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"My life is complicated enough as it is." I slam the back hatch closed. "And that's without the added stress and misery of dating."

"Ya know, my offer might actually help you uncomplicate some things if you were willing to give it a chance." He quirks an eyebrow. "But since we're on the subject of dating, might I also suggest you stop thinking that every woman could be Vanessa in disguise."

He shudders, and I flash him a look that conveys exactly what I think of discussing my ex so early in the morning. I'm starving, but even the sound of her name brings back memories so nauseating they nearly kill my appetite altogether.

"Fine," he chuckles. "If I swear not to bring her up again, will you at least consider producing for Fog Harbor Audio? I'll need an answer soon."

When I nod in acknowledgment, Chip strides to the passenger side and climbs in. But instead of moving closer to the SUV, I take a final glance at the water, as if in a private consultation with the ocean. But there is no mystery to the decision I will make. Spoiler: It's not one where I keep trying to resuscitate a dying dream. The hours I've logged in a production studio don't matter, nor do the artists who've publicly recognized my creative ingenuity. That August Tate doesn't exist anymore. Truth is, he hasn't existed since the day he got the worst phone call of his life and took custody of his adopted sister.

I might have declined opportunities in the name of ego and pride in the past, but I'm not foolish enough to do it again. I have enough regrets. So I cut my gaze from the ocean, yank open the driver's side door, and accept the lifeline my friend anticipated I'd need even before he watched my head go under water.

CHAPTER TWO

Sophie

The instant my rideshare driver unloads my suitcases from the trunk of his Kia Sportage, I'm tempted to ask if he'll please put them back and take me somewhere else. But thanks to the many hours I've spent processing my massive life setback with my best friend, I'm too self-aware to mistake a different destination for what I really want: a different future than the one in front of me.

Right on cue, the phone I'd slipped into the pocket of my long skirt buzzes. And I know it's her before I even check the screen.

Dana:

It's not every day a text brings tears to my eyes, but I suppose it's also not every day I say good-bye to the best friend I've ever had and move across the country, either. I shoot back a quick reply, assuring her all is well and that I'll text her in the morning. There's no possible way she's not bone-tired after a full day of tech rehearsals. It wouldn't be fair or kind of me to ask her to wait up. I wonder how long it will take us to adjust to living in two different time zones...not to mention two totally different worlds.

I work to silence the pang of loss reverberating in the pit of my belly. This may not be the outcome either of us wanted after my acting career took a sharp nose dive, but I'll never forget how hard Dana fought for me to stay with her in New York. Even going so far as to take on my share of the rent to try and buy me as much time as possible on my job hunt. Ultimately, in the current economy and with living expenses what they are, not even our combined efforts were enough. Which is why I'm standing in the middle of the same brick driveway I pulled out of eight years ago on my eighteenth birthday.

The pathetic meow coming from my back—or rather, from inside the clear cat carrier strapped to my back—reminds me I'm not the only one who's traveled across the country today.

"Okay, Phantom, I hear ya, buddy." I banish my mental pity party and try instead to focus on the positives I'd rehearsed during our long flights here. I grip the handles of my roller bags and start for the moss-covered chateau at the front of the winery, my childhood home. Hanging lanterns illuminate the path in the dusky light, and I veer my suitcases around the large ceramic fountain where I used to sing with my Gigi while she planted poppies and marigolds under the welcome sign for Bentley Vineyards. She'd tell me to take the melody so she could harmonize with me. And at the end of every song, she'd say the same thing: "The joy in your voice is a precious gift from God, Sophie. I pray you'll share it with the world someday." The reminder causes my chest to ache. Memories of my grandma Greta—Gigi, as I called her—have always brought me comfort, and considering her fingerprints can be found everywhere at—I halt to a stop and feel poor Phantom press into my spine. My eyes widen and then promptly narrow as I read and then reread the new words on the welcome sign: Wilder Wines: Same vintage taste; new modern twist.

I rotate in a complete circle, and my long eyelet skirt flares out as I look for clues to indicate my tired travel eyes aren't playing tricks on me. Of all the glowing reports my mother has shared regarding the changes my brother has made to the winery since my father's semi-retirement two years ago—she'd failed to mention a full rebranding of Gigi's legacy.

Monday we begin the book This Promised Land by Cathy Gohlke.