Chapter Eight WES
Chapter Eight
W ES
As far away as the opening is, it still feels like it’s barreling closer at a faster pace each day. And even though I’ve been working on the menu nonstop, it feels even more like an amorphous blob today than it did a few days ago when Memphis suggested the tasting dinner for the entire staff.
I think he’s envisioning a soft opening, but for only the Hawthorne family and employees. The idea is great, but it makes the true opening feel like it’s looming.
I spend a long day creating a grocery list for Memphis based on a menu that isn’t complete yet because he wants me to start visiting local farms to source my ingredients. Afterward, I decide to wander the vineyard, like I have on so many other nights since moving here. I take one of the bottles of wine that I still haven’t paired yet and begin the walk out to my favorite bench. Apparently it’s Murphy’s favorite bench too, and I do my best to convince myself it has nothing to do with why I’m here again.
I could be doing any number of other things, but this one place on the property keeps calling me back.
When I was struggling with anxiety during my last year in Chicago, I would walk the city in the middle of the night. People used to warn me about walking around in certain neighborhoods that maybe weren’t the safest, but I did it anyway.
Not because I had anything to prove, but because something about walking empty streets at night helped to clear my head. I was able to think things through on the gritty sidewalks of the city in a way that little else could provide.
In Rosewood, I can either walk the vineyard or the highway, and I figure walking along a dark highway at night is a recipe for disaster. So I run the highway during the day, when it’s warm and bright. And at night, I can make these vineyard pathways my new city streets.
I think about my father for a long while, my thoughts flickering back over the one or two memories I have from my childhood before he disappeared.
They’re less like memories and more like feelings, I guess, shadows of a life that doesn’t feel like it was mine. Someone big and strong tucking me into bed. Being wrapped in a warm blanket at a campfire.
I can’t even be sure these memories are of the man from The Standard, or if they’re even real things that happened. But there was something truly comforting about those memories—real or imagined—and I think that’s why I’m here, in Rosewood. I’m searching for that safety again.
I exhale into the night, my breath visible in the cool air.
Gabriel Wright might be the reason I’m here, but he wasn’t the catalyst for why I needed somewhere to go in the first place.
No, that was something a lot more disastrous.
Coming up in the culinary world, I never had grand dreams for myself and my future as a chef. Even though my mentor was Bernard Hines, one of the most respected chefs in the industry ... Even though I’d won a James Beard Award as an Emerging Chef ... Even though I had my pick of offers for where to work whenever I was ready to break out on my own.
It was hard to envision big, life-changing dreams, though, when I could barely afford my rent.
So when a high-powered couple began talking to me about becoming head chef at their new restaurant, I was ready to jump at their offer. Alejandro and Bridget Santiago were well-known restauranteurs. Working in one of their restaurants meant joining the ranks of others who’d launched their careers with them, with incredible success. The chefs who worked under the Santiagos were names I heard on TV and had authored more than a few titles on my bookshelf.
But more importantly, they were chefs with huge salaries.
And that’s what I wanted.
More than anything , that’s what I wanted. A chance to lift myself out of the hole that I was born in. A chance to pull my brother out, too. And the Santiagos represented that to me.
So I was shocked when my mentor warned me away from them.
“All I can tell you is that you have to set standards for yourself with every job you accept,” he tells me. “And as promising as a job with the Santiagos sounds, they have completely different business priorities than you do.”
I shake my head. “Of course they do. They’re running an empire. I’m looking for my first big break. In any case, I can just work for them for a few years, and then take those connections and make my next move.”
He looks at me with a grave expression. “They’re well known, but they’re surrounded by controversy. Wes, if you get in bed with them, they have the potential to ruin your career. Permanently.”
God, how I wish I’d heeded his advice.
Instead, I’d been too shortsighted, too focused on the immediate gratification.
Because Hines had been right.
And I did ruin my career.
My mind is exhausted by the time I take a seat on the bench around eight o’clock. The only thing that buoys my spirit is the idea that I might bump into Murphy tonight.
It’s been a few days since I’ve seen her. As much as I enjoyed the way our Monday evening turned into us sitting together in silence, enjoying the view and, to some degree, each other’s company, I also felt like it shouldn’t be something I let happen too often.
