Epilogue Vivian
One Year Later
“Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!”
My smile is stretched wide on my face, my laughter loud as I run in place, my hands on the edge of the barrel, my feet stomping on the grapes at the bottom. The squishy, smushy sensation is strange and unfamiliar. But I keep going, unable to contain my wild cackle at how ludicrous this is.
To my left and to my right are several barrels, and other members of the Hawthorne Vines harvest crew are in each one, all in similar states of laughter and hilarity.
It’s the End of Harvest Jubilee, a marker to declare that all the grapes have been collected and pressed and fermentation has begun. According to Memphis, the end of the harvest means the busiest, most difficult part of the year is behind them, which also means it’s time to celebrate.
Apparently, some vineyards throw a big to-do, inviting the whole town out for a party. But the event at Hawthorne Vines is strictly a family affair with only the staff and crew present. There’s food and wine and several competitions, including the grape stomping.
I wasn’t in town for the Jubilee last year, so when I got my tour schedule and saw that I’d be free in November, I made sure Memphis knew I wanted to throw my hat into the ring.
I can safely say, I’ll be a supportive spectator next time.
A loud cheer from the barrel two down from mine fills the air, and I look over in time to see Murphy with her hands in the air, her chest heaving, the bucket underneath the spout sticking from the front filled to the brim.
“Murphy advances!” Sarah announces into the bullhorn.
I laugh, panting and looking at Memphis where he’s standing a few feet away.
“Advances? You mean she has to do this again?”
He grins, his hands coming to my waist as he helps me climb out of the barrel.
“Yeah, there are a few heats before the final round.”
I shake my head, my purple feet settling into the grass. “I will gratefully take an L,” I declare, then I turn and shout in her direction. “Congrats, Murphy!”
She laughs and waves, the glee at having won the first round clearly lighting her up.
“You did an amazing job.”
I pin Memphis with a look that says I don’t buy it. Then I look into the bucket sitting underneath the spout of my barrel, finding it only a quarter of the way full.
“You know, I don’t need your false flattery,” I say, my eyebrow high.
“You don’t?” He smirks at me, that dimple I love so much becoming more prominent. “So I should stop telling you how good you are in bed,” he says, his voice dipping low.
I bark out a laugh. “That’s not false flattery. That’s cold hard facts, my love. Cold. Hard. Hard. Very Hard. Facts.”
“Keep saying hard like that,” he taunts me, that sexy smirk still stretched on his face. “And I’ll show you some facts.”
Shaking my head at his absurdity, I drop down onto a bench and dip my feet into a bucket of water, then use a rag to try to lessen the purple hue of my skin. But something tells me it might be a day or two before this color fades.
“I’ll scrub those for you later,” Memphis says, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head. Then he wanders off, and I can’t help the way my eyes follow him as he goes.
The way they always do.
If someone had told me that my trip to Rosewood last year would result in the relationship Memphis and I share, I wouldn’t have believed it.
Yet, here we are. One year and some change later, and I’ve never been happier. I’d bet everything I have on Memphis feeling the same. And the reason I can say that is because it’s something we discuss constantly.
We talk daily. Support each other’s dreams and joys. See each other as often as we can.
Like now, my cat and I are in Rosewood for three weeks, give or take a handful of days here and there when I need to go down to LA for some publicity for a new single I’m releasing in January. Later this month, Memphis will be joining me at my parents’ house in Brentwood for Thanksgiving—our first holiday with my family—and then I’ll be back here for a week or two during Christmas.
Our lives are a little chaotic, but we both agreed on two things when I came back to Rosewood last year.
First, we love each other, and we’re committed to finding a way to make it work.
Second, we would always support each other in the things that bring us the greatest joy.
Right now, that means pursuing my music. For Memphis, that means continuing to build back his family’s vineyard into a successful, thriving business.
It also means that we aren’t always together, which I’m sure some people find strange.
But it works for us. We are both people who are very dedicated to our work, and we would resent each other if we felt obligated to let our dreams go just so we could live someone else’s version of happy.
