops of tables.
Which is when I realize ... we’re not open on Mondays.
I stand outside, my hands on my hips, unsure of what to do. The autumn sun warms my cool skin.
I’ve been losing myself in work over the past two weeks, waking at oh-dark-thirty each morning and joining the harvest crew to cut bunches of grapes. It’s physically demanding, and the manual labor is a great stand-in for the workouts I’ve been struggling to fit into my routine. The work also keeps me just on the edge of fatigue and doesn’t allow my mind to wander too much.
An appreciated exhaustion, because I know exactly where it would wander off to if it could. Or I guess ... who it would wander off to.
After the morning work and then a few hours at my desk, I typically swing by the restaurant to finish out the day, even though it’s becoming increasingly clear how superfluous my presence there is. But if I don’t go, I don’t know what to do with my time, an embarrassing reality that I face as I stand in front of a closed restaurant, trying to decide how to spend my suddenly free Monday evening.
Ultimately, I head back to the house. Family dinner is in full swing, so I dip into the kitchen, planning to grab a bowl of the cheesy pasta on the island and hide away in my office.
“Memphis!”
I groan internally, turning toward where my aunt is sitting at one of the tables out on the patio with some of the crew.
“Hey,” I say, giving her a tight smile as I approach the table. “I was planning to eat at my desk. Finish up some compliance paperwork.”
My father, seated across from my aunt, is studiously ignoring me, his attention laser focused on scraping the last few pieces of pasta out of his bowl.
We haven’t spoken since our blowup three weeks ago, when he bit my head off and stormed out of my office. In the few times we’ve needed to interact since, we’ve managed to get by mostly ignoring each other.
It might be childish, but if it works for him, it works for me.
“Oh, stop it,” Sarah says, tugging out the chair to her right. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone. It won’t kill you to take fifteen minutes to sit and eat with us.”
As much as I’d rather go to my office, I acquiesce and take a seat.
Of course, the minute I’m settled, my dad stands. “I’ve gotta get back to work,” he says, heading into the house with his plate.
“Yeah, I’ll bet you do,” I grumble, my words coming out with a nasty edge.
He pauses, turning back to look at me for a second before continuing inside.
I sit down to eat, but I can feel Sarah looking at me. When I glance her way, I find her watching me, the edges of her mouth tilted down, her wrinkles far more pronounced as she looks at me with obvious disappointment.
Instantly, the righteous anger inside me withers.
As much as I might be upset at my dad ... for plenty of shit ... I’ve never made it a habit of bringing my personal frustrations into an environment that affects the rest of our staff. And sitting at a table full of crew is not the place for me to vent my irritation.
Slowly, the people at the table around us get up to leave, but my aunt stays in her chair beside me. After I finish, I remain seated as well, the expectation that I stay behind an unspoken understanding between us.
Finally, when we’re alone on the patio, she speaks.
“What is going on between you and your father?” she asks. “You two have been grumbly at each other for weeks.”
I sigh, scratching at the beard that’s been growing in. “I told him I was upset about the announcement at Harvest-Eve and he stormed out,” I tell her, deciding to be brief but honest.
“Your father can be stubborn, but you two need to sort this out. When you have personal stuff going on, I try not to get involved. It’s just between you two. When I am going to give my two cents is when it starts leaching into the crew.” She pins me with a look. “The last thing any of these sweet kids need is to be working fourteen-hour days, and dealing with stubborn owners throwing rocks at each other.”
I nod. She’s right.
Sarah pushes out of her chair and kisses the top of my head as she passes behind me, leaving me with just my thoughts.
I don’t want to “sort this out” with my dad. He can be hardheaded, and closed-minded, and refuse to see reason about things that are so small and simple.
But I respect my aunt too much to ignore her. After giving myself a few minutes, I go in search of my father. Eventually I find him in the garage, sorting through boxes that have been gathering dust in a corner for years.
Something tells me he likes to keep busy when he’s irritated, too.
