Chapter Six WES
Chapter Six
W ES
“Sorry about that.” Memphis takes the seat across from me where Murphy was sitting just a few minutes ago. “My sister can be ... a lot.”
“So you’ve said.”
He glances up at me, a pinch in his brow, but then reaches out for the stack of paper he’d been working his way through before Murphy put him in his place and left.
I wanted so badly to speak up on her behalf. Not only because Memphis’s just a waitress comment was uncalled for, but because it’s a little ridiculous that he’s expecting her to be the lead waitress while also shoving the serving staff on me as a responsibility. She clearly has a lot of experience, and I don’t have the time to handle the hiring and training of front-of-house staff when I have a kitchen to run and my own cooks to hire and train.
But I have to be careful about stepping in to defend Murphy or take her side. The last thing I need is for Memphis to catch wind of my attraction to his sister if I want to preserve a good working relationship with him.
Besides, I don’t really know Murphy that well. For all I know, she is irresponsible and easy to anger and all the other ways her own brother describes her. Maybe it would be a huge mistake for her to take on more responsibility than a simple serving position.
Still, there’s something telling me Murphy is actually a lot more thoughtful and responsible than Memphis gives her credit for.
“I’ve been really impressed with the food so far,” Memphis says, drawing me out of my short reverie. “And I’m thinking it’s about time we finalize the menu for the opening. I’d like to schedule a full menu tasting once front of house has been hired so that the entire vineyard staff can get a fairly good idea of what the offerings will be.”
I puff out a breath, scratching my chin. “I’ll be honest, Memphis. I’m only about seventy-five percent done with the menu.”
He waves a hand, as if that’s not an issue. “Not a problem. Why don’t we schedule it for the weekend before the opening? That should be more than enough time for you to finish things up.”
I swallow thickly, wishing I had as much confidence in myself as Memphis seems to have. He doesn’t understand what goes into settling on a menu. At my last job, I was part of the team that launched several new restaurants, and it took us nearly six months to finalize menus, not mere weeks.
And while this restaurant is on the smaller side, that doesn’t have any impact on everything that goes into recipe development. This is supposed to be about upselling wines. In this way, the entirety of the restaurant’s success feels like it rests on my shoulders alone.
A door opening has us both turning to look, and my lips can’t help but tilt up when I see Murphy walking toward us, her head held high.
“I’m sorry for leaving,” she says once she’s approached our table. “Being back here is ... an adjustment.”
I glance to Memphis, and I find him with a similar demeanor, his chin up as he watches his sister.
If only these two could see how alike they actually are.
“Take a seat, Murph,” he says after a long pause. “Wes and I were just discussing an upcoming menu showcase for the family and employees.”
She pulls the chair out next to me and sits down. I’m instantly hit with the scent of her perfume—something sweet and fresh and slightly peachy—the delicious aroma faint but no less seductive.
Instead of discussing whatever menu showcase he’s hoping I’ll be able to throw together in the next few days, Murphy steers the conversation back to the dining room and the hiring of waitstaff.
I can hear the tension between them, but I’m only half listening.
My attention is consumed by the gorgeous woman sitting just inches from me. Her scent, her smile, her thick unruly hair up in a wild bun at the top of her head and the little tendrils that have fallen free at the nape of her neck.
“What do you think, Wes?”
I blink, realizing I’ve completely zoned out and missed whatever they were talking about. Clearing my throat, I try desperately to rewind the bit of conversation I managed to hear, but I can’t seem to figure out what I’m supposed to say.
“Sorry,” I tell them, shaking my head and giving an embarrassed smile. “I was thinking about the menu. What was that?”
“I asked what you think about handing over the hiring to Murphy,” Memphis says with an obvious tic in his jaw. “She seems to think it would be better for her to manage things, and you mentioned earlier that you might also see it that way. I’d just like to get your opinion based on all your years of restaurant experience.”
He says years with a dramatic flourish, looking to Murphy pointedly.
I clear my throat again, realizing it doesn’t actually matter whether I believe Memphis’s opinion of his sister or not, whether I know her well or not.
