Page 72 of Sweet Escape

Murphy leaves the host stand behind and heads off to collect a tray of food from the pass, making it clear that I’m not needed.

I glance around, taking in the serving staff moving through the room with smiles on their faces, then the bartenders at the wine bar interacting with customers. And if I go push the kitchen door open, I’ll see Wes and his crew in there, in complete control, creating the exceptional dishes from our seasonal menu.

Once outside, I step over to the sign in the corner that lets guests know where to gather for the winery tour and greet the people who signed up for this evening. I introduce myself and give everyone an overview of what they should expect, then lead them off the patio and down the path.

What Murphy said doesn’t get tucked away somewhere in the recesses of my mind, though. It’s at the forefront all throughout the tour. From the vines, to the warehouse, to the wine cellar and the tasting room, I’m thinking about the implications of what my sister said.

That I should go watch Vivian perform—I’ve already decided I want to go.

But also the idea that the restaurant is a functioning machine.

That the people we’ve hired to manage things are doing exactly what they’re supposed to be doing—managing things, keeping everything moving, and handling the business.

And that includes my sister.

When I finish the tour, I step back inside the restaurant off the back patio. Murphy moves through the room, a smile on her face as she chats with her tables and interacts with her host staff. She pokes her nose into the kitchen to check in on whatever it is that she’s staying on top of.

My chest puffs up, a sense of pride beginning to build. But not because of anything I’ve done. Just because of who my sister is.

I was worried about Murphy being involved with the restaurant when she first moved back to Rosewood, and that was foolish of me.

And now that I know better, it’s time to stop being such a fool.

“I’m gonna take off,” I say to Murphy where she’s standing at the kitchen pass, as I tuck my hands into my pockets. “Heading to The Standard.”

She smirks at me. “When I asked Vivian about you two, she was very ‘it’s not serious, don’t worry’ with me. But part of me thinks maybe she’s wrong.”

I lick my lips and shake my head, a protest forming on my lips.

“And I have to admit, you two didn’t make sense to me at first, you know? She’s such a big personality and so fun and vibrant all the time and you’re ... you.”

Pursing my lips, I level a glare at my sister.

She laughs. “I just mean that you’re more uptight and regulated. Structured. You are an Excel spreadsheet, and she is a watercolor painting.”

“Wow. I sound so fascinating.”

“Memphis, will you listen?” she says, exasperated. “I meant that it didn’t seem right at first, but the more I thought about it, the more it seems like maybe you guys could actually be perfect for each other.”

“Thank you for that raving endorsement. How so?”

I shouldn’t ask what she means, because truthfully it doesn’t matter. I don’t have time for a relationship and Vivian is leaving at some point—at least I’m assuming she is—probably soon. So again, it shouldn’t matter.

Yet, I want to hear what my sister’s opinion is more than anything.

“Think about it. You’re an Excel spreadsheet, and she’s a watercolor painting.”

I roll my eyes. “You already said that.”

She shrugs a shoulder. “Yeah. But if I explain it to you, where’s the fun in that?” Then she turns a tray on the pass and hoists it onto one shoulder. “Have fun tonight!”

When I get to The Standard, I’m not surprised by the size of the crowd. This place is busy on most weekends, but has always managed a packed house on the open mic nights. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to one, but at least that’s what I remember from back in the day during the few times I came to watch Murphy sing.

I don’t see Vivian, though. There’s a man playing the saxophone on the stage where I thought I might see her.

Maybe she changed her mind?

I make my way up to the bar and grab one of the few open stools.

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