Chapter Five MURPHY
Chapter Five
M URPHY
It takes everything inside of me to get up and ready for the day on Monday morning, my brief interaction with Wes still fresh in my mind as I get in the shower. It certainly made clear to me the type of guy he is.
Charming until he doesn’t get what he wants.
It makes me reconsider our entire conversation at the gas station. Whether the easy banter and perceived connection were all just figments of my imagination.
It’s a hard pill to swallow, but I choke it down as I rinse the shampoo out of my hair.
That bench at the top of the hill is a special place for me—a place I’d go when I was younger to talk to my mom and hope wherever she was, she might hear me. I’d often steal away unnoticed through the french doors that lead from my bedroom out to the veranda that stretches the length of our house to sit in the vineyard in the evenings. Sometimes I took my guitar and I’d strum without any kind of purpose, just imagining that maybe my mother was there, too.
Last night, though, I just wanted a chance to sit and think. Being back here isn’t easy. There’s an element of defeat I have to admit to in order to accept that I’ve really had to move home. And even though I’ve always considered myself to be a person who can handle defeat with grace, this one stings.
But instead, I arrived to find Wes sitting on my bench looking gorgeous. I was there in my pajamas and my hair up in a messy bun, but I didn’t even have a chance to feel insecure about it. His words were biting, as if interacting with me was a horrible inconvenience.
“What are you doing here?” he’d asked, his eyes narrowed and his voice hard.
I’ve been asking myself the same thing over and over since the minute I arrived in Rosewood Friday evening.
What the hell am I doing here?
I only wish I had the answer.
Once I’ve finished in the shower, I tug on a pair of black jeans and a light-blue button-up that I usually wear to things where I need to dress professionally. Showing up in my pajamas with drool on my face to my first day at work probably isn’t the best way to get in my brother’s good graces.
Though the devious part of me doesn’t exactly mind being a thorn in his side.
I stop in the kitchen to snag a banana, then head out to the veranda and down to the path that cuts through the vines to other parts of the property. The mulch crunches under my feet as I stroll through the long columns of grapes in early stages of growth.
I take in a deep breath of the fresh air.
I hate to admit it, but there really is nothing like the smells of the vineyard. The recently tilled soil, the misty mornings after the fog has rolled in, the subtle changes in the vines that happen day by day. It’s a special place, as much as I resent it.
It’s hard to believe that these eighty acres have been in the Hawthorne family for five generations. My ancestors made it through incredible hardships—the Great Depression, Prohibition, and various weather-related calamities. And we’re still here, carving out a livelihood off the land.
When I was young, my grandfather used to talk constantly about the life cycles of the grapes and the vines. About the Mayacamas Mountains to the east and the volcanic mountain soil unique to this valley. About the fog and microclimate, so many little things that make this patch of Northern California uniquely perfect for the craft of winemaking. Even though I never wanted to be involved with any of it, I still know quite a bit about this place and how things work.
Eventually, I make it to the restaurant. There used to be a small warehouse here, used for storing ATVs and some of the older harvest machinery that has fallen out of use. The outside looks the same, but the closer I get, the more apparent the changes become. The barn-style exterior has been replaced by floor-to-ceiling windows along the northwest-facing wall, and a large patio has been constructed with a handful of stone firepits. I’m assuming outdoor furniture will be placed there at some point, allowing patrons to look out over the property and enjoy the sunset.
It’s a shocking sight, considering that my original conversation with Memphis a few months ago was about putting together charcuterie boards at wine tastings and scheduling bachelorette parties. This is ... a completely different ball game.
Once I’ve gotten over my surprise, I venture inside, my eyes flicking around the room as I soak everything in for the first time.
And it really is beautiful.
The massive windows are framed by rustic wooden beams and line both of the western-facing walls, giving diners the ability to look out over the vines to the north and the rolling hills to the south as well. The interior feels rustic and charming, the other two walls made of distressed white brick, with wooden shelves and brass accents at the bar.
There’s still blue tape in plenty of places, and I can see that work needs to be done on the fireplace and what looks to be a private events room. The outdoor furniture is stacked in a corner waiting to be set up and everything inside is still scattered about as if a floor plan hasn’t been determined. But the building itself feels close to finished. I’m actually incredibly impressed with what my brother has come up with.
“There you are.”
I turn at Memphis’s voice as he emerges through the swinging door that I’m assuming leads into the kitchen.
“What do you think?”
I huff out a breath of laughter.
“What do I think?” I shake my head. “Memphis, it’s massive. Are you sure we really need this much space?”
