Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

There isn’t a chef in the world who doesn’t despise a dirty kitchen. I start with scrubbing the counter, then move on to the sink, which then showcases all the dishes I just dirtied in my exploratory dressing disaster.

When I finally finish, the last of the daylight has left the sky, and I’m exhausted, which is exactly what I was hoping for.

The ringing of my cell phone as I’m locking up has me tugging the brick out of my back pocket. My jaw clenches when I see the caller ID.

Reluctantly, I accept the call and hold it to my ear.

“Hey, Mom.”

“My sweet Wes.”

I close my eyes, disappointment lancing through me at the sound of her voice.

She’s drunk.

But she’s always drunk, so I shouldn’t be surprised.

Letting out a long sigh, I begin my walk back to my cabin, the ten-minute journey suddenly feeling like it’ll take hours.

“How are you doing?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“Oh, I’m doing great, baby. Really good. Sorry I didn’t answer when you called. I was working.”

My jaw tightens.

My mother hasn’t had a real job since I was in middle school, at least not that I know of. What she really means is that she was working a corner in some capacity, whether that means she was begging for change or working for dollars, I’m not certain. But I try not to think too hard about it.

“You still in San Francisco?” I ask.

You never know with her. A few years ago she disappeared for six months and when we finally found her, she was squatting with some guy in an abandoned house on the outskirts of Oakland.

“Where else would I be?” Her tone is jovial and loose, likely from whatever bottle of vodka she’s been drinking out of. “You know I can’t leave my babies.”

I roll my eyes at her nonsensical statement.

Ash and I haven’t been her babies since before we were teenagers. So to hear her claim she stays around town for us is laughable, and doesn’t even touch on the fact that I haven’t seen her in person in years. Ash sees her from time to time, but he rarely talks about it. He knows how I feel about her, and my attempts at reaching out to her are usually just my way of making sure she’s still alive.

“What about you, Wessy? How’s Chicago? Getting any snow yet?”

I nibble on the inside of my cheek in irritation. “It’s April, Mom.”

There’s a slight pause on her end of the line before she giggles. “I know that, Wes, but I don’t know what Chicago’s like. For all I know it could snow year-round.”

“Right.”

Most likely, my mom didn’t know it was April. Most likely, she won’t even remember that we talked when she wakes up tomorrow, hungover and wondering where she’ll get her next drink.

And it’s only because I know she’ll probably forget everything I say right now that I decide to tell her I’m back in California.

“I’m actually not in Chicago anymore, Mom. I’m back in town.”

“You’re in San Francisco?” What sounds like her genuine excitement fills the phone.

I know it’s just the vodka talking because when my mother is sober, she hates me.

“Not exactly. I got a job working at a vineyard.”

“Oh, that’s great, baby. Let me know where and I can come visit you.”