Page 16 of Sweet Escape

My father’s interruption is, again, not surprising. But again, disappointing.

He gives me a pinched smile, then slaps his knee and pushes out of his chair. “Welp, I better get my butt out there. I can see Naomi already driving through the vines. I don’t want her to think I’m still lazing around.”

I nod, then turn my attention back to the computer screen. “Sounds good, Dad.”

I think he gives me a wave before he heads out the door, but I’m not watching for it so I don’t know for sure. Instead, I take the retreating sound of his footsteps echoing gently on the terra-cotta tile as proof, the noise fading as he moves through the house and away from my office.

Sighing, I lean back in my chair and rub my palm against the stubble I didn’t take the time to shave off this morning.

It’s hard not to notice the weird place my father has been in recently.

Scratch that. Not recently. For years, at least.

It’s just become a lot more obvious in the past year or so.

I’ve been working this land and this business as my father’s right-hand man since I was a teenager, back when my grandfather was technically still in charge of the operations and my dad washisright-hand man. We were a team, the three of us.

And then, when my grandfather passed away when I was nineteen, everything changed.

My father was finally thrust into the role his father had been preparing him for.

But Dad wasn’t prepared.

He was a mess.

They’d had issues, the two of them. And I don’t think they’d resolved them by the time my grandfather passed unexpectedly. So when it came time to take the reins, my dad choked.

Maybe that sounds harsh. I don’t like thinking about my dad not living up to the responsibilities placed into his hands.

But it’s the truth.

Now, years later, I’m desperately trying to make sure that the damage he’s caused while he’s been in the top spot doesn’t reverberate outward and destroy everything our family has worked on for generations.

His recent attitude—the one he has affected over the past year or so—makes it seem like he’s finally completely checked out from the operational side of things. He’s been acting more like an employee than an owner and leaving most of the decisions in my hands—big ones, small ones, ones that could have a long-term effect on how things run around here.

The only thing he hasn’t done is actually sign the business over to me on paper, which I’m grateful for. Because I’m not sure I’m ready for that additional burden.

Not yet.

Not when we’re still struggling to climb out of this hole and I have so much to learn.

Still, most things do end up being my responsibility.

For better or worse, I’m the one making most of the decisions around here.

And my greatest fear is that a choice I make is going to be the final nail in this vineyard’s coffin.

Two quick knocks on the doorjamb pull me from my work hours later. I grin when I spot my baby brother.

“Hey, Memphis. Got a second?”

I nod. “Yeah, let me finish this up.”

Micah takes a seat in the armchair where my father sat earlier and waits silently as I wrap up an email. When I finally turn to look at him, I’m hit with a stark reminder of how similar he and my father actually are.

Murphy and I take after our mother, both in looks and temperament. Lighter hair, paler skin. Maybe a little obstinate, if I’m being honest.

Micah, with his quiet nature and olive tones, is all my dad.

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