It’s the first thing that comes to mind, because I do wonder whether all of this is really needed, or if it will really get used the way my brother is hoping.
Growing up, there weren’t a lot of people who visited the vineyard. We didn’t offer tastings, special events, or tours. My family just made wine and distributed it as well as they could. I’m not sure how things have changed over the years since I’ve been gone, but a full-scale restaurant of this size feels a little bit like overkill.
“I think it’s going to be great,” Memphis says, his tone curt and a bit intense. He scans the room, and then he says it again, almost to himself. “It’s going to be great.”
When the kitchen door opens again, my gaze shifts past my brother and lands on Wes, who’s emerging, a half apron wrapped around his waist.
I turn away, feigning interest in the view out the windows, unable to look Wes in the face.
“All right, why don’t we all take a seat and talk?” Memphis motions to one of three tables that are currently upright.
Each of us snags a chair from the row lining the edge of the room and brings it to the table. My brother comes with a stack of papers and a binder, Wes with a single notebook, and me with a forced smile.
“I guess it’s time to really and truly kick things off since we’ve got”—Memphis looks at his phone—“just under four weeks until opening. Now that Murphy is here to provide some additional hands, I think we’ll be able to really get things moving.”
I want to roll my eyes at the “additional hands” comment, as if I’m some rando he’s hired to work on extraneous projects around the property. But I force my eyeballs to remain where they are. The last thing I need to do is pick a fight with Memphis on my first day of work.
“Wes and I have had a chance to chat about a lot of this, Murphy, so I’ll just take a few minutes to bring you up to speed.”
At that, he opens the folder in front of him and pulls out a few documents in duplicate, and he hands each of us a copy.
“The plan is for us to provide lunch and dinner on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and lunch on Sunday, along with wine tastings and private parties. Chef Hart has already been here for about a month. He’s been curating a menu that will pair well with our wines, and as you can see, we’re nearly done with construction and design.”
I glance around again as my brother provides some highlights about each space—the kitchen, the dining room, the special event room, the bar—as well as some of the logistics about seating and serving.
“Any questions?”
I shake my head, because the only question I have is how he plans to fill this dining room with enough people to make the financial investment worth it.
Not that I’m a numbers girl or anything. Realistically, I have no idea what a place like this would cost to create, let alone put into business. Maybe I’m overreacting.
But I doubt it.
“Okay, so mostly we’re meeting so you have a chance to review what your job responsibilities will be before things really get moving,” Memphis says, drawing my attention back to where he sits on the other side of the table. “I know in our earlier conversations when you were still waffling about moving back here, we’d discussed you overseeing a kind of ‘small events’ program. My thoughts had originally been to have you put together charcuterie plates and decor for small parties and bachelorette events, stuff like that.”
I clench my jaw slightly. My shoulders tense. I can already feel the direction this conversation is going. He made it clear on Friday evening that Wes was going to be in charge of this restaurant—a facility I didn’t even know they were building—but he never further clarified what kinds of things he’d like me to oversee.
And with the way he’s downplaying the charcuterie plates and decor and stuff like that , I can already tell he’s approaching this with a very different mindset than he had before.
In our original conversation, Memphis made it seem like my return home would be a serious help. Now, his tone sounds a lot more like he thinks he’s doing me a favor by giving me a job at all.
“With how the restaurant concept has grown, Wes will be overseeing all aspects of the kitchen and dining experience. Outside of the business pieces, of course, like finances, which will be on me.”
I blink a few times, glancing between the two of them, and my eyes catch just briefly on Wes’s arched brows before they smooth out along with the rest of his face.
“So ... then what am I going to be doing?”
“Wes’s background in restaurants of a high caliber is an indicator that he has the knowledge and experience to set things up in a manner consistent with those other restaurants. The way I see it, since you’re just a waitress, that’s the job I’ll have you do.”
The sides of my face flame red at his words and the realization that comes along with them.
Just a waitress.
I nibble on the inside of my cheek, considering him for a moment. I’m trying desperately to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I can’t help the way my eyes narrow as he continues speaking, irritation beginning to bubble up inside my chest.
“Now, the intention isn’t for you to waitress alone. Clearly, with the size of the space and being open for lunch and dinner several days a week, we’ll need additional staff. A few servers, one or two hosts.”
There we go. I’ll at least be managing the front of house with a few employees.
“I’m going to be placing Wes in charge of the hiring and training of the serving staff since a primary responsibility will be selling the food and upselling the wine.”
