Chapter Eleven Memphis
Chapter Eleven
Memphis
Every year, the weeks leading up to the harvest are exhausting.
We are constantly monitoring the grapes and the weather to make sure we don’t need to deviate from our schedule. We net most of the vines to eliminate possible pest issues. We service and clean all our equipment so there are no issues with contamination and no surprises when it’s time to get started.
Then there’s the staffing. Hiring all the temporary workers, making sure we have the right people with the right knowledge about pick bins and racking wands and destemmers and all the other equipment.
We are also one of the few vineyards that still houses and feeds our workers for the entire length of our harvest days—typically a two-month period, depending on how many people we hire. Three meals a day for fifteen people, plus the cost of renting the bunk trailer that we set up next to the cabins on the west part of the property—it’s not a cheap investment.
But it’s something we’ve always done, and while there are lots of we’ve always done that items that can be scrapped and replaced for something more effective, I truly do believe that we get some of the most kind, hardworking, exceptional people applying to work with us year after year because we treat them well.
There might be a day when we aren’t able to afford it anymore, but that time is not now, and I plan to keep that as part of our process for as long as I can.
We typically launch the harvest at the beginning of September, and this year, we’re right on schedule. The weather looks to be—at least for now—cooperating.
Which means tonight we’re celebrating our annual Harvest-Eve—a small, casual dinner for the entire crew that is a thank-you-in-advance for all the work they’re going to be putting in. They get fed, we play a silly game, and then everyone gets a good night of sleep before the first fourteen-hour day.
“Anything left that I can do to help you set up?” I ask Sarah, entering the kitchen for the first time today.
In years past, I’ve offered to help with the food and have caused more problems than I’ve solved. So it’s an unspoken agreement between myself and my aunt that I relegate my efforts to setup and takedown when it comes to meals.
“Yes, baby, can you run out to your father’s truck and grab the paper plates? I’m pretty sure he got them but might have left them in the cab or something.”
I nod, grabbing Dad’s keys off the hook and cutting through the house.
But when I jerk open the front door, Vivian is there, her hand poised to knock.
She smiles when she sees me, but it falls immediately when she sees my face.
“Everything okay?”
“What are you doing here?”
Vivian rolls her eyes. “Nice to see you, Vivian. Can I take your coat?” she says, deepening her voice, I’m assuming, to imitate me. “I don’t know who taught you manners, but ‘What are you doing here?’ is not a polite way to greet guests. Especially when you’ve put your penis inside them.”
My nostrils flare, but before I can say anything, Murphy barrels past me, wrapping Vivian in a big hug.
“I’m so glad you came! This is going to be so much fun.” Murphy releases Vivian and then turns to me. “I invited Vi for Harvest-Eve. I think she’s a shoo-in for biggest grape.”
I purse my lips, but then I remember I’m supposed to be running an errand.
“Welcome,” I say to Vivian, who winks at me as I walk past her out the door and toward my dad’s truck.
“What do you mean by biggest grape?” I hear Vivian ask my sister before the front door closes.
I let out a sigh as I unlock the truck and tug open the back door.
This is . . . inconvenient.
And exactly the thing I was worried about when I first agreed to Vivian’s ludicrous but enticing proposal that we enjoy having casual sex with each other.
It’s one thing to hook up with someone on occasion.
It’s quite another to hook up with someone on occasion who also happens to be regularly coming over to my house and place of business, where our interactions are on full display for family and colleagues.
I grab the plates, shut the truck door, and go back inside, bracing myself for whatever is to come. I don’t know how Vivian will act if I don’t give her the attention she wants. If she’ll be overly flirtatious or jealous or whatever.
When I was in my early twenties, I had a serious girlfriend. Lina lived in Napa, and at the time, I was commuting into town to take business courses at the community college, preparing myself for a future of running the vineyard.
It took a while to notice, but I started realizing that Lina was ... controlling. She had issues with me talking to other women ... like any women. Servers or bank attendants or even Naomi and the other women who work on our property threatened her, which was preposterous because I clearly need to interact with them on a regular basis.
Lina would drive to Rosewood, show up at the house out of the blue, and expect that I’d be able to drop everything to accommodate her. I usually tried to, but sometimes there was something important going on and she’d rail me about how I didn’t give her enough attention or didn’t care when she came to visit.
Eventually, it became too much, and I ended things.
So when it comes to Vivian, I don’t know what to expect.
Though if I think back to that night in her hotel room, it’s easy to see that she didn’t really have any expectations. We had a wild ride, and then she thanked me and asked me to see myself out.
And gave me a five-star rating. Jesus, she’s too much.
I laugh to myself as I enter the packed kitchen. The line of temp hands stretches out the back door. Seeing my aunt and Micah are helping dole out food and drinks, I put Vivian out of my mind and step in to help. Once we’ve worked through the line, Sarah, Micah, and I grab our own plates and join everyone for dinner on the patio.
I set my food down in an open spot next to Edgar, a few tables away from where Vivian and Murphy are sitting. I’m thankful, not for the first time, that my aunt Sarah knows how to make massive meals that are both filling and delicious.
The conversation around the table is light and easy. I take the opportunity to learn more about the newbies seated at my table and answer a few questions about what the next couple of months will look like.
“All right, everybody,” I hear as we’re all finishing up our meals, and I turn to look at my father, who is standing at the end of one table. “I recognize many of you from past years, but there are several brand-new faces. My name is Jack Hawthorne, and I’m part of the family that owns this vineyard.”
Then he launches into his speech, the same one he gives every year. He talks about the legacy of this winery. The history of our Harvest-Eve dinner. And he thanks my aunt for cooking and the crew for the work they’re going to be doing.
“Usually, I pass it off to my sister at this point so she can share a little about the game we like to play on Harvest-Eve. But before I do, I’d first like to bring my son up here for a second. Memphis, can you join me?”
I blink a few times in surprise, eyeing my dad over the crowd. Reluctantly, I push out of my chair, then cross over to where he is standing, sensing a bunch of eyes on me.
My dad slaps a hand on my shoulder, then continues speaking.
“What many of you might not know is that for the past few years, my son Memphis has been handling most of the vineyard business operations. He’s been doing a great job, and I’d like to announce that I’ve decided it’s time to officially designate him as the CEO of Hawthorne Vines.”
Shock ripples through me.
“While I still plan to be around, helping out where I can, it’s time to step aside and let Memphis’s dedication and talent lead the way for the next generation of Hawthorne Vines.”
There’s a stretch of silence that follows my father’s speech. I don’t doubt it’s because there are many who are as surprised as I am. But then I hear a few claps, before the entire group breaks into applause.
“Memphis, do you want to say anything?” My dad looks at me expectantly.
I lick my lips and chuckle awkwardly. I hate giving speeches, especially when I’m woefully unprepared. And blindsided.
“Well, thanks, Dad, for the vote of confidence. I don’t have much to say tonight other than ... I look forward to seeing where this harvest will take us. Thank you, everyone.”
Then I give everyone a small smile and look to my aunt Sarah, who is standing off to the side.
“Sarah?”
As I return to my seat, she launches into her speech, surely sharing information about what meals will look like for the next two months and what her role is at the vineyard.
I assume that’s what she’s saying because I don’t really hear her.
What the fuck was that?
An announcement like that on the night before the harvest?
Especially when we hadn’t discussed it at all.
And what does he mean by designating me as CEO? Does that mean he’s signing everything over? Or giving me a title? What role is he planning to have?
My eyes connect with Micah’s over the heads of our workers.
What does this mean for my brother? He works this land constantly, and though he might not be the business-minded type I am, he’s just as passionate about the vineyard. I’ve always known it was my father’s intention to pass the business down to me—his eldest son—as has been the generational tradition since my great-great grandfather back in the early 1900s.
But it’s one thing to know it in theory, and another to look your brother in the eyes—the one who busts his ass, laboring, day in and day out—knowing that he’s seen as ... nothing more than an employee.
Something about it doesn’t feel right.
I doubt Murphy will care at all. But Micah ...
He nods at me, his expression soft, before looking away, out to the rows of vines stretched out before us and the muted light in the sky, the sun having already dipped behind the mountains in the distance.
Something wells up inside me. Something that’s a mixture of sadness and irritation and confusion. And guilt.
But I do my best to tuck it away. Set it aside for now.
There is plenty of time for me to address ... whatever this is. For me to make sure that whatever next steps are taken, they’re the right ones.
Right now, though, there’s work to do.
Twenty minutes later, everyone has finished eating, and we’ve cleared away all the plates, trash, and tables. The part-time and full-time crew stand at the base of the steps that lead down from the back patio, on the path that leads around and through the vineyard.
My attention snags on a flash of copper-colored hair. Vivian is chatting easily with Murphy and Naomi. She throws her head back and laughs, and I don’t miss the many eyes that turn her way, probably observing her in the same way I am.
Part of me is a little surprised that she hasn’t come to talk with me at all. I had assumed she’d try to slip by me in the kitchen or sit across from me at a table. But she’s been wrapped up in her conversations, completely ignorant of the fact that I’ve been struggling to keep my eyes off her.
It almost makes me laugh.
There I was, worried she was going to be too demanding or desperate for my attention, and she hasn’t looked at me once.
I don’t know if I should think it’s funny or be offended.
Maybe a little of both.
But then her eyes connect with mine, like she knew exactly where I was standing, and she winks my way before returning her focus to Naomi.
Just like that, I realize how much I want her attention on me.
“What’s that look for?”
I turn to look at my dad, who has stepped up to my side. “Huh?”
“That look? Haven’t seen a smile like that from you in I can’t remember how long.”
I wipe my face clean. “I’m not smiling.”
My dad turns and looks out to the right where Vivian stands off to the side. I don’t miss the way his brows furrow when he spots her.
“Isn’t that ...” He trails off, his eyes flicking back to mine.
I don’t doubt he’s remembering Vivian from the kitchen last weekend. It might have been the middle of the night, but I doubt anyone who has ever met her has failed to remember her.
She’s that kind of unforgettable.
“Is the redhead talking to your sister and Naomi the same one ...”
“I’d really like you to not ask that question,” I say, interrupting him before he can get the entire thing out. “Because I’d really like to not have to answer it.”
He studies me for a long moment, then pats me on the back. “All right, son. Good luck with that.”
We stand in silence for a moment longer before my aunt puts two fingers to her lips and whistles, calling everyone’s attention.
“All right, everyone. On the night before the harvest, we play a little game we call Quest for the Best. Everyone is randomly assigned to a vine, and then you’re given five minutes to search the entirety of your vine for the single grape you think is the best.”
As much as it pains me to admit it, I love this game. It’s one of the few childish, silly things I allow myself to do anymore, and it’s always a good time. It’s also just good team building to have everyone laughing and running through the vines in a way that’s low pressure and a bit of fun.
“I judge the final selections based on weight, color, and taste, and the winner gets a crate of wine from last year’s harvest. Jorge has been the winner for the past two years, so I’m excited to see if someone is able to emerge from our newbies and set a new bar.” She pauses and gives everyone a sheepish look. “I have grape expectations of you all this year.”
A bunch of groans emerge from the group, plus a handful of laughs.
“Can I get some more wine with that cheese?” Murphy calls out.
“Oh hush,” my aunt says, waving a hand at my sister. “Now, if everyone can please grab a Popsicle stick from Edgar, it’ll have your vine number, and then we’ll head out so you can get lined up.”
It only takes a few minutes for all of us to select a stick, and then we’re walking out along the path until we get to the end of the vines.
“What’s your number?” Vivian asks, bumping into my shoulder and holding up her stick, which has the number twelve on it.
I grin at her and show her mine. Thirteen.
She grimaces. “Oh, bummer. That’s an unlucky number.”
“I don’t believe in superstitious nonsense like that.”
Vivian smirks, then stops at the end of her vine. I continue, stopping about ten feet away at the end of mine. “Neither do I, but I’m very competitive, so I’ll take whatever advantage I can get, even the paranormal kind.”
Murphy jogs past us both. “Good luck, Vi!” she calls out, not stopping. “Suck it, Memphis!” she adds with a laugh, continuing on to her vine at the far end of the path.
I shake my head, my smile coming easy and my chest light.
Lighter than I was expecting, considering the heaviness of my earlier reaction to my father’s announcement. But I can be very good at compartmentalizing, and right now, I don’t want to waste my mental energy on my father when I could be focused on having this little bit of fun instead.
Especially with Vivian a few feet away.
“Meet me in the tasting room tonight,” I say, the words escaping my mouth before the idea has fully formed in my mind.
Her eyes narrow, and for a second, I worry that she’s upset with me. That I’ve been too forward. That I’ve somehow asked wrong, or waited too long before suggesting we get together again.
But then she speaks.
“Don’t try to throw me off my game, here, Memphis,” she says, pretending to roll up nonexistent sleeves, then crouching low. “My mental focus is going to stay entirely on finding the grapiest grape. Keep your ideas about sexy shenanigans to yourself.”
“You’re a nut,” I tell her, smiling wide.
She dips her chin and gives me a look filled with mischief. “Always.”
“I’m going to count down from ten, and then you’ll have five minutes,” my aunt says into a bullhorn. “There will be a one-minute warning, and a countdown for the final ten seconds, at which time everyone must have returned to the end of your vine. Are we ready?”
There are a bunch of cheers, and then she begins counting down.
I take a few steps so I’m standing behind Vivian, my chest to her back. “Make sure, while you’re looking for that grape, that you’re imagining the orgasm I’m going to give you later,” I say, my voice low, just for her. “I’ll certainly be imagining the one you’re going to give me.”
She growls at me—actually growls. But then the alarm sounds from the bullhorn, and she’s off, racing down her lane, leaving me in the dust.
I laugh, then take off running down my own row, my eyes scanning the bunches hanging on the vines to my left.
The air around me is filled with laughter and people calling out to each other. I know a handful of people will mostly snoop a little bit and pluck a random grape, while others will take it really seriously. The game itself is a little absurd. The idea that anyone can really find the best grape from thousands in five minutes an impossibility.
But people who work with grapes on a regular basis tend to know some of the secrets that make it easier to identify an area of the vine that has a higher likelihood of producing a big, swollen grape. And having either tagged along with or worked alongside my father and grandfather for twenty-four of my thirty-one years, I’d say I know a few of those secrets.
After a minute or two, I zero in on a handful of bunches, tucked up into the vine at the very top, about two hundred feet from the end of the row.
“I think I found the winner!” I call out, grinning when a handful of retorts come flying back.
“Yeah, right, Memphis!”
“Try again! Mine is way better.”
“How do we know you didn’t come out here weeks ago to scout your favorite grape?”
That last one was Vivian, and I turn back, peering through the vine to where she’s searching.
“Trying to throw me under the bus?” I ask.
She laughs. “Hey, I call it like I see it.”
I shake my head and turn around, returning my attention to my bunches to decide which grape to pluck.
The one-minute warning echoes out from the bullhorn just as I make my decision, plucking a fat purple grape from its home. Then I head down to the end of my row and wait for the final countdown.
“Lemme see yours.”
I close my fist gently around my grape, hiding it from Vivian.
“Oh, come on. You’re no fun.”
Chuckling, I hold my closed fist out. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Vivian giggles. “You’re a child.”
“Rarely. But you bring it out of me.”
Something soft crosses her face, and she holds her hand out, her grape resting in her palm. It’s a pretty good one, especially considering Vivian isn’t a wine worker. I open my fist as well, showing her the one I selected.
She stares at both of them, side by side, then peers up at me with an embarrassed expression. “I can’t see any difference.”
“Yours is a little bit bigger than mine,” I begin. “So you have that going for you. But yours is a little bit lighter, which means it didn’t get as much sun and might not have as much sugar.”
“You can see a difference in the colors?” she asks, bringing her grape closer to mine, still staring at them. “They literally look exactly the same.”
I shrug. “Part of the wine game, I guess.”
She closes her fist around hers again, just as the alarm sounds. “Well, I’m still pretty confident. You’re going down, Hawthorne.”
We all make our way back to the house, where Sarah sits at a table with a scale and a notepad. Then we rotate in front of her, one by one. She inspects each grape, then weighs it, before putting it in her mouth. It’s a time-consuming process, and we alleviate the waiting game by passing out small plates of chocolate cake that were prepared earlier.
Finally, after far too long, she stands, grinning at us all.
“There were three contenders for the winning grape. Jorge. Micah. And Vivian.”
I hear Vivian gasp. Then she bumps me with her hip. “Told you.”
“But when taking all the information, I’ve decided that the winner is ... Jorge. Congrats, for the third year in a row.”
The crowd cheers, and Jorge waves at everyone with his plastic fork, his mouth filled with cake.
“Thank you, everyone. You’re free for the evening. We’ll see you all at two o’clock.”
Vivian turns to me, a disgusted look on her face. “Two? As in ... a.m.?”
I nod. “We harvest during cooler hours. Two to six. There’s other work that happens during daylight hours, but the actual cutting of the vines and wheeling bins of grapes through the vineyards ... That’s done in the dark.”
“God, you couldn’t pay me enough to work those hours. I go to bed at two,” she offers, laughing.
“Yeah, I’m not a morning person, either. Thankfully, I’ve been able to avoid being part of the early-morning crew.”
She raises an eyebrow. “So ... you don’t need to go to bed? To get a good night of sleep?”
“I don’t,” I tell her, glancing at my watch. “I have a few hours at least before I should call it for the night.”
And several things that I need to get done in those few hours. But I don’t say that. Because the part of me that wants to meet Vivian at the tasting room and finally ... finally ... hear the sound of her voice echoing off the stone walls is too tempting to resist.
“I’m gonna say bye to Murphy,” she tells me, stepping closer and dropping her voice, “and I’ll meet you in about thirty minutes.”
I lick my lips, something electric racing through me.
For the first time in who knows how long, I’m putting my own needs and wants first.
And it feels fucking great.