Chapter Eight Vivian
Chapter Eight
Vivian
I shake my head and lean over the guitar I’m holding, erasing the notes at the end of the third staff, accidentally erasing the lines as well.
The fact that I came on this trip and didn’t bring any music sheets is absolutely unbelievable. I can’t remember the last time I went anywhere without a pad of staff paper, knowing that inspiration can come out of nowhere and in the least likely moments.
And inspiration has officially struck.
I woke in the middle of the night with a melody in my head and a chorus of lyrics, almost like I’d dreamed them into existence. I’d rolled out of bed and onto the floor, surely terrorizing the people in the room below mine, then ripped through my stuff before realizing I didn’t have what I needed.
So I haphazardly created my own music sheet, which has proven very frustrating all fucking day.
At some point I’ll need to visit the little music store next to the café and get some new staff paper, among other things. But apparently they’re closed on Mondays.
Rude.
There’s a kind of sizzle that happens at the base of my skull and along the back of my neck when I’ve truly tapped into a vein of creative genius. Those spidey-senses are tingling through my entire body, bringing something to life that I haven’t felt in a long time.
It’s been years since I’ve felt like this, and I would be an absolute fool not to recognize the possible connection to the sexual magic that happened between Memphis and me last night.
It was . . . transcendent.
And I can’t ignore the muse when it arrives. Especially not when the future of my musical career rests on my ability to produce several more songs. Songs I need to record in ... I glance at the date on my phone ... exactly two weeks from today.
Which isn’t enough time, if I’m honest.
But I can put my nose down when I need to, which is what I’ve been doing.
And I have the pieces of two songs swirling around each other in my mind, battling for attention.
The one that’s winning right now is something I imagine to be my first single. I don’t know why I think that when I’ve always assumed “Sharp Heart” would be. It’s my favorite song I’ve ever written, an angsty piece I wrote in a fit of rage when the guy I was sleeping with at the time began to slowly cut me out of his life without telling me.
I truly believe it’s the reason Humble Roads signed me in the first place.
But now, with this song beginning to tumble its way out of my head and onto the paper in front of me, I’m not so sure if “Sharp Heart” will be the showstopper I’ve always believed it is.
Now I wonder if maybe whatever this is that I’m working on might take its place.
A cool breeze ripples over my skin, but I don’t stop to grab my sweater from the car. Instead, I push on. My notebook sits open in front of me, my phone on one page and my wallet on the other, holding them down against the tiny bit of wind that is rushing through the park.
I saw this spot on my way back into town from the vineyard, a beautiful little green space with a white gazebo and a bunch of picnic tables. It called to me, for whatever reason. So I pulled over and lugged my guitar out of the trunk, picked a sunny corner, and sat my ass in the grass.
And the music has flowed out of me ever since.
Which is also why I refuse to give up in my quest to talk to Memphis.
The man is infuriating. The idea that there is so much demand on his time that he can’t talk to me for five minutes is just plain stupid.
The tour thing sounds like such a cop-out, too.
I adjust the tuning pegs slightly, laughing to myself.
God, I should sign up for one of his tours. Then he’d be obligated to talk to me.
My fingers slow as I think that over again, wondering if maybe ...
I laugh.
It might be the most perfect idea ever.
I grab my phone and do a quick search for the Hawthorne Vines website, clicking around until I find information about the daily winery tours.
Blah, blah, blah, groups of ten once a day on weekdays and twice a day on weekends, blah, blah, blah, ends with a trip to the tasting room. Then I select “buy tickets.”
Looks like the tour for tomorrow has two tickets available.
I smirk.
But then I see that Wednesday’s tour has eight available.
Mischief rolls through me, and I don’t even give myself time to think it all the way through before I’m checking out, eight tickets in my cart.
If there are a ton of people on the tour, he’ll find a way to ignore me. I don’t doubt that. It’s in his nature to be as difficult as possible. And if I were to buy up all the tickets for, say ... Friday, when all ten are still available, I’m sure he’d cancel the tour. The man loves nothing more than to storm out of a room.
But if there’s one or two other people ... I mean, there’s no way he’d cancel on someone else, right? He’ll have to give me his attention.
I double-check my email to make sure the confirmation has come through before I set my phone aside, feeling pleased and rather devious.
My muse is speaking to me, and I will let nothing get in my way to make sure it is heard.
“Hey, Errol, how’s your day going?”
He lifts his head, smiling at me as I stop at the desk where he’s making notes in some kind of ledger.
“Hello, Miss Walsh. I’m doing well, thanks for asking. How about you?”
I lean on the counter and rest my chin in my hand. “Fantastic, actually.”
“I’m so glad to hear that. Have you tried out the soaking tub yet?”
