Chapter Thirteen MURPHY
Chapter Thirteen
M URPHY
Wes and I reach a level of friendship after that night at the bench that I wasn’t anticipating. I guess sharing horribly embarrassing stories with someone bonds you.
All I know is, after that, it feels like I’m not so alone.
I spend the next few days helping wherever I can with getting things ready for the opening. If we’re planning to get staff in here and trained soon, we need things to be set up.
Long hours go by in the dining room setting up tables and chairs, unloading and unpacking all the plates and bowls and cutlery, and organizing things in a way that makes sense behind the bar until the sommelier comes in and sets it up better.
And through all those hours over those several days, I can’t help but notice how often Wes pops his head out of the kitchen, or comes over to help me move something heavy, or asks me to taste something he’s working on.
He’s started training two line cooks on his tentative menu, and we spend time in the evening, on our bench, talking about how green they are and how dire the résumé situation is for the server and host positions I advertised at the start of the week.
There’s a kind of camaraderie between us. A we’re in it together feeling that I’m really enjoying.
And in the same breath, I can’t help but acknowledge how quickly I’m beginning to fall for him.
Wes isn’t the charming guy I first met at the gas station, and he’s not the playboy I thought he was when his attitude soured, or the jerk who kept me at arm’s length. Those were masks he put on, at first to entice me and then to push me away.
No. He’s so much more than any of those small, insignificant labels.
Wes is ... Well, he’s kind, for one thing. He’s also a man who legitimately cares about the people around him. And after years and years of being surrounded by self-centered, egotistical fame-seekers, I can’t help but admire almost everything about him.
I don’t know his backstory, or how he maneuvered his way through the culinary industry, but I get the feeling he’s been through something difficult. He’s mentioned his younger brother a few times and hinted that he might have taken care of him when their parents weren’t around.
That kind of heart, that dedication to family, is something I so admire.
It makes me feel a little ashamed of how quickly I turned tail and scurried off to LA. How little effort I made to stay connected to my family.
That fight with Memphis? It’s true ... He could have called me. He could have come to visit me. But he’s not the only one. And I can either shove all the blame onto him or Dad, and stay mad at them for all the ways they failed, or I can acknowledge that all of us were hurting, for whatever reason, and try to repair the relationships that have fallen into disrepair because we were each too stubborn to extend a hand.
I knock on the door to Memphis’s office, poking my head in when I hear his brisk “Come in.”
I cross over to take a seat opposite him at the desk.
“What do you need, Murphy?”
I shake off the clipped way he speaks to me, reminding myself that I’m here to bridge the gap, not critique my brother when he’s under a lot of stress.
“I don’t need anything. I was just coming to see how you’re doing.”
His gaze disconnects from the computer screen, and he turns his body toward me, a single eyebrow rising infinitesimally higher than the other.
“What do you need , Murphy?” His voice is a little softer this time, as if I’m a child coming to ask Dad for fifty bucks.
I roll my eyes.
“I’m telling you, I just came to see how you’re doing. I don’t need anything.”
He assesses me for a minute before turning to focus on his computer screen again.
“How’s the dining room coming along?”
“Tucked the last of the extra chairs into the storage closet and put the decor along the mantel. It looks really good.”
“Mm-hmm, and how’s the hiring going?”
I cross one leg over the other and settle back in my chair, realizing that trying to “check in” with my brother means he’s going to go over all the work stuff. Because the man doesn’t know how to have a life outside of this vineyard.
“I have a handful of applications, but I need to look into more creative ways to advertise because I am not impressed.”
He clicks his mouse a few times, his eyes narrowing at whatever he’s looking at.
“You should talk to Ryan, see if he can help.”
My brow furrows. “Who’s Ryan?”
“A friend of mine from high school. He works for the radio station. Maybe you could do an advertisement or something.” He looks to me briefly. “I’ve been prepping text for a spot that’s scheduled for this week, but maybe two birds with one stone? I know you were hoping to interview in a few days, so this could be perfect timing to grab some last-minute résumés.”
I purse my lips, surprised at my brother’s creativity. “Great idea, Memphis. Email me the text you prepped and I’ll merge them together.”
He nods, then returns his focus to the computer.
“All right, now that work stuff is handled, how are you doing?”
Memphis sighs. “And I’ll ask again, what do you—”
“Jesus Christ, Memphis. I don’t need anything.” I clench my hands into fists. “I’m literally just asking how you’re doing. Is that so hard to believe? That a sister would care about how her brother is doing?”
He turns his chair so he’s facing me dead-on, then leans forward so his arms are resting on the desk, his hands steepled together.
“Murphy—”
“Memphis, I’m sorry I heaped all the blame on you, okay?” I decide to get straight into the nitty-gritty instead of trying to chat first. “I could have called. I could have visited, too. But sometimes it feels like you see me as an employee instead of a sister. Like the only times you care about me are when I’m giving you extra hands for the vineyard. It felt that way before I moved away, and it feels that way now.”
I cross my arms, but then uncross them, leaning forward and resting my own arms on the table and placing my hands on my brother’s.
