Page 4 of The Voice We Find

“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 youuncomplicatesome 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 leastconsiderproducing 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 afinal 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.ThatAugust 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.

2

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:

You in Cali now? Did Phantom do okay on the long flights? How did the reunion go with your family? Also, I don’t know how it’s possible to miss you this much already when it’s only been twelve hours. I just got home from tech rehearsal, but I’ll be up for a bit if you want to chat. Xoxo.

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 patheticmeowcoming 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.

Befuddled, I approach the arched wooden doors of an estate I used to call Gigi’s castle before we moved in with her when I was just six years old. My parents took on the bulk of the vineyard’s responsibilities and eventually the small winery she’d started out of necessity in the late ’60s. Before I push open the door, I begin the deconstruction process of transforming Fanciful Stage Sophie back into Family Winery Sophie. I take off my favorite dangly earrings and the secondhand vintage scarf I’ve wrapped through my hair like a headband, then step into a dimly lit grand foyer, one that looks as if it’s already been tucked into bed with no plans to awaken till morning.

“Hello?” My voice echoes through the vast foyer with the same level of uncertainty as Belle when she first entered Beast’s castle. Although Belle, at least, had magical furniture to keep her company.

“Mom? Dad?” Though my parents moved into a luxury condo only a short distance away after my brother and his wife took over the private living quarters upstairs in the east wing, I’m still hopeful they might be here to greet me. After all, I haven’t seen either of them since my brother’s wedding in Maui just over two years ago.

My footsteps reverberate in the wide empty corridor as the setting sun sweeps in from the large, west-facing windows overlooking the vineyard and tasting room. Golden light glistens on the high-gloss hardwoods of the main floor as I take an inventory of the modern tobacco-colored furniture that’s replaced Gigi’s carefullycurated antiques. Everything is stone and leather, dark colors and straight lines.Cold, I think. Everything looks so cold.

A knot forms in my lower abdomen as I think of my mother having to part with Gigi’s possessions after so many years. There are few battles I ever saw her engage in as a child, especially if the opponent was my headstrong father. And maybe that’s why the loss of my grandmother hits me so hard in this moment. It was much easier to ignore the circumstances I left behind when I lived three thousand miles away.

I watch the way the shadows bend and move across the floors, remembering how Gigi used to shine them so I could practice my twirling. She always had a meticulous eye for detail, as well as a particular aspiration to keep her winery small and sustainable despite the pull of the booming industry around us. Unfortunately, after she died, my father and brother had other plans.

I spare a final glance into the parlor and then into the formal dining and living areas that, for a steep price, can be rented out to private wedding parties and special gatherings. When I see there are no lights aglow in the staff kitchen and can’t make out a single muffled voice within the residence, I realize what I probably should have known all along: There is no one waiting for me.

It’s not as if I’d been expecting some big sentimental homecoming, but I suppose there’s nothing like the silence of a six-thousand-square-foot mansion to remind you of the reasons you moved away in the first place.

I roll my luggage to a stop at the base of the stairs, figuring I’ll have to finagle them up the steps one at a time, when I see the door to my father’s old study framed in light. Of all the family members I’ll be reconnecting with during my stay here, it’s my father’s protégé who I’ve lost the largest amount of sleep over: my brother.

And it looks as if he’s the only one here.

Gingerly, I slip off each strap of my backpack and ease Phantom’s bag to the floor. I reach into one of the arm holes and scratch his fluffy black head and white ear. “Just a few more minutes. I promise.” I smooth my hand over his back and help him get comfortableagain. The vet I brought him to after I’d found him on the street outside the theater estimated his age at ten. But right now the poor geezer looks as if he’s lived all nine of his lives, plus a few extra. “Believe me when I say it’s for the best to wait on making any formal introductions tonight.”

I lift my timid gaze to the staircase and straighten my rumpled blouse and flowy skirt. A dozen or so hours ago when this day began, Dana had described my travel outfit asenchanting. Now it looks as if ... well, as if I’ve been traveling for twelve hours.

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