“I do believe that a front-of-house person should be managing the waitstaff, from top to bottom and start to finish. You said Murphy’s had nearly a decade of experience working in restaurants too, and in a role that would have a lot more understanding of the needs waitstaff will have.” I shrug a shoulder. “I can do it if you want me to, but I think you’re missing an opportunity to have someone with much more direct experience than I have handle it the way it should be handled. My official opinion is that Murphy should be in charge of not just hiring, but also training and scheduling. I don’t doubt she’s more than capable.”
Memphis’s expression tells me he doesn’t like my answer, but I can feel Murphy shifting in her seat next to me. And when I glance over at her, I can’t miss the upward tilt at the edge of her mouth.
Her eyes flick to mine, and I see gratitude there.
“Fine,” Memphis says, his tone clipped. “Murphy, I’d like a detailed report from you on what your plans are for hiring and staffing by the end of the week. Opening night is just around the corner, so there’s no time to fall behind. And, Wes, please keep me posted on the progression of the menu. I’ll have some farms for you to visit soon for sourcing ingredients.”
Then Memphis is rising from his seat and heading toward the exit, leaving the two of us behind, alone.
At the sound of the door closing behind him, Murphy and I glance at each other.
“Thanks for that,” she says, her voice soft. “Sometimes Memphis is a great guy. But I don’t tend to be on the receiving end of that very often anymore.”
I can hear the hurt in her voice, and it echoes my own pain. I know only too well what it’s like to wish familial relationships were different.
And I know how deeply those wounds can grow, digging in and creating roots that carve marks that feel impossible to heal from.
But as much as I’d like for this to be some kind of bonding moment with Murphy, some way for us to connect, I know that it’s a smarter choice for me to keep her at arm’s length.
So I stand, closing my notebook and clicking my pen.
“Just don’t screw it up. I don’t want to regret putting the weight of my opinion behind you if you can’t hack it.”
I can see the way my words hit her as if they’re a physical thing. The disbelief in her eyes, the way her head jerks back in surprise, how she shoots out of her seat in anger.
“God, you’re unbelievable,” she grits out, standing as well. “Next time you think about defending me, just keep your mouth shut, okay? I don’t need you to step in on my behalf. Especially if you’re so worried about the weight of your precious opinion.”
And with a final look that sears me where I stand, Murphy is turning on her heel and storming out of the restaurant again. It seems to be how she handles her anger.
But this time, I don’t think she’s going to come back.
I navigate my way into The Standard later that evening, raising a hand toward a group of guys I’ve been getting to know when I spot them surrounding the pool table.
There are a lot of things about restaurant culture that are incredibly toxic. But it’s also an environment that makes finding friends a lot easier than other lines of work. Servers and chefs know how to put on a show, how to be friendly and accommodating, so it isn’t surprising that I connected with a few of the other townie cooks.
Ross is a line cook at The Carlisle a few doors down from the bar, and Garreth works the counter and makes sandwiches at a sub shop at the other end of town. The third guy looks familiar, but I can’t remember his name.
But tonight, I’m not here to hang out with them, as much as I’d like to. Instead, I take a seat at the bar, my eyes tracking the man behind the counter as he smiles and gives me a wave.
He’s the reason why I did a double take when I saw a job listing in Rosewood. But he has no idea who I am.
“What can I get you?”
“Whatever IPA you recommend on draft,” I answer, keeping my expression easy.
“Coming right up.” He taps the bar top twice before turning to grab a pint glass and take it to the tap. He’s back in less than a minute, resting my pint on a coaster. “You opening a tab or just the one?”
I tug my wallet out. “Just the one.” I tug out a twenty and place it on the bar. “Keep the change.”
He grins and thanks me, spinning around to the till and giving me his back.
When Murphy invited me out for a thank-you beer, I told her I’m not really a bar guy, but I wasn’t being entirely honest. Mostly, I just didn’t want to come to this bar. Because I’ve been coming to The Standard a few times a week since moving here and still haven’t mustered up the courage to introduce myself to the man on the other side of the bar. Part of me wonders if I have the wrong guy.
But as I watch him in the old, weathered mirror against the back wall, I can see far too many similarities for me to be wrong.
According to my mother, Gabriel Wright was a decent father until he disappeared from our lives, leaving her a single mother to a five-year-old and a newborn. I believed that until I was in junior high, when I started understanding that my mother’s addiction problems meant she’d often lie about things.