“Sorry for the dig earlier,” I tell him, deciding to rip off the bandage. “I shouldn’t have done that in front of the crew.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
My jaw flexes, irritation rolling through me.
“But you’re still young,” he continues. “There are plenty of things you still clearly need to learn.”
I scoff, my already thin patience withering. I extended an olive branch, and he decides the best move is to snap it in half.
“You’re right. There is still plenty that I need to learn. Maybe you should have thought of that before you just ... announced that I’d be taking over in front of the entire staff. Maybe we should have actually had a conversation about it first.”
My father sends a glare my way.
“You know what, Memphis? Maybe I should have sold this place when I had the chance. It would have been a whole lot less of a headache than dealing with this bullshit.”
“Maybe you should have. Because you made this place into a fucking mess that I’m having to clean up.”
“Because I didn’t know what the hell I was doing!” he shouts, his arms going wide, emotion rolling off him in waves.
My head jerks back in surprise.
“This place is a fucking mess because I was a fucking mess,” he continues. “I never wanted to come back here. My life was in San Francisco, with your mother. But when she died ...”
All his anger seems to drain away in a single sentence, and he trails off, looking to the side.
We stand in silence for a moment before he speaks again. This time his words are tense. Agitated. Brittle from years of resentment.
“I spent years working this land with my dad because it was my only option. That was the agreement. If I came home, if I accepted their help, then I was back.”
My shoulders fall at his admission. It never occurred to me that there was some kind of ... negotiation to my dad coming back to Rosewood with his three kids in tow. I assumed it was an accepted reality of life. That he’d come home, and the family would all work together.
That’s what family does, right?
“The truth is that I have never really cared about this vineyard. Your grandfather cared about it, and your aunt. Your brother and you. But not me. I never wanted any of it. The only thing I cared about was making sure my kids would be okay when I didn’t know if I could hold things together on my own.”
There’s something that happens when you learn a new truth.
When information is shared with you that you didn’t know before.
It shatters the old picture of what you thought the world looked like, distorting the previous version you’ve always known.
My father sharing his truth has now radically altered mine.
I loved my grandfather so much. In my memories, he was always kind and loving, somewhat gritty, his hands always covered in dirt. As a kid, I’d ride around on the ATV at his side and he’d share with me everything he knew about vines and grapes and the soil, about fermentation and acidity. Everything he knew, he shared.
That’s the version of him that I know.
And while those memories are real, now I have to reconcile what my dad has told me. That the same man I knew and loved used my dad’s grief and loss as a bartering chip to get him to come home and work the land.
“I didn’t come back here so I could take over the vineyard, Memphis. I never wanted to take it over. I came back here for you. So that you and your brother and sister could have a good life. One that I didn’t think I could give you without help.”
He stands there for a long moment, his chest heaving like he’s run a mile. Then he turns and kicks at a box on the ground, the cardboard denting slightly. The corner buckles and collapses, and the box on top of it tips over, the contents spilling out all over the floor.
“Fuck!” he grits out, staring down at it before he dips and begins to pick things up.
I cross to where he’s crouched, dropping to my knees beside him to help. My eyes snag on a picture in a red frame, and I grab it, my finger streaking across the glass to wipe away the dust. It’s a picture of my mom in a black dress and my dad in a suit, standing in front of a shiny red convertible.
“When was this?” I ask, my brows furrowed.
I can’t remember ever seeing my dad in a suit before. He didn’t even wear one to my grandpa’s funeral. He just wore a button-up shirt and a nice pair of jeans.
My dad stops where he’s picking things up and takes the photo from me, his lips tilting up at the sides.
“This was the night your mom got promoted at her job. We went out to this fancy steakhouse on The Embarcadero with her boss and his wife.” He shakes his head, his finger touching the glass slightly. “God, I loved that dress on her.”
It’s weird to see my dad like this, reminiscing about my mom. Mostly because he so rarely does it.