This is our version, and it fits us perfectly.
After several more rounds of grape stomping, some delicious food, and a host of thank-you speeches and gift giving, Memphis and I finally take our leave, driving off to Main Street.
But when we pass by The Standard and I keep going, Memphis glances back, confusion evident in his expression.
“You remember where the bar is?”
I grin at him. “I know where The Standard is,” I reply. “We can come back later. I have something to show you first.”
We only drive for a few more minutes, and I turn left, then right, and then left again onto a cute little street about three blocks from downtown. Then I come to a stop on a residential street.
“Come on.” Nerves begin to fizzle under my skin as I wave for him to join me.
If I’m honest, the nerves have been there since I signed the paperwork, but now that we’re here and I’m going to share this with him, the anxiety is much more prominent.
It takes him a second to hop out and round the front of my car, but then he joins me on the little path leading to the front door of a dark-green Craftsman.
“What are we doing here?” He looks up and down the street.
“We’re moving in.”
His head spins quickly to look at me, and he blinks a few times. “What?”
I hold up the keys, the silver metal of the freshly cut set warm where I’ve been clutching them for the past hour or so as I imagined this moment over and over, rehearsing the things I wanted to say.
“I bought this house,” I tell him, glancing at it again and then back at him. “For us.”
His lips part in surprise, and then I slip my hand into his and we walk to the front door together, sliding the key into the lock and then pushing the door open.
It’s an adorable three-bedroom with all the charm that Craftsman-style homes typically offer. Hardwood floors, original trim, built-in bookshelves, and a working fireplace. The kitchen was gently renovated by the previous owner, but care went into it, and it looks like a fresh take on an original style. But my favorite part is the cute little backyard, with the covered porch and swinging bench and the little bit of grass that extends out toward a small detached garage.
Memphis takes it all in, listening as I walk him around showing him everything.
“What do you think?” I ask as we take a seat on the porch swing.
I’m both excited and nervous to hear his opinion. I know there’s a chance he might not like it. That he’ll think the decision wasn’t the right one. Or that I’ve moved too quickly.
There’s always that chance.
But I know Memphis. I know his heart and his soul unlike I’ve ever known another person.
Memphis has been talking about moving out of his family’s home for a while, looking to put some space between himself and the vineyard. Now that the new structure has been in place for almost a year, he’s starting to feel like he has more time, and he’d like it if he was able to leave work and go home. Have a life outside the family business.
So when I saw this place for sale, everything inside me said that this moment was coming together at the perfect time. That the risk was worth it.
“I think it’s amazing,” he says. “But is this what you want?”
I slip my hand into his, our fingers twisting together.
“It’s everything that I want,” I tell him.
“What about your condo?”
“I sold it.”
He blinks, his lips turning up at the sides. “When did you do that?”
“Todd hired someone to handle it while I was touring this summer.”
“What about work?”
I shrug. “What about work?”
At that, he laughs. “What do you mean, what about work? You know what I mean.”
“I know that I have a growing career that’s important to me. But LA doesn’t have to be my home in order for that to happen. I can fly in to record. I can travel as easily to other parts of the country for performances. And I can work on my music from here as easily as I could at my condo.” Then I gesture to the garage. “Even easier if I convert that space into a studio.”
He shakes his head, swallows thickly, and searches my face.
“I never want you to feel like I’ve clipped your wings, Vivian.”
Emotion wells in my chest at his statement, the depth of his love for me something I always seem to underestimate.
“I feel very capable of spreading my wings as much and as often as I want to,” I tell him, tucking in to his side and resting my head on his shoulder. “But when I fly home, I want to come back to a house we share together. Because you are my home, and I will always come back to you.”
Memphis hums, places a kiss against my forehead, then rests his head on mine.
“I love you so much,” he tells me, squeezing my hand.
“I love you, too.”
We sit there for a long time, enjoying the moment, settling into the changes to come and the future that’s right around the corner.
And nothing has ever felt so sweet.