It made me wonder if she lied about him, too. If he really was a man who just up and abandoned us one day, or if that’s not the whole story.
I’ve wondered about him for years, and when I was considering a move back to California and saw the job at Hawthorne Vines, a little part of me thought that maybe it was time to put myself in his path. Open the door to whatever might come from meeting him.
I planned it all out in my head, how I’d befriend him first before introducing myself. How I’d come in and sit at the bar and talk to him, learn about him first. It seemed like the best way for me to know for sure that I really wanted to tell him who I was.
But each time I show up and he’s working, I can’t manage more than a few words, my chest tightening at the idea of striking up a conversation.
Tonight is more of the same.
The longer I sit here silently, the less brave I feel. I watch him chatting with a guy at the other end of the bar, the two of them clearly friendly with the way they joke and laugh.
It makes me wonder if we might be able to joke and laugh that way.
Eventually, I take my beer and head over to play a game of pool with Ross, Garreth, and the other guy I don’t know.
Maybe another night, I tell myself.
But it sounds like a lie, even to me.
“You can’t be serious.”
I turn my head and let out a sigh when I see Murphy walking up the path toward the bench.
“I’m not trying to be a bitch or anything, but this is my bench. I’ve been sitting here since my father built it when I was in junior high, okay? So ...” She pauses. “Please leave.”
“Look, Murphy, I’m not in the mood tonight,” I tell her, crossing my arms and staring forward.
The last thing I need is another confrontation with her. I’m not sure I can handle it. After I bombed out on talking to my father again at the bar earlier, I’d really like to just be alone and have a chance to think.
“Tough shit,” she says, walking over and plopping down next to me, much like she did last night. “This time, you can’t bait me into leaving. I’m staying, so if you have a problem with it, you can leave.”
I want to laugh at how serious she’s being, but I doubt it’ll be received well, so I keep it bottled inside with everything else.
Then Murphy and I sit in silence together, just staring out at the vineyard and the rolling hills in the distance.
Unfortunately, her presence does exactly what I expect. Distracts me from the things I need to be thinking about—the restaurant, the menu, my job, what happened in Chicago, my father, my mother, my brother—basically anything other than Murphy.
I’m hyperaware of her, sitting just inches from me, that same light perfume wafting my way in the damp evening breeze.
I catch myself taking long, slow breaths, hoping to catch another hint of it on the air.
“Why do you even come out here?” she demands.
Turning my head, I find her watching me, her eyes narrowed in frustration.
Clearly, she’s fuming, hoping to light me on fire with her eyes, oblivious to me silently sucking in her perfume like it’s water and I’m dying of thirst.
Great.
“Probably the same as you,” I finally reply. “To be alone with my thoughts.”
She makes a face, and I’m assuming it’s supposed to be an expression of irritation, but it might be one of the cutest looks I’ve ever seen.
This time, I’m not able to keep my laugh to myself.
“What? Why are you laughing?”
I shake my head, my laugh trailing off. “Nothing.”
Murphy crosses her arms and glares at me, and part of me wants to kiss that fucking frown right off her face.
But I don’t let myself give in to that idea, not that Murphy would be interested anyway.
“Look, clearly you don’t want me here,” she says, uncrossing her arms and turning her body to face me. “I don’t want me to be here either, okay? So can you just ... stop being such an asshole? I’m already dealing with enough as it is.”
At that, my shoulders fall.
I want to tell her I’m not normally an asshole, but then that would require me to explain that I’ve been trying to build a cement wall between us, for both our sakes, and that’s not a conversation I feel like having any time soon.
So instead, I just nod.
“Yeah, I get that.”
She seems to take that as a victory, because she turns and settles against the bench, her gaze shifting out to the valley and the view.
We sit for a while like that, just the two of us, and eventually, I can feel the bristling frustration between us cool and then fall away completely.
I’m not sure whether it’s a good idea, letting my guard down around Murphy Hawthorne. I have a feeling it’s actually a very bad idea.
But the longer we sit there, side by side, enjoying the silence and the late-evening spring breeze and comfort of being alone, together, the less I can seem to muster up the ability to care.