Page 2 of Sweet Escape

My family has owned and operated this vineyard for four generations ... five if I include myself, though it hasn’t officially passed over to me yet. We work the land, harvest and crush the grapes, ferment the wine, bottle and distribute the vintages, and manage the business. It truly is a family-run production.

We’re not too shabby, either. Hawthorne Vines is a wine recognized for excellence. We’ve won several awards over the past few decades, and we’re regularly kept on the wine lists of some of the best hotels and restaurants in Napa and Sonoma.

And we’re still struggling.

Which is why I’ve been on an endless quest to find every single extra cent I can.

Most of the decisions I’ve made are small. Things that don’t have a huge impact on how we operate, just on what resources we use.

Except for the restaurant. It was my biggest, riskiest idea, and pretty much altered everything about how things work around here.

I round the corner at the end of the last row of vines, my gaze falling on the crowd of customers on the back patio of the restaurant, enjoying themselves. Their laughter and chatter and the sound of utensils and glasses clinking fill the air. I pause and watch for a few moments as servers bustle around, taking orders and refilling wineglasses.

I want to smile, because it means that there are people here, drinking and eating and contributing toward the bottom line that is an ever-present, looming shadow in the back of my mind.

We opened the doors four months ago—my last-ditch effort to keep things going. Business seems to be moving smoothly so far, but I’m not sure when I’ll truly feel like the venture has accomplished everything I hoped.

Maybe when I don’t feel choked by debt.

Because even though the restaurant is doing its job, the decisions I’ve made in order to get us here ... I’ll be living with the consequences of those choices for longer than I like to think about.

But that’s why I can’t allow myself to revel in the good. There is just ... too much at stake. And it feels like there is still too far to go before the wrongs have been made right. Before the legacy that is supposed to be bestowed upon me no longer feels like an anchor wrapped around my neck, dragging me under.

When I finally slip through the front door, I give the hostess, Enid, a tight smile before scanning the room. I take in the smattering of guests at the tables and the wine bar, the guitarist in the corner strumming something lightly, and the waitstaff moving about the room.

I should feel amazing when I survey everything going on. Especially in this space, when my own blood, sweat, and tears went into every single element of this restaurant’s creation. I oversaw each intricate detail, ensuring its perfection.

It’s my baby, my project, my brainchild.

The sacrifices I made to make sure this place became what it is will be something I live with for quite a while.

But even though I feel like I’m drowning in everything that’s still going wrong, I give myself just a second to be thankful. Because the restaurant seems to be a well-functioning operation instead of the money pit it could have been if even just a little bit of bad luck had come our way.

“Thank you so much for stepping in.”

I turn, spotting my sister, Murphy, as she walks toward me carrying a tray of wineglasses and a bottle of merlot.

“Can you cut Mira when you head over there? Her daughter is sick, and she needs to get home as soon as possible.”

She doesn’t wait for me to respond, instead striding past me and slipping easily between tables, heading for whatever table ordered the wine.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Hawthorne?”

I glance at Enid, who is looking at me with wide eyes and a bright smile on her face.

“I’m fine. Shouldn’t you be cleaning something instead of standing around?”

Her face pinches, and she spins immediately to survey the host stand before grabbing a rag and a bottle of spray from underneath.

I don’t wait around to watch what she does with it, choosing to leave her to her responsibilities and crossing to the wine bar along the far wall, where Mira is pouring a bottle of chardonnay into a glass for a customer.

“Mira, you’re cut.”

The brunette bartender grins at me gratefully.

“Thanks for covering for Cory so I can dip out,” she says, finishing up her pour and setting the bottle back in the fridge. “Farrah’s caught a bug or something, otherwise I would have offered to stay later.”

I shake my head. “You’re fine. I was going to be over here eventually anyway, so ... happy to step in,” I lie.

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