Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

I don’t know if it ever will.

“Mom.” I try to get her attention again. “Mom.”

I hear her mumble something, and then the line goes dead. I pull the phone away from my ear on a pained sigh.

I can’t call anyone to go check on her because I don’t know where she is. The only person who might is my brother, but when I call him, it goes straight to voice mail. I leave a message letting him know about the chat with Mom and then send him a text to call me.

Instead of heading to the shower and bed, I sit for hours on the porch in the cooling night breeze, worrying about my mother.

Like I’ve done on so many other nights throughout my life.

“Thank you everyone for joining us this evening,” Memphis says to the crowd of people seated in the restaurant’s dining room on Sunday evening. “Chef Hart has been hard at work perfecting his menu for our opening, which is happening this coming Friday!”

My stomach dips as the room breaks into applause. I put on a smile as I stand at his side.

He has no idea how close I was to ripping my entire menu apart yesterday, but thankfully I was able to calm down long enough to realize how foolish that would be.

I’m still waffling over a few things, but the way I plan to organize the menu allows for those little last-minute adjustments.

That’s what I’m hoping, at least.

“Tonight, we’ll be getting a sneak preview of what we can expect from Chef Hart and this season’s menu. Chef, is there anything you’d like to add?”

I lick my lips and clear my throat.

“Everything you’ll be served tonight is farm to table, with the majority of the produce coming from the Trager farm.” I give Keith Trager a nod where he sits at a table with his family—his wife, Brooke, and who I’m assuming is his daughter, Quinn, if the very pregnant belly is a giveaway.

I’d been surprised to receive Memphis’s final number of attendees two days ago, as it was nearly twice the size of what I’d been assuming.

The dinner had originally been just for the Hawthorne Vines restaurant and vineyard staff. That’s twenty people. When Memphis let me know I’d be serving dinner for over forty guests, my entire plan for the evening had to be rethought, not to mention the fact I needed to make sure I had all the supplies necessary.

We might have a fully functioning kitchen right now, but it’s far from fully stocked, and it will stay that way until we get our first major delivery on Wednesday.

Thankfully, everything fell together without too much fuss, but Memphis and I had exchanged some terse words.

“When I was coming up in the food industry,” I continue to our guests, “I was lucky enough to have a mentor who preached the values of fresh ingredients and supporting local food producers. It was a principle he tried to uphold in any restaurant he was involved in, and I have vowed to do the same. Not only will our patrons get the best of our local farms’ organic produce and other offerings, I get the joy of designing our rotating menu around seasonal ingredients. I have done so this evening, and will continue to with pleasure, because restaurants who source locally cause less harm to the environment and play an important role in supporting the local economy—the very neighbors and community who are likely to frequent the establishment.”

I glance to Memphis and give him a smile. “Memphis and I were fortunate enough to share the same vision, and I’m thrilled to have been able to execute a portion of that for you this evening. If you take a look over to the windows, you’ll see tables of food set up for you. While the restaurant will be sit-down service, tonight we’ve opted for buffet style so that you can test and try the entirety of the menu. Bon appétit.”

At my final words, everyone begins chitchatting and rising from their seats to explore the long line of tables Murphy, Memphis, and I set up earlier today.

I’m not nervous that they’ll like the food. I know I’m a good chef. An amazing one, actually. I didn’t win a James Beard Award by being average.

But the feedback tonight is important. There’s a level of pressure that comes along with the start of a new restaurant. I never know what people are going to prefer, what they’re going to critique, what might go wrong. There’s constant scrambling to keep operations afloat, even in the most successful establishments, and it’s difficult to keep all the pieces straight and organized.

In the past, though, someone else was always making the major decisions, either a manager or a restaurateur who oversaw the nitty-gritty of things.

Here, I’m acting as both head chef and manager. There’s a lot more than just the menu to oversee, and it has been quite a challenge learning how to navigate it without asking constant questions.

The last thing I want is for Memphis to lose confidence in me, especially because I’m sure that I’m capable of handling it all. There’s just a learning curve when taking on more responsibility than I was expecting.

Like tonight. I was expