Page 95 of Sweet Escape

“Before you get too excited, I want to share the realities of the finances,” I say, watching the smiles dim slightly on their faces.

I click around on my computer and pull up the current financial spreadsheet.

“We’ve been in the red for quite a while, and in order to climb out of that, we have to continue making changes. But I think I have a vision that should get us out of that debt in the next five years. I’ve made a good first start. I plugged up a lot of the hemorrhages and cut operational costs, and I took out a personal loan to finance the restaurant. But there are still a lot of ...”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a second,” Micah interjects. He sits forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Say that last part again?”

I sigh, wishing I’d been able to gloss over it.

“Did you just say you ... took out apersonalloan?” he clarifies. “So none of that debt is from creating the restaurant?”

Shaking my head, I realize that if I’m going to be honest, I need to be fully honest. “Dad offered fifty thousand dollars toward the restaurant, and in reality, that wouldn’t have even been enough to cover Wes’s salary.” I shrug. “I took out the loan so that I could give the vineyard the best chance of succeeding without further growing its debt.”

“But nowyouhave to pay it off,” Murphy says. “How big was this loan?”

I pause. “Four hundred thousand dollars.”

Her eyes widen, and Micah shakes his head.

“You’re going to be paying that for the rest of your life.”

I nod. “I know. But saving this place means everything to me, so I went all in.” I pause. “And I think it’s working. My financial forecasts are either meeting or exceeding the expectations. The restaurant is saving the vineyard.”

My sister surprises me then, pushing out of her seat and coming behind my desk, wrapping her arms around me.

I’m not a big hugger, and it’s always awkward at first. But eventually I give in and wrap my arms around her, too.

“The restaurant isn’t saving us, Memphis,” she says, her arms tightening around me. “You are.”

A wave of emotion surges through me, a sense of pride hitting me square in the chest, possibly for the first time.

I pat her gently on the back, appreciating her words.

After a long moment, she returns to her chair, and we dive in. Looking at some paperwork and discussing our plans for how to move forward as co-owners. Scheduling our first full meeting to brainstorm and talk about next steps.

It feels amazing.

Incredible actually.

I always thought doing it on my own would be what made me proudest of this place. But it’s not.

It’s because we’re doing it together.

Later that night, lying in bed, I do what I’ve been wanting to do all day. I pull up my lone social media account on my phone, go into the search history, and select the name I’ve checked almost every day since she left.

Vivian Walsh.

I’ve never been big into posting online. Mostly because my life is boring—nobody wants to see pictures of me sitting at my desk all day—but also because I don’t have the time.

But Vivian posts daily.

Her feed is filled with photos of her with her guitar, her cat, the ocean. And ever since she left town, her stories have shown some of the behind-the-scenes stuff of her at the studio and sitting on her patio overlooking the water.

Each time I look at her page, I scroll back, looking at the static images she posted while she was in town.

Her notepad on the table at Rosewood Roasters.

An image of her sitting on the ATV by herself on the day Micah took her on the tour.

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