Tonight, though, I’m hoping that by sitting on her bench so late in the evening, I’ll see her walking up the path.
I even packed two wineglasses, just in case.
Sure enough, a half hour later, I see her form in the distance.
She’s heading in my direction but pauses when she catches sight of me. My night immediately improves when she carries forward again, her expression impassive.
Used to be that I was looking for a woman to devour me with her eyes. Now, I can’t get enough of the way Murphy tolerates my presence.
That thought makes me laugh. How the mighty have fallen.
“I thought I told you this was my bench,” she says as she takes a seat next to me, but I can hear the lack of true fight in her voice. Instead, there’s a note of teasing. Something slightly playful.
“Well, I figured it could still belong to you, and maybe I could rent it here and there.”
Her lips tilt up. “Oh, I doubt you could afford the rent on this bench.”
“I’m sure. Which is why I’ve brought bribes.”
At that, I lean down, pull the wine out of the bag, and begin to uncork it.
Murphy laughs. “You’re trying to bribe me with my own wine?”
I raise an eyebrow. “What, you don’t think it’s good enough to use as a bribe?”
She rolls her eyes. I just smile, then yank the cork from the top with a satisfying pop.
“I hope you know that I abandoned my drinking straight from the bottle days back in high school.”
I chuckle, enjoying the visual of Murphy sneaking off with a bottle from her family vineyard, maybe meeting up with some friends and getting drunk in the fields.
“That’s why I brought”—I lean down and pull out the two glasses—“these.”
Handing her one, I revel in how pleased she looks as I fill up first her glass, then mine. She lifts it to her nose, taking a whiff, before raising it to her lips and tilting it back to taste.
“The merlot,” she says. “One of my favorites.”
I grin. “Mine, too.”
We sit in silence for a while, each of us taking occasional sips from our glasses while enjoying the light evening breeze. It’s so much like the time we spent sitting next to each other on the tailgate of the truck that I smile to myself.
“This spot really is beautiful.” I keep my voice quiet. Something about this moment feels like a secret we need to keep just between us.
Murphy takes a moment to respond, but when she does, her voice is warm with affection.
“My father proposed to my mother right here when they were just seniors in high school.”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “No kidding.”
“Yeah, they were pretty young, but”—she shrugs—“they were crazy about each other, I guess. My dad put this bench here a few years after she died. Said he liked the idea of sitting with his memories of her.”
My heart pinches. I don’t know all the details about the Hawthorne family, obviously, but I hadn’t realized their mom had passed away. When I see a family without a parent around, I usually assume separation or divorce.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize she’d passed.”
Murphy gives me a sad smile.
“I was only four, so it’s not a raw wound or anything.” Still, pain glimmers in her eyes. “Memphis was seven, and he has a lot more memories with her than I did. But Micah ... He was a newborn. He didn’t know her at all.”
A few moments pass before I find the right thing to say.
“I can understand now why this is your bench. I’m sorry for not taking that more seriously.”
She shakes her head. “It is a special place, but it’s important to share things that are special. They mean more that way.”
I’ve never thought about it that way before, but I like the sentiment. It resonates with me as a chef, as a person who finds joy in sharing my love of food with others.
“Thank you for sharing it with me tonight,” I tell her.
We sit in the quiet then, each of us lost in our own thoughts, enjoying the comfort that being together can bring.
“Do you—”
Murphy’s question cuts off midway through.
I turn to look at her.
“Do I . . . ?”
Even in the pale moonlight, her cheeks color with a faint blush, which only increases my curiosity about what she was going to say.
“Do you ever wonder about the night we met?” she finally asks. “If we’d exchanged numbers ... or if you weren’t working here at the vineyard.”
My stomach tightens.
Because hell yes, I wonder about it. On more than a few occasions I’ve let my mind wander in the shower, my hand traveling south as I imagine how everything could have been different.
If I’d allowed that kiss to grow into something more.
I fight tooth and nail not to indulge myself in those moments, but they come anyway.
Her blonde hair splayed on my pillows as I lick down her body.
