Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

It makes me reconsider our entire conversation at the gas station. Whether the easy banter and perceived connection were all just figments of my imagination.

It’s a hard pill to swallow, but I choke it down as I rinse the shampoo out of my hair.

That bench at the top of the hill is a special place for me—a place I’d go when I was younger to talk to my mom and hope wherever she was, she might hear me. I’d often steal away unnoticed through the french doors that lead from my bedroom out to the veranda that stretches the length of our house to sit in the vineyard in the evenings. Sometimes I took my guitar and I’d strum without any kind of purpose, just imagining that maybe my mother was there, too.

Last night, though, I just wanted a chance to sit and think. Being back here isn’t easy. There’s an element of defeat I have to admit to in order to accept that I’ve really had to move home. And even though I’ve always considered myself to be a person who can handle defeat with grace, this one stings.

But instead, I arrived to find Wes sitting on my bench looking gorgeous. I was there in my pajamas and my hair up in a messy bun, but I didn’t even have a chance to feel insecure about it. His words were biting, as if interacting with me was a horrible inconvenience.

“What are you doing here?” he’d asked, his eyes narrowed and his voice hard.

I’ve been asking myself the same thing over and over since the minute I arrived in Rosewood Friday evening.

What the hell am I doing here?

I only wish I had the answer.

Once I’ve finished in the shower, I tug on a pair of black jeans and a light-blue button-up that I usually wear to things where I need to dress professionally. Showing up in my pajamas with drool on my face to my first day at work probably isn’t the best way to get in my brother’s good graces.

Though the devious part of me doesn’t exactly mind being a thorn in his side.

I stop in the kitchen to snag a banana, then head out to the veranda and down to the path that cuts through the vines to other parts of the property. The mulch crunches under my feet as I stroll through the long columns of grapes in early stages of growth.

I take in a deep breath of the fresh air.

I hate to admit it, but there really is nothing like the smells of the vineyard. The recently tilled soil, the misty mornings after the fog has rolled in, the subtle changes in the vines that happen day by day. It’s a special place, as much as I resent it.

It’s hard to believe that these eighty acres have been in the Hawthorne family for five generations. My ancestors made it through incredible hardships—the Great Depression, Prohibition, and various weather-related calamities. And we’re still here, carving out a livelihood off the land.

When I was young, my grandfather used to talk constantly about the life cycles of the grapes and the vines. About the Mayacamas Mountains to the east and the volcanic mountain soil unique to this valley. About the fog and microclimate, so many little things that make this patch of Northern California uniquely perfect for the craft of winemaking. Even though I never wanted to be involved with any of it, I still know quite a bit about this place and how things work.

Eventually, I make it to the restaurant. There used to be a small warehouse here, used for storing ATVs and some of the older harvest machinery that has fallen out of use. The outside looks the same, but the closer I get, the more apparent the changes become. The barn-style exterior has been replaced by floor-to-ceiling windows along the northwest-facing wall, and a large patio has been constructed with a handful of stone firepits. I’m assuming outdoor furniture will be placed there at some point, allowing patrons to look out over the property and enjoy the sunset.

It’s a shocking sight, considering that my original conversation with Memphis a few months ago was about putting together charcuterie boards at wine tastings and scheduling bachelorette parties. This is … a completely different ball game.

Once I’ve gotten over my surprise, I venture inside, my eyes flicking around the room as I soak everything in for the first time.

And it really is beautiful.

The massive windows are framed by rustic wooden beams and line both of the western-facing walls, giving diners the ability to look out over the vines to the north and the rolling hills to the south as well. The interior feels rustic and charming, the other two walls made of distressed white brick, with wooden shelves and brass accents at the bar.

There’s still blue tape in plenty of places, and I can see that work needs to be done on the fireplace and what looks to be a private events room. The outdoor furniture is stacked in a corner waiting to be set up and everything inside is still scattered about as if a floor plan hasn’t been determined. But the building itself feels close to finished. I’m actually incredibly impressed with what my brother has come up with.

“There you are.”

I turn at Memphis’s voice as he emerges through the swinging door that I’m assuming leads into the kitchen.

“What do you think?”

I huff out a breath of laughter.

“What do I think?” I shake my head. “Memphis, it’s massive. Are you sure we really need this much space?”

It’s the first thing that comes to mind, because I do wonder whether all of this is really needed, or if it will really get used the way my brother is hoping.

Growing up, there weren’t a lot of people who visited the vineyard. We didn’t offer tastings, special events, or tours. My family just made wine and distributed it as well as they could. I’m not sure how things have changed over the years since I’ve been gone, but a full-scale restaurant of this size feels a little bit like overkill.

“I think it’s going to be great,” Memphis says, his tone curt and a bit intense. He scans the room, and then he says it again, almost to himself. “It’s going to be great.”