I begin returning the other items that fell to the floor to the box—a handful of playbills, an envelope of ticket stubs, a few more framed photos of him and my mom or the four of us as a family in front of our house before Micah was born.
I push back one of the flaps and peer inside, taking in a host of memories that are from before my time.
“I thought you got rid of most of your stuff from before Mom died,” I say, repeating back the line he said to me often over the years, any time I asked about things from before we moved to Rosewood.
There are a few boxes of her things in the attic, but this stuff looks like it belongs to Dad.
“I did. I sold the house, our cars, all our furniture, most of our belongings,” he offers, dropping awkwardly down so that he’s sitting on the dirty garage floor. “But there were a handful of things I’ve never been willing to part with.”
He holds up the framed photo of him and my mom.
“Like a photo of your mom in this dress, when she’s smiling like that.” He looks back at it again, and something inside me pinches at the way he looks at it.
The evidence of his life before . The happy life that he wanted for himself. And suddenly, I feel like I understand him in a completely different way.
This was the life he and my mom wanted to live. Going out to nice dinners, a beautiful house in the city, family vacations.
Then, in a blink, it was gone.
And he was back here, the last place he wanted to be.
“I’ve never regretted that choice, Memphis. Coming back here,” he says, breaking the silence, his voice quiet. Reflective. “It gave all of us a beautiful life. Especially you three. And that was always what was most important.”
Something inside me aches at his words.
There’s a truth I know now, not only about my grandfather, but about my father as well. The type of sacrifice he made for us ... I get it in a way I didn’t before.
Then I ask him something I’ve always wondered. “If you never wanted to be here, why were you so upset when Murphy left?”
He sighs. “Watching your sister leave ... I don’t know.” He glances around, avoiding my eyes. “It was like losing your mother all over again.”
We tuck the box safely on one of the shelves in the corner, then stand there, both of us staring at the boxes in silence.
“I struggled with the vineyard. Struggle,” he corrects. “Still struggle, sometimes. But I don’t doubt you’re going to do right by this place. You’re going to do with it all the things my father wanted me to do.”
I huff a laugh. “I’m not so sure, sometimes.”
My dad pats his hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze.
“You will. I believe in you.” He pauses for a minute, licks his lips. “I should have checked in with you more. Or offered more support. I think I just ... finally hit my wall. And when things kept getting worse, I thought maybe selling would have saved us all a lot of headache.”
“Why didn’t you ask for help when things started going south?”
My dad snorts a laugh. “We Hawthorne men are not the best at asking for help,” he says. “I mean, look at you. You’re working fourteen-, sixteen-, sometimes eighteen-hour days. When was the last time you asked?”
“I ask for help.”
“With things that you don’t need help with,” he says, laughing. “Wine labels? That’s a decision you can make on your own. You don’t need my input. Or your aunt’s. I’m talking about the day in and day out of running the vineyard, Memphis. It’s exhausting and draining and shouldn’t be all on one person’s shoulders.”
The truth behind his words resonates, as if it’s something I’ve always known. My mind briefly revisits the conversation I had with Micah a few weeks ago, though I set that thought aside to mull over later.
My dad takes a step back, his eyes scanning the boxes along the wall.
“Maybe it’s time to unbox some of these,” I suggest. “Might be nice to see some photos of you and Mom around the house.”
“Maybe,” he says, then gives me a tight smile.
Then I realize, maybe he doesn’t want a constant reminder of a version of him that no longer exists. Of a life that he can barely remember.
“Or maybe it stays right here,” I offer.
At that his smile softens into one that’s real, and he squeezes my shoulder again. “Or maybe that.”
My dad and my aunt have both communicated things to me over the past few weeks that make me realize ... it’s time to really change things around here. Not just make some shifts to how we’re managing the budget, but real, significant change.
So I put some finishing touches on my proposal, and then I call a meeting with my siblings. I know what I’m going to say will shock them—my sister, much more than my brother—but I think my ideas are going to move us in the right direction. I just have to hope they agree.