“Right now, I’m trying to find my way back to a place where you’re my brother, not my boss. And the only way I can think to do that is to try to talk to you about you . Not the vineyard. Not the restaurant. Not Dad or Micah or anybody else. So I’ll ask you again. How are you doing?”
Concern flickers behind Memphis’s eyes. It reminds me of how he looked that first day at the restaurant, when I stormed out and he told me I had no idea how much he needed things with the new restaurant to be successful. Now that I’ve seen the spreadsheet on his computer—the one bleeding red with debt—his intensity makes a lot more sense.
He looks tense and agitated, and I’m preparing for him to shut me down and get back to work when he sinks down into his chair. The mask falls away, revealing to me just how exhausted he really is.
“I don’t know how I’m doing, Murph,” he finally says, his voice tired.
He runs his hand across his face before digging it into his hair.
“I appreciate the sentiment. I do. But right now, there is no delineation between me and this vineyard, or me and this restaurant, okay? I live, sleep, and breathe this place, every day. So I can’t separate for you. I don’t have anything personal going on in my life to talk to you about, Murphy. I just have work.”
I know how that feels. I did it for nine years while I was in LA, only rarely getting the chance to visit the beach or go on a hike or take advantage of being in one of the most exciting cities in the world. Instead, I worked constantly. And in the free moments I had, I was either writing music, performing at open mic nights, or trying to set up more gigs.
It was exhausting.
And the only thing that helped was having people to talk to about it. People who understood. Like Vivian, who was also working her ass off and trying to climb the ladder of success.
Maybe I can be that person for Memphis.
“Okay, then tell me about work. And I don’t mean ask me questions about how I’m pulling my weight. I mean talk to me about work. If you’re sleeping, eating, breathing it, you must have a lot on your mind.”
He lets out a long sigh and rubs a hand against the stubble on his jaw, glancing back at his computer before returning his attention to me.
“You want to know what’s really going on?”
I nod, giving him a soft smile of encouragement, thankful that he’s finally going to share whatever is burdening him.
“We’ve got one year to figure things out, or Dad’s selling the vineyard,” he says.
My smile falls, shock coursing through my body.
“What?”
Memphis nods, his expression solemn. “He’s a hard worker, our dad, but he had no idea what he was doing when Grandpa handed over the reins. We’ve been in the red for far longer than is sustainable, and a couple months ago, Dad said he was considering selling to some rich couple who offered him way more than the vineyard was worth.”
“What? Why would he do that?”
“It’s happening a lot more now. People with money buy up vineyards as pet projects, something to show off to their other rich friends.” He rolls his eyes. “The Sheltons did it a few years ago, and the people who bought it ran that place into the ground within two years.”
My nose wrinkles, trying to even picture that happening.
“And he seriously considered it?”
Memphis nods. “More than considered. He invited the couple to stay at the vineyard for a week. They walked around and talked about everything. I thought it was a done deal.”
My mouth parts at the knowledge that my father was contemplating the idea of getting rid of this place.
“But ... our whole lives he’s been talking about how Hawthorne Vines is our legacy. Your legacy,” I say, repeating something my father has said to us literally for as long as I can remember. “How can he just—”
I’m not even sure how to finish my sentence.
“Give up?” Memphis finishes for me. “Easy. He convinced himself he was doing me a favor.”
“But, I mean obviously he didn’t do it. Right?”
“I convinced him to give me time to try to salvage things.”
My shoulders fall.
“That’s why you’re doing the restaurant.”
Memphis nods.
“Now you understand why I need it to go well. Why I hired someone like Chef Hart to oversee everything. I figured a name like his could draw people in, people who are really into food and wine in a way we haven’t been able to reach yet.”
My head tilts to the side as I try to understand what he means.
“Why would Wes draw people in?”
“Wes is like ... an internationally recognized chef,” Memphis says, his brow furrowed like he can’t believe I didn’t know. “He’s won a ton of awards and has opened up like five restaurants. He’s one of the youngest James Beard winners ever.” Then my brother chuckles. “Seriously, Murphy, do you not google people when you meet them?”
I blink a few times, trying to catalog what he’s just told me against what I know about Wes so far.
Wes ... the soft heart. Wes ... the guy who cares about everyone. Wes ... who puts family first ... is a celebrity chef?
“So when I say I’m betting the farm on this restaurant,” Memphis continues, leaning back in his chair, looking deflated and more exhausted than I’ve ever seen him, “I really mean it.”
It makes sense now, why he was so intense the other day as we were starting to talk about servers and staffing. He wants Wes to be in charge of everything because he’s hoping this renowned chef will be his star quarterback and lead him—and everyone—to victory.
But even if Wes is as talented as Memphis claims, that seems like way too much pressure to put on the shoulders of a single person when there are a lot of factors that go into a successful restaurant.
“How can I help?” I realize this is why my brother was so enthused about me coming home to help when we first talked. “What can I do?”
He lets out another long sigh and scratches the back of his neck. “Honestly? I’ve been really impressed with everything you’ve done so far, Murph. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
I try not to let his compliment puff me up so visibly, but I can’t help it when I sit taller at his words.
