Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

Keith gives me a fatherly look at that. “Aw, you know I bet she’d love that. You two were thick as thieves growing up. I’m sure it’ll be fun shootin’ the shit and catching up on old times.”

I’m not so sure about the whole thick as thieves thing, but he’s right that it will be nice to catch up. And who knows? Maybe I’ll be able to tick making a friend off the official task list.

Keith turns to look at Wes, who’s just joined us at the front of the truck. “And you must be the new chef. Keith Trager, nice to meet you.”

“Wesley Hart. Nice to meet you as well.” Wes shakes the man’s hand. “I believe Memphis spoke with you about giving me a tour of the farm and the produce you harvest. I have a menu I’m finalizing for the restaurant, using almost exclusively local produce and protein. Sourcing as many of those items from you as possible would be wonderful.”

Something softens in Keith’s grin. “Isn’t that nice,” he says. “You’re doing that farm-to-table stuff we always hear about on HGTV.”

Wes chuckles. “You’re absolutely right.”

“I’ve got lots for you to look at,” Keith says, turning to walk toward the barn and waving at us to follow. “We sell about eighty percent of our harvests to grocery stores, since they generally order large quantities. But we have a handful of restaurants and other businesses that put in regular orders as well, so we’re definitely familiar with the distribution lines. There’s a local guy who handles the deliveries, and I can get you in contact with him if you end up wanting to put in an order.”

Keith motions for us to join him on a golf cart parked next to the barn, and then we’re riding along a dirt path that splits the farm.

I’ve been to the Trager farm plenty of times growing up to hang out with Quinn. Plus, Dad and Keith have known each other since they were in primary school, and both grew up in families that tended to land. But it’s been a while since I’ve been here, and I love getting a chance to drive around and see everything again.

I listen quietly as Keith points out the different crops to Wes, and the two discuss the restaurant menu and what the Trager farm might be able to provide during different times of the year.

I didn’t realize that Wes was doing a farm-to-table menu. Most of the places I’ve waitressed at have been highly processed chains, though the Italian place I worked at most recently was a lot pricier and had better ingredients.

“Why farm to table?” I ask him a little while later as we walk behind Keith toward a row of harvest trailers. “Seems a lot more complicated.”

“It is,” Wes says, “but my mentor was always preaching about it. It’s not only better ingredients, it also serves the community where the restaurant is located in a more direct way. Plenty of farms are now completely reliant upon major corporations that undercut them on pricing, and sourcing local means I get to give our dollars directly to my neighbor instead of a big-box store.”

I’m surprised at his answer, but not because I doubt him. Everything he says makes sense and meshes with the things I heard growing up about not only our vineyard but also the local farms and crops. I’m surprised because I pegged Wes as a kind of bad-boy-chef type. Someone who might do well on those cooking shows on TV. A little rugged, a little charming, good with a knife, and hot as hell.

But really, it sounds like he’s a softy at heart. Someone who cares about small business and the environment. The type of person who wants to care for his neighbor over self-profit.

The more I get to know him, the more he shows me who he is. And the more he gives me, the closer I want to get.

Shit.

Chapter Twelve

WES

After we look through the harvest trailers, Keith puts together a couple of boxes of produce for me to take back to the vineyard.

“This will give you a pretty good idea of our crops and the quality we yield,” he says as I look through everything. “Just give me a call if you want to do a single order or if you want to set up something recurring. Jack and I go way back, and I’d love to be able to support this new venture.”

I reach out and shake Keith’s hand, then stack up two of the boxes to carry them out to the truck. Murphy grabs the other two. And then we’re loading up and giving Keith a wave goodbye before pulling back onto the long dirt road heading out to the highway.

“He seems like a nice guy,” I say to Murphy, both of us jostling again over the uneven dirt road.

“Keith’s great,” she says, her gaze wandering out the window.

“You’re friends with his daughter? The pregnant one?”

“Yeah. Quinn and I were in choir together.”

“That’s right … You can sing.”

She shakes her head, a barely perceptible movement, though her gaze stays fixed on the passing fields. “I used to sing.”

I want to pry, but something tells me now isn’t the time.

We pull out onto the highway heading back to Rosewood, and get about ten minutes away from the Trager farm before I start to notice a little wobble to the ride.