Page 17 of Sweet Escape

Even the way he’s sitting, with his ankle resting casually on his other knee, his elbows on the armrests and his hands clasped loosely against his middle ... It’s uncanny.

“What’s up?”

“Did you have a chance to talk with Dad about staffing for the harvest?”

I rack my brain, trying to place when Micah and I might have talked about this before.

“I haven’t. Can you remind me what the issue is?”

“I think we need to bring in some additional hands—more than we normally do. And you said you wanted to talk with Dad about it first.”

I wince, not even remembering us having this conversation, and hating that I’ll need to be the bearer of bad news.

“I didn’t talk to Dad, but I’ll be honest, Micah. I don’t think we have the budget to hire additional temp workers,” I say, mentally combing through our employees. “I’m trying to keep a budget for fifteen temporary hands ...”

“Fifteen!” Micah interjects. “The last few years we’ve had twenty.”

“Well, we can’t afford twenty this year if we want to keep paying salaries to our full-time staff and not have to lay anyone off.”

He slumps back in his chair, dejection evident on his face.

“I was hoping we could have closer to thirty,” he says, though I can hear in the tone of his voice that he knows that would be far outside the realm of reality.

I haven’t shared much with my brother about the truth of our finances, but I doubt he’s completely in the dark about the situation. He’s a smart kid, and even though most of his attention is on the physical labor side of operations, his hands always in the dirt, I’m sure he’snoticed the way things have been getting trimmed back over the past seven or eight months.

Murphy and my aunt Sarah have been the only two who have really gotten any insight into the truth of what our budget looks like, but they’re pretty hush about it, encouraging me to guide things how I see best.

So even though Micah might not understand the why behind the recent changes, he doesn’t fight me when it comes to things that affect the bottom line. He knows how desperately I want this vineyard to return to its former glory.

Back when I was a kid, my grandfather talked about this place with pride. Even into my teenage years, Hawthorne Vines was winning prestigious awards and selling out of select vintages each year.

I want to get us back to that. Return us to a successful and thriving operation that all of us can be proud of. So I appreciate that he doesn’t push me on a lot of shit.

“It’s less than ideal. I get that. One day, I hope we can hire more again. But for now, you’ll have to trust that I’m doing the best thing.”

Micah gives me a smile. “I’m bummed, sure. But I get it. I’m sure we’ll be able to figure it out with just fifteen.” He pauses. “And Idotrust you.”

My shoulders ease slightly at his words.

I appreciate that faith he has in me.

Or, at least, that he pretends to have faith in me.

All I can hope is that it pays off. That his trust is well placed. And that I don’t let everyone down in the end.

Chapter Four

Vivian

The Firehouse Inn is a truly unique brick building on a tree-lined block at the very end of Main Street. It’s three stories, and even though it seems like great care has gone into preserving a lot of the original detailing on the exterior, the largest, most obvious change is the conversion of the fire truck garage door into a set of massive double doors leading inside.

My eyes scan over the building, taking in the old signage that saysRosewood Fire Stationbefore I round to my trunk to grab my bag and guitar case.

The interior is just as beautiful as the outside, the exposed brick walls and high wooden ceiling giving off a feeling that is rustic and warm. I pause, wanting to take a moment to look at every detail, but when I see an elderly gentleman smiling at me from behind a desk in the corner, I decide a lazy snoop around can wait until later.

“Are you Vivian?” he asks, standing and stepping out to greet me.

I nod. “I am.”

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