Page 15 of Sweet Escape

I meant what I said as we stared at each other in the harsh light of the kitchen after my father left the room. Her presence in town is going to be exactly what I said—inconvenient for me. A nagging thing in the back of my mind, distracting me from the very important, complicated shit on my plate.

Thankfully, our interaction wasn’t all the sordid things I’d imagined doing to her. It was, in full truth, just a kiss.

And that’s all it needs to be.

Once I’ve finished getting ready for the day, I head to my office on the opposite end of my family’s ranch-style house.

When my great-great-grandfather arrived in Rosewood and purchased the first forty acres of this property, he built four small cabins on the west edge. One was a single-bedroom house that was just big enough for him and my great-great-grandmother and their baby to live in, and the other three were for the hands he hired to bunk in during the busy part of winery life—the harvest.

My eyes flick briefly to the photos on the wall of our family over the years, from the shot of my grandfather and my dad and me, to the aged and fading image of my great-great-grandparents standing in an empty field all the way back when Hawthorne Vines was just an idea. A hope and a dream.

Over the years, the property has changed a lot, each generation of Hawthornes putting their own stamp on what the vineyard was to grow into. We acquired another forty acres, doubling the property size, butalso tripling the number of vines and expanding us into new varieties of grape. That first single-bedroom home was converted to an equipment shed after my great-grandfather had our current house built in the southeast corner of the expanded property.

I power up my computer and an aerial shot of the property fills the screen, the background image on my desktop and more proof that this place has grown so much.

It’s not just the acres of vines that have grown. There’s also a wine cellar and testing facility. A warehouse and an office building. And now a restaurant. The handful of employees that have full-time office positions work out of the building on the back side of the warehouse, and sometimes I head over there and work in the conference room.

But for the most part, I keep to my office here in the house, preferring the quiet and solitude. It’s nice to live and work in the same place, especially considering how often I’m sitting at this desk or roaming around the property handling things or putting out fires.

Although, every so often, I wish I was able to leave my office at five, head home, and completely check out from work. Put my feet up and enjoy some baseball for once. Or hang out in town with friends.

That’s not the way things look right now, though.

I haven’t watched a baseball game in years, and the best I can do when it comes to keeping up with the few friends I still have in town is a monthly pool game and beers at The Standard.

It’s not ideal, the fact that I have almost no life outside of this vineyard. But that’s the reality of the mess my father has all but dropped in my lap, and there’s no use dwelling on it when there are far more pressing issues.

I’m in my office for an hour before I hear movement in the house, and my entire body tenses as I imagine Vivian strolling into my office. Or worse ... Murphy, ready to confront me for putting the moves on her friend.

But it’s my father who walks through the doorway instead. Which, I quickly realize, isn’t any better.

“Morning, Memphis,” he says, giving me an easy smile and crossing the room. He sets a mug of coffee down before me, then turns and takes a seat in one of the two armchairs facing my desk.

“Morning.” I eye the coffee briefly, then decide it’s probably a necessary evil considering the piss-poor sleep I got.

“Figured you could use a little caffeine boost this morning,” he says, his thoughts echoing mine.

Inwardly I groan, but I raise it to my mouth all the same, taking a sip and then placing it on a coaster.

“I’ve been thinking about the fact that we outsource printing our labels,” I tell him, changing the subject. “You know I’m a big fan of using local work, and Tony has always printed our labels, but maybe we ought to look into printing them ourselves.”

Dad bobs his head. “All right.”

I wait, hoping that he’ll contribute something ... anything. An opinion, an idea, even just some encouragement.

But he doesn’t. He takes another sip of his coffee and looks out the window, his eyes focused on the vineyard just beyond the walls of this room.

I’m not surprised, but it doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed.

I’m disappointed every time I try to engage with him about running this business and he seems checked out and disinterested. This vineyard is supposed to be my legacy, and it feels like he couldn’t care less about creating a smooth transition as it begins to pass into my hands.

But that disappointment is my own fault. I can’t expect him to be different today than he was yesterday, or the day before, or on any other day over the past few years as he’s been less and less involved and more and more disinterested in the goings-on around here.

Still, though ... I can’t help wishing it was different.

“We typically spend a few thousand dollars every quarter on printing labels,” I continue, still pressing. “But I found this company that creates wine label printers. And if we buy our own, it’s a one-time cost of a few thousand bucks. But in each subsequent bottling batch, we’reonly out the cost of the labels and the ink, which would save us a lot if we ...”

“I think you should do what you think is best.”

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