“Thanks for taking time to chat,” I say, looking at Micah and Murphy, who sit across from me in the two chairs facing my desk.
“This feels very formal,” Murphy jokes. “I don’t think you’ve ever called a meeting for the three of us before.”
“Well, hopefully, that’s about to change.”
Micah and Murphy look at each other briefly, then back at me.
“I’ve made some decisions about the vineyard. About the future and what I want it to look like. But it only works if we’re all on board,” I start. “With Dad announcing me as CEO, my first act as CEO is going to be ... stepping down.”
Murphy’s head jerks back dramatically, and Micah’s eyes narrow the slightest bit.
“This vineyard is something I love. Something in my blood. And I want it to succeed more than anything. But I think to really move us forward, it can’t just belong to me. It needs to belong to all of us,” I say, turning my computer so it’s facing them.
Displayed on the screen is a mockup of a new organizational structure. It’s mostly modeled after the one Micah created and presented a few weeks ago, but with a few adjustments.
“Does that say I’m in charge of the restaurant?” Murphy asks, disbelief on her face.
“Not just the restaurant,” I clarify, pointing to some of the other elements. “You would be the hospitality director, overseeing the restaurant, events, the tasting room, and tours. All of the forward-facing stuff. And Micah, you would be vineyard management. So that includes winemaking, land and facility management, bottling, and the warehouse.”
My eyes flick between both of them, trying to decipher by their facial expressions how they’re receiving the information.
“And I would oversee business operations. So, admin, marketing, finances, human resources, and wholesale distribution.”
Then I go on to highlight how that would impact our staff. Aunt Sarah working under Murphy with events, and Naomi in charge of the landscape and seasonal crew. Edgar overseeing the lab and how the rest of the full-time staff would then shuffle under me.
“I realize it’s a lot to take in. It would be a big change.”
“A huge change,” Murphy interjects.
“I already have a feeling that Micah is on board, since the idea of a restructure was actually his.”
I glance at my brother, who nods at me.
“It looks great, Memphis. Really,” he says, giving me that quiet grin of his that says I have his approval.
“So, Murph. I want to be clear, there’s no pressure here. I would love for this to be the three of us, managing it all together. But I know that songwriting is important to you, and I want you to be able to pursue your passions.” I pause, trying to make sure I really drive it home. “But if you’re interested, if this sounds good to you, I think you would do an incredible job. I’ve been watching you thrive in the restaurant over the past few months, and the truth is ... I don’t need to be there. You have it all under control.”
I’ve never been the most eloquent person, so I hope I’m able to adequately express to my sister how proud I am of her and what a great job she’s doing.
“What would you do if I said no?” she asks, still looking unsure.
“I can ask Sarah to step into that role instead,” I offer. “Or I’m sure there are other ways to move forward. But I’ll only do that if you don’t want it.”
She lets out a sigh, glancing at Micah and then at me.
And then her eyes begin to well with tears.
“You really think I can handle all of that?” she asks. “What if I mess it up?”
“You will mess up. Just like I have, and just like Micah has. But that’s why we’d be doing it together. So when one of us struggles, we aren’t facing it alone.”
Murphy watches me for a long minute, then her eyes return to my screen.
“Murphy Hawthorne, hospitality director, does have a nice ring to it,” she says, her lips tilting up at the sides. “I’m gonna be honest, Memphis. This terrifies me. But there’s something inside me saying that this is the right move. I love writing music, and it’s something that will always be part of me. As much as I haven’t ever wanted to admit it, this vineyard is part of me, too. And I want to help. I want to make it better. So ... count me in.”
I smile, a sense of gratitude for my siblings and their big, incredible hearts coming over me. For their ability not only to believe in me, but to believe in each other and the possibilities ahead of us.
Letting out a long sigh, I decide that now is the time to be honest with them about the finances. Brutally honest. So that they have a full picture before they sign on.