“Unfortunately not. But I’m hoping to, soon. I’ve been surprisingly busy since I got here. Which is actually what I was hoping to talk to you about.”
Errol puts his pencil in his large black book and then closes it, setting it to the side.
“Is there some kind of community calendar? Or a place I can look up the events going on while I’m visiting? I want to fit in as much as I can while I’m here, and I might try to go to that ... movie night thing.”
“There is!” he says, placing a hand on his chest. “I apologize that I didn’t give you the community hall’s event calendar when you checked in. That was my mistake.”
He turns and tugs a flyer out from a little shelf behind him.
“There’s the movie night this weekend, and the Fall Festival next month. And there’s also information about which vineyards have events coming up. Some of them do more than just wine tasting. Some of them host scavenger hunts or concerts. And then there’s always the grape stomping, which is very popular.”
I briefly eye the schedule, then tuck the flyer into my purse.
“Thank you so much, Errol. Time for me to take in what this community has to offer.”
He grins. “Hey, before you head out, I wanted to tell you ... I heard you singing to yourself this morning when you were walking through the lobby, and you have the most beautiful voice.”
The genuine way he says it hits me square in the chest, and my hand raises to that spot to hold his compliment close.
“Oh my gosh, that is ... the sweetest thing to say. Thank you so much.”
“My wife had a voice like yours, one that makes people want to stop and listen, no matter what they’re doing.” His eyes grow wistful, briefly, the little wrinkles on his face growing more pronounced before his bright smile returns in full force. “Make sure you use it as often as you can. Everyone should hear it.”
“Well ... thank you. Seriously,” I reply, my heart panging a little bit for him. “You’ve absolutely made my day.”
“You have a great day, sweetheart.”
The compliment from Errol is a welcome surprise in my day and a pleasant little thing in the forefront of my mind as I take a break to grab a quick lunch. But then I’m right back to work, tweaking my words and playing around with the notes on the bridge. I record my guitar melody on my phone and put in headphones so I don’t disturb any of the other Firehouse guests as I work late into the evening.
On Tuesday, I hit the coffee shop again, enjoying the bit of consistency in my Rosewood routine. Then I finally take time to visit the music store, a little mom-and-pop place called Harmony and Vines. They sell local wines, of course, alongside hand-crafted instruments. I spend far too long perusing everything, ultimately leaving with a bag full of necessary goodies: an array of sheet music, a couple of colorful picks, and a shirt with the store name because I can’t handle how cute it is and I’m a sucker for vintage tees.
Then I hit the road, driving slowly along the winding roads and rolling hills of Rosewood, stopping any time it feels right. My day is spent between random parks and lookouts, plucking at my guitar strings, working on the lyrics, and letting the muse speak to me.
There’s something really settling about it. It takes me back to when I was in high school. I’d pull out my guitar during lunch and sit beneath a shady tree with my friends. It wasn’t like I sat at lunch serenading everyone with my guitar every day. I’ve always been a social butterfly, and many of my days were spent laughing and talking and being a bubbly teenager. But there were other days when the mood would strike me, and I’d flutter my fingers along the strings, playing a melody I was still figuring out.
The creative process is filled with figuring it out moments, which is why it’s normally so time consuming. I can think about a song over and over again, ad nauseum, and still not find the right words. And then bam, something will happen and I’ll figure out how to say the exact right thing, wondering how I didn’t see it before when it was right there the whole time.
On Wednesday, I arrive early to Hawthorne Vines, hoping to visit with Murphy at the restaurant for a little bit before my semiprivate tour of the property.
But when I get there, the hostess, Enid, says Murphy is still in San Francisco. She won’t be back until the weekend. Surprising, considering she thought she’d only be gone for a night or two.
I take a seat at the bar and greet a bartender I haven’t met before. I decide on a chardonnay before pulling out my phone and sending off a text to my friend.
Me: Everything okay? Enid said you’re still in SF
Murphy has shared plenty with me about Wes, her sexy chef boyfriend who gives her the best O’s she’s ever had. But I haven’t heard much about his mom, so I haven’t a single clue what they’re doing on this trip.
My phone buzzes with a reply as I’m taking my first sip of the crisp white wine.
Murphy: Yeah, the trip is just a lot different than I was expecting. I’ll update you when I get back! But I promise, everything is okay. *smooch*
My shoulders settle a tad, the worry I felt when Enid said Murphy was still out of town beginning to dissipate. She’s not the type to keep things to herself, so if something was wrong, she wouldn’t hide it.
“How’s that wine?”
I look up at the bartender, a handsome man maybe a few years older than me, with a thick beard and a genuine smile on his face.
“It’s delicious, thanks,” I reply. “I’m a chardonnay snob, and this is one of the best I’ve tried in quite a while.”