“I’m serious, Memphis. Tell me what else to do. There has to be something more. You said you needed extra hands. I have extra hands.”
He runs his hand through his hair again, seeming to think it over.
“I’ll think about it,” he finally says. “And I’ll let you know.”
I nod. “No problem. And I’ll keep you posted on staffing, okay?”
He gives me this look—one that’s slightly pleased but also tired and spent, both mentally and physically—before he returns his attention to his computer.
Taking that as my cue, I push out of my chair and head for the office door.
“Hey, Murphy?”
I turn back, and he’s smiling at me. And I feel like it’s the first time since I’ve been home that I’ve actually made him happy.
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
I give him a wave and then head through the house and down the hall to my bedroom. Leaning back against the closed door, I let the severity of what Memphis just shared with me truly sink in.
Selling the vineyard.
I can’t even . . .
My brain doesn’t know where to go with that information. It’s so contrary to everything Dad has ever said about this property that it feels false. Incredibly false. But it’s not like I’d really know or anything, considering the fact we’ve exchanged only a handful of words in the few weeks I’ve been home.
And while I might have felt strong enough to face my brother and try to patch things up, it feels like my wounds with Dad are a lot deeper. I’m not ready to throw myself on the grenade to repair things there just yet.
So instead of focusing on what we discussed, I start trying to figure out my own ways of helping. Any little thing I can do that might help alleviate some of the stress on Memphis’s shoulders, and help my father realize what he’s considering is a grave mistake.
“Thanks so much for taking the time to come in and interview.”
Harper, a sweet high school senior, gives me a grin and shakes my hand.
“I’ll be in touch later this week.”
“Thanks, Miss Hawthorne. I’ll look forward to it.”
She tugs her purse strap over her shoulder and gives me one more smile and then heads out, leaving me mercifully alone for the first time in what feels like two entire days.
When I launched the advertisements about the server and hostess positions, there were only a trickle of legitimate responses over the first few days. The rest were spam messages or people with no experience.
But after I got connected with Memphis’s friend Ryan at KWNE, and he did a spot on the new restaurant and the open positions, I received dozens of inquiries from people with real hosting and serving experience.
I also received a bunch of unsolicited résumés from people looking for sous chef and prep chef positions, and I think some of that was due to Ryan mentioning Wes’s name as the new head chef. It wasn’t something I’d included in my notes, but I’m assuming Memphis had spoken with him about it.
It feels wild to me that people would want to work here because of Wes. But apparently in the culinary industry, Wes’s name means a lot.
I let out an exhausted sigh and stretch my arms high above my head. Then I begin sorting through the stack of résumés in front of me, weeding out the few that I know are not getting hired. That would include the college freshman who stared at my chest for the entire interview, the woman who scrolled on her phone while she was answering my questions, and the middle-aged guy who said he couldn’t provide a reference because he got fired from his last job for punching his manager.
Those are no-brainers.
Then I split the remaining dozen résumés into piles based on what job they were interviewing for and stack them in order of preference.
It takes me about an hour to read through them all again and look back at my notes. The two days of interviews are all blurring together and making a lot of the candidates merge into one.
After I make my decisions, the only thing left is to run everything by Memphis to make sure we’re on the same page. But when I pop into his office, it’s my father sitting in his chair.
He looks over when he sees me, then returns his focus to whatever paperwork he’s going through.
“What do you need, Murphy?”
I roll my eyes. It’s clear where my brother got it from.
“Just looking for Memphis. Do you know where he is?”
“I do not.”
He doesn’t say anything after that, and I bristle on the inside.
Before I can think better of it, I cross the threshold and approach where he sits at the desk.
“I can’t believe you would ever think about selling the vineyard.”
He doesn’t even look up at me, just continues staring at the paperwork in front of him. “I’m surprised you even care, considering how you couldn’t get away from here fast enough.”
Gritting my teeth, I try to remember what Wes said on our walk along the highway. About people not liking to feel vulnerable, and how they act selfish and insecure instead. And what Memphis said to me that first day home, about Dad not knowing how to talk when he’s deep in his feelings.
“Of course I care. Working the vineyard might not be what I want to do, but Memphis has spent his entire life dedicated to this place.”
“Memphis will be fine.”
“He won’t be fine. Why do you think he’s so desperately trying to get you to change your mind?”
“This isn’t your concern, Murphy.”
“Yes, it is. This vineyard means everything to Memphis. And Micah loves it, too. You can’t just throw that all away.”
It’s the longest conversation I’ve had with my father since returning home, and he’s barely looked at me since I walked into the room.
When he doesn’t say anything else, something inside me breaks.
“Look at me!” I slap my hands on the desk.
He startles, then looks up at where I loom over him.
“You have been preaching the importance of this vineyard to our family since the day we arrived. And now you want to just ... sell it off? Like it means nothing? I don’t know what you think about me, or why I left or why I’m back, but honestly it doesn’t matter. You have two sons who have been working this land since they were old enough to hold a fucking shovel, and they deserve more from you than this.”
Then I storm from the room, just before the first tears begin to fall.