“Before you get too excited, I want to share the realities of the finances,” I say, watching the smiles dim slightly on their faces.
I click around on my computer and pull up the current financial spreadsheet.
“We’ve been in the red for quite a while, and in order to climb out of that, we have to continue making changes. But I think I have a vision that should get us out of that debt in the next five years. I’ve made a good first start. I plugged up a lot of the hemorrhages and cut operational costs, and I took out a personal loan to finance the restaurant. But there are still a lot of ...”
“Whoa, whoa, wait a second,” Micah interjects. He sits forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Say that last part again?”
I sigh, wishing I’d been able to gloss over it.
“Did you just say you ... took out a personal loan?” he clarifies. “So none of that debt is from creating the restaurant?”
Shaking my head, I realize that if I’m going to be honest, I need to be fully honest. “Dad offered fifty thousand dollars toward the restaurant, and in reality, that wouldn’t have even been enough to cover Wes’s salary.” I shrug. “I took out the loan so that I could give the vineyard the best chance of succeeding without further growing its debt.”
“But now you have to pay it off,” Murphy says. “How big was this loan?”
I pause. “Four hundred thousand dollars.”
Her eyes widen, and Micah shakes his head.
“You’re going to be paying that for the rest of your life.”
I nod. “I know. But saving this place means everything to me, so I went all in.” I pause. “And I think it’s working. My financial forecasts are either meeting or exceeding the expectations. The restaurant is saving the vineyard.”
My sister surprises me then, pushing out of her seat and coming behind my desk, wrapping her arms around me.
I’m not a big hugger, and it’s always awkward at first. But eventually I give in and wrap my arms around her, too.
“The restaurant isn’t saving us, Memphis,” she says, her arms tightening around me. “You are.”
A wave of emotion surges through me, a sense of pride hitting me square in the chest, possibly for the first time.
I pat her gently on the back, appreciating her words.
After a long moment, she returns to her chair, and we dive in. Looking at some paperwork and discussing our plans for how to move forward as co-owners. Scheduling our first full meeting to brainstorm and talk about next steps.
It feels amazing.
Incredible actually.
I always thought doing it on my own would be what made me proudest of this place. But it’s not.
It’s because we’re doing it together.
Later that night, lying in bed, I do what I’ve been wanting to do all day. I pull up my lone social media account on my phone, go into the search history, and select the name I’ve checked almost every day since she left.
Vivian Walsh.
I’ve never been big into posting online. Mostly because my life is boring—nobody wants to see pictures of me sitting at my desk all day—but also because I don’t have the time.
But Vivian posts daily.
Her feed is filled with photos of her with her guitar, her cat, the ocean. And ever since she left town, her stories have shown some of the behind-the-scenes stuff of her at the studio and sitting on her patio overlooking the water.
Each time I look at her page, I scroll back, looking at the static images she posted while she was in town.
Her notepad on the table at Rosewood Roasters.
An image of her sitting on the ATV by herself on the day Micah took her on the tour.
A photo of her and Murphy on the first night she came to town.
And then there’s one I always look at for longer than I’d like to admit. The one of her legs stretched out in front of her, sunset over the vines in the distance, and me, seated on the edge of the porch with my legs dangling over the side.
It’s an innocuous photo. There isn’t really anything special about it. Except for the fact that we were together, and I often wonder what it was that she saw when she took it. Why she posted this one and not one of the many others she captured that evening.
I feel like an idiot checking her social media, trying to find deeper meaning in a simple photo.
She told me it wasn’t worth it to try.
She told me that she wanted to go home, to her life.
To the things that matter.
That should be enough for me to let her go.
It should be.
God, it really should be.
So I click into her story one last time, watching the quick video of her cat rubbing up on the corner of her couch, and then the video of her singing into a microphone in one of those fancy recording studios.
And then I close it out, promising myself it’s the last time.