The noises she would make as I pushed inside her wet heat.
Even now, the thought of those imagined moments sends a shiver racing through me that makes me want to tell her the truth.
But I can’t.
Especially now that we’re ... doing whatever this is.
I can’t sit on this bench next to her, at this late hour, if I think she’s wondering about it, too.
So the best thing I can do is shut it down. With a quickness.
“No, Murphy. I don’t.”
My voice is firm, and when I glance over, I see the blush in her cheeks has grown.
It cost her something to ask me that question, and my response only proved to her that it wasn’t worth the price.
“And you shouldn’t, either,” I add, hoping to drive the point home. “We’re going to be working together, so there’s no use in wondering .”
Murphy nods, but she doesn’t look at me again. And it isn’t much longer before she finishes off her glass of wine, sets it gently in my bag, and tells me to have a good night.
Something inside of me says it was a mistake to cut her down like that.
But I don’t allow that little voice any ground.
Instead, I shove it down inside with the memories of the last time I let things at work become something they shouldn’t have.
And then the little voice is silent.
Even though it’s late, I return to the kitchen after my conversation with Murphy. I pull out the half-drunk bottle of merlot and pour a small glass for myself. One sniff sends my mind back to the bench with Murphy. Then, slowly, as the tannins of the warm red slide across my tongue, another memory emerges of a holiday years ago.
Back in my early twenties, when I first started working for Chef Hines, he invited me to spend Thanksgiving with him and his family. My own experiences with holiday meals had been frozen dinners in front of the TV, or sometimes even plates of food from the homeless shelter if my mom was nowhere to be found.
That Thanksgiving spent at the Hines family table, with Bernard’s husband and children, along with grandparents and cousins, all gathered around a massive, beautifully decorated table enjoying some of the most delicious food I’d ever tasted ... It was life changing for me.
I’m sure plenty of people wouldn’t understand how a single family meal—one that wasn’t even with my own family—could be life changing. But it was the first time I felt that kind of warmth that comes along with holidays.
I’d seen it on TV, on old sitcoms that felt unrealistic and completely out of touch. Families sitting around together, sharing a meal at a large table, the mom cooking the turkey and the dad sitting at the head of the table with the carving knife. But I never truly believed that people did things like that.
So that Thanksgiving changed my concept of what I wanted my future to look like. From that moment on, I knew I wanted that warmth and familiarity. The easy conversation. The kindness and togetherness.
Being here at the vineyard gives me hints of that feeling, when Sarah is laying out dinner for all of us, or those fleeting moments when Memphis and his dad let their guards down. But Murphy ... Sitting with her on that bench, enjoying the ease and flow of our conversation, I felt a warmth in my soul that mirrored how I felt that day at the Hines family table.
On just the few occasions Murphy and I have spent time together, I’ve seen more of her layers peeled back—the softness she hides under her family’s dysfunction, and the fiery passion that seems to simmer below the surface, too. Which makes me want to know even more. And that quickly, the future I envisioned here at the vineyard has started to shift.
Because of her.
Thoughts of Murphy and Hines swirl around in my mind, along with an even more unexpected desire to bring her and her brothers around the table in a way that might start to heal some of the animosity between them.
I start to take notes about the dinners that made me feel that sense of home unlike I’d ever experienced before. The green beans, the turkey, the mashed potatoes. The cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie and dressing. Eventually, a dish begins to take shape. Turkey legs in a cranberry merlot sauce, maybe with butternut squash and garlic roasted green beans as a side. All of which would pair excellently with the vineyard’s merlot. The woodsy nose and plum fruit taste, the modest tannins, would be a perfect contrast to the savory dish.
I jot down several notes, carefully listing out all the ingredients before hopping on the computer in the office to shoot off an updated list for Memphis.
I’m relieved to have figured out another dish, but even more elated that it’s something truly inspired. I haven’t ever created food inspired by a person before, and I’m shocked at the way it feels. As if I’m taking the best things I know and infusing them into my work.
It’s an incredible feeling.
I work well past midnight, pulling out other bottles of wine that I’ve yet to pair, hoping that this sudden stroke of inspiration is something I can repeat over and over again.