Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

“I don’t know how I’m doing, Murph,” he finally says, his voice tired.

He runs his hand across his face before digging it into his hair.

“I appreciate the sentiment. I do. But right now, there is no delineation between me and this vineyard, or me and this restaurant, okay? I live, sleep, and breathe this place, every day. So I can’t separate for you. I don’t have anything personal going on in my life to talk to you about, Murphy. I just have work.”

I know how that feels. I did it for nine years while I was in LA, only rarely getting the chance to visit the beach or go on a hike or take advantage of being in one of the most exciting cities in the world. Instead, I worked constantly. And in the free moments I had, I was either writing music, performing at open mic nights, or trying to set up more gigs.

It was exhausting.

And the only thing that helped was having people to talk to about it. People who understood. Like Vivian, who was also working her ass off and trying to climb the ladder of success.

Maybe I can be that person for Memphis.

“Okay, then tell me about work. And I don’t mean ask me questions about how I’m pulling my weight. I mean talk to me about work. If you’re sleeping, eating, breathing it, you must have a lot on your mind.”

He lets out a long sigh and rubs a hand against the stubble on his jaw, glancing back at his computer before returning his attention to me.

“You want to know what’s really going on?”

I nod, giving him a soft smile of encouragement, thankful that he’s finally going to share whatever is burdening him.

“We’ve got one year to figure things out, or Dad’s selling the vineyard,” he says.

My smile falls, shock coursing through my body.

“What?”

Memphis nods, his expression solemn. “He’s a hard worker, our dad, but he had no idea what he was doing when Grandpa handed over the reins. We’ve been in the red for far longer than is sustainable, and a couple months ago, Dad said he was considering selling to some rich couple who offered him way more than the vineyard was worth.”

“What? Why would he do that?”

“It’s happening a lot more now. People with money buy up vineyards as pet projects, something to show off to their other rich friends.” He rolls his eyes. “The Sheltons did it a few years ago, and the people who bought it ran that place into the ground within two years.”

My nose wrinkles, trying to even picture that happening.

“And he seriously considered it?”

Memphis nods. “More than considered. He invited the couple to stay at the vineyard for a week. They walked around and talked about everything. I thought it was a done deal.”

My mouth parts at the knowledge that my father was contemplating the idea of getting rid of this place.

“But … our whole lives he’s been talking about how Hawthorne Vines is our legacy. Your legacy,” I say, repeating something my father has said to us literally for as long as I can remember. “How can he just—”

I’m not even sure how to finish my sentence.

“Give up?” Memphis finishes for me. “Easy. He convinced himself he was doing me a favor.”

“But, I mean obviously he didn’t do it. Right?”

“I convinced him to give me time to try to salvage things.”

My shoulders fall.

“That’s why you’re doing the restaurant.”

Memphis nods.

“Now you understand why I need it to go well. Why I hired someone like Chef Hart to oversee everything. I figured a name like his could draw people in, people who are really into food and wine in a way we haven’t been able to reach yet.”