Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

My head tilts to the side as I try to understand what he means.

“Why would Wes draw people in?”

“Wes is like … an internationally recognized chef,” Memphis says, his brow furrowed like he can’t believe I didn’t know. “He’s won a ton of awards and has opened up like five restaurants. He’s one of the youngest James Beard winners ever.” Then my brother chuckles. “Seriously, Murphy, do you not google people when you meet them?”

I blink a few times, trying to catalog what he’s just told me against what I know about Wes so far.

Wes … the soft heart. Wes … the guy who cares about everyone. Wes … who puts family first … is a celebrity chef?

“So when I say I’m betting the farm on this restaurant,” Memphis continues, leaning back in his chair, looking deflated and more exhausted than I’ve ever seen him, “I really mean it.”

It makes sense now, why he was so intense the other day as we were starting to talk about servers and staffing. He wants Wes to be in charge of everything because he’s hoping this renowned chef will be his star quarterback and lead him—and everyone—to victory.

But even if Wes is as talented as Memphis claims, that seems like way too much pressure to put on the shoulders of a single person when there are a lot of factors that go into a successful restaurant.

“How can I help?” I realize this is why my brother was so enthused about me coming home to help when we first talked. “What can I do?”

He lets out another long sigh and scratches the back of his neck. “Honestly? I’ve been really impressed with everything you’ve done so far, Murph. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

I try not to let his compliment puff me up so visibly, but I can’t help it when I sit taller at his words.

“I’m serious, Memphis. Tell me what else to do. There has to be something more. You said you needed extra hands. I have extra hands.”

He runs his hand through his hair again, seeming to think it over.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally says. “And I’ll let you know.”

I nod. “No problem. And I’ll keep you posted on staffing, okay?”

He gives me this look—one that’s slightly pleased but also tired and spent, both mentally and physically—before he returns his attention to his computer.

Taking that as my cue, I push out of my chair and head for the office door.

“Hey, Murphy?”

I turn back, and he’s smiling at me. And I feel like it’s the first time since I’ve been home that I’ve actually made him happy.

“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

I give him a wave and then head through the house and down the hall to my bedroom. Leaning back against the closed door, I let the severity of what Memphis just shared with me truly sink in.

Selling the vineyard.

I can’t even . . .

My brain doesn’t know where to go with that information. It’s so contrary to everything Dad has ever said about this property that it feels false. Incredibly false. But it’s not like I’d really know or anything, considering the fact we’ve exchanged only a handful of words in the few weeks I’ve been home.

And while I might have felt strong enough to face my brother and try to patch things up, it feels like my wounds with Dad are a lot deeper. I’m not ready to throw myself on the grenade to repair things there just yet.

So instead of focusing on what we discussed, I start trying to figure out my own ways of helping. Any little thing I can do that might help alleviate some of the stress on Memphis’s shoulders, and help my father realize what he’s considering is a grave mistake.

“Thanks so much for taking the time to come in and interview.”

Harper, a sweet high school senior, gives me a grin and shakes my hand.

“I’ll be in touch later this week.”

“Thanks, Miss Hawthorne. I’ll look forward to it.”