My vision grows fuzzy as I glare at the table between us, unseeing, and almost unhearing, my brother’s continued speech about the restaurant. All the expectations and blah blah blah go in one ear and out the other.
This is absolute bullshit. Wouldn’t it make more sense for me to hire and train the serving staff? After all, I have been just a waitress for nearly ten years.
But that doesn’t matter. Not really.
This comes down to trust, and clearly, Memphis doesn’t trust me with shit.
“Memphis,” Wes says tentatively.
My eyes snap to him for the first time where he sits, turned slightly in his seat and facing my brother.
“I wonder if someone with more experience on the serving end of things would do a better job of determining the qualifications of a good server or host,” he continues. His gaze flicks to me briefly before returning to Memphis. “I really think the responsibility should rest with Murphy to handle most of that.”
My body begins to vibrate with frustration.
Now Wes is shoving off responsibility he doesn’t want?
I scoff, my irritation boiling over, and both men look at me in surprise.
“Look, it’s clear that a lot of these plans for the restaurant and how things are going to be organized are still fairly rudimentary and not well thought out,” I say, my words cutting with the intention of wounding my brother. I stand from my chair and shove it back in under the table. “Give me a call once you know what the hell you’re doing.”
I stalk through the restaurant and out the door.
I’m so sick of men who make women feel small, who make me feel small.
I’m so tired of a world where people treat others as disposable.
Where some people are important and others are not.
And I’ve been living in that kind of environment for far too long, feeling the emotional whiplash of someone finding me important or valuable only to then drop me like a hot potato.
The same can be said for Memphis.
When I called him months ago to let him know things in LA were starting to crumble and I was thinking it might be time to come back to Rosewood, he’d fallen all over himself with platitudes about what things would be like if I returned, how I could help him with this new project.
Charcuterie boards and bachelorette parties was the vibe.
All he needed was a pair of hands and a hard work ethic, and even though I’m just a waitress , Memphis has always known that I bust my ass. I may not have a passion for the wine industry, but I’m a hard worker. We all grew up that way, after all.
To show up here now and feel like I’m some charity case, like I have nothing to offer, is absurd. With the already brittle way I’ve been feeling about being home, it’s all a lot more complicated than what I know how to handle mentally and emotionally.
“Murphy.”
I turn at the sound of my name being called, my fists already clenched hard when I spot my brother following me down the path.
What I want to do is turn my back to him and keep walking.
Leave him in the dust. See how it makes him feel.
But I don’t. Instead I just stare out over the horizon, my arms crossed, waiting for him. Who knows? Maybe he’s coming to apologize.
“What the hell, Murph?”
Nope. Definitely not apologizing.
“I can’t believe you just stormed out like that.”
I continue staring out into the distance, trying to cool my frustration before I smack my brother upside the head.
“We have things we need to get done, and I don’t have time for your attitude.”
“ My attitude.” I glance over at him. “And what about your attitude?”
Memphis’s face scrunches up in something that looks like a mixture of disbelief and confusion. Of course he wouldn’t have any idea that something he’s said or done is bothersome or offensive. That’s how it’s always been, and I figure now, it’s how it’s always going to be.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m your sister, Memphis.”
My brother just stares at me, his expression unchanging.
“I’m your sister, not some part-time robot with no feelings.”
At that, he rolls his eyes.
“You’re always so dramatic, Murphy. I’m not treating you like a robot. I’m treating you like an employee .”
“And you see nothing wrong with that?”
“No, I don’t.”
I turn my head away and stare back out at the vineyard. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
Memphis lets out a sigh.
“Look, if you want to talk in riddles and code, Micah’s a better bet. I on the other hand have shit to do, and I don’t have time for this. You have no idea how important it is that this restaurant be a success, okay? So for once in your goddamn life will you think about someone other than your own damn self?”
My entire body bristles, but I’m surprised by what I see.
Memphis rarely shows his emotions. He’s one of those put your nose down and work guys and it translates into him being kind of an asshole on most days.
Right now, though, I see something I don’t normally see on my brother’s face.
He looks rattled.
He rarely lets anyone see him as anything other than one hundred percent in control.
I open my mouth, wanting to understand more instead of just being talked down to or bossed around. But before I can say anything, he speaks again.
“Look, either do what I need you to do in the restaurant, or feel free to lend a hand to Micah and the grounds crew. But what I need is a waitress. Let me know if you want the fucking job.”
And then he stalks off, his entire body tight with irritation.
Something uncomfortable settles in the pit of my stomach. Something that tells me my brother is keeping some kind of secret from me.
And I don’t like how it feels.