He rests one hand on the countertop, the other on his hip. “The 2016 reflects the dry spell we had that year.”
“Yeah,” I say, lifting it to my nose. “It’s got a toasty vibe.”
“That’s the oak barrels and a bit of vanilla.” He chuckles. “Toasty vibe. I like that.”
I laugh. “I call it like I see it.”
“Cory,” he says, sticking his hand out.
I set down my glass and place my hand in his. “Vivian. Nice to meet you, Cory.”
“I’ve seen you here before. A couple of days ago. You visiting or new to the area?”
“Ah, visiting. Just in town for a few weeks for a little working vacay. Murphy told me Rosewood is the best place for an escape, and she was right.”
Cory’s head tilts to the side. “Oh, so you know the Hawthorne family?”
I swirl my wineglass. “I do. Murphy and I have been friends for a long time.”
“You from LA, then?”
“Yup. Born and raised.”
He laughs. “I didn’t think anyone was actually from LA. I thought everyone moved there from somewhere else.”
I laugh too, enjoying the truth in his words.
But before I can respond, a familiar figure steps behind the bar.
“Are we working, Cory? Or flirting?”
Memphis’s question clearly flusters the bartender, but instead of giving Cory a chance to say anything, Memphis speaks again.
“The kitchen needs help with bringing out dishes.”
It takes a second for Cory to understand he’s being dismissed to go help somewhere else in the restaurant. Once he does, he tucks his bar rag into a back pocket and heads that way, barely glancing my way as he goes.
“It would be nice if I could talk to any of your bartenders without you sending them off to do something else like I’m some kind of leper.”
“You know what else would be nice? If you weren’t always trying to talk to my bartenders.”
I smirk, leaning forward. “A little jealous? Because I promise you, I have no interest in Cory. There’s only one man in this restaurant that I want to see naked.”
His nostrils flare. “You already saw me naked,” he grumbles, his voice dipping low.
“No, I felt you naked,” I reply, my eyes trailing him up and down. “In the pitch black. And since I don’t have infrared vision, I can guarantee you that I have not seen all I want to see.” I pause. “Yet.”
Memphis shakes his head, his lips upturned the tiniest bit. “You are incredibly stubborn.”
“I prefer tenacious. Speaking of seeing you naked, I have a proposal for you.”
He winces and glances at his watch in an overly dramatic fashion. “So sorry, but unfortunately I have somewhere to be, so ...” Then he taps the bar top twice and heads off, just as Cory returns with a glass rack filled with freshly washed wineglasses.
“Thanks for the wine,” I tell Cory, dropping cash on the bar as Memphis pushes through the back patio door and steps outside. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon.”
I haven’t gotten a full tour of the property yet, since Murphy was supposed to take me around but then got pulled away to San Francisco. Thankfully, the instructions about where to meet for the tour were very simple and specific. All tours now leave from the restaurant patio.
Following Memphis’s path, I step out onto the patio, grinning when I spot him. He’s standing in a corner near a path that leads out into the vines, next to a small sign that reads Vineyard Tours . A cute young couple is with him, and he chats casually with them as he waits.
Then he sees me, and I know I don’t imagine it when he seems to stand up a bit straighter.
Sometimes, I like to pretend that other people imagine me walking toward them in slow motion, and this is one of those moments.
I’m wearing a cute skirt, a short sleeve turtleneck, and a pair of boots that will be perfect for walking along the mulchy pathway through the vineyard. The outfit says “I want it to be autumn, but it’s not cool enough yet.” And I can see clearly in my mind’s eye what Memphis sees as I stride toward him.
Tenacity.
“This the vineyard tour?” I ask, smiling at the three of them as I come to a stop.
“It is,” Memphis answers, his eyes narrowed slightly even though a smile still sits on his face. “Unfortunately, the tour is fully booked today.”
“Oh, I have a ticket. Let me just ...” I look down at my phone and click into my email, then hold up my confirmation. “Here it is. My family isn’t able to come, though. Which is such a bummer!”
“Your . . . family.”
I nod. “Yeah, there was supposed to be eight of us. We reserved tickets and everything, but wires got crossed, and Uncle Bob ended up booking everyone spa treatments.” I shake my head. “They’re all over at some bougie place in Sonoma, but I didn’t want to miss this tour, so I decided to still come.”
“Uncle Bob, huh?” Memphis crosses his arms, a smirk playing at his lips. “Well, how fortunate for us that you’ve decided to ... grace us with your presence.”
I give him an obnoxious smile and tuck my phone back into my purse.
“I guess this is going to be our group, then,” he continues, eyeing the other couple before returning his gaze to mine. “Let’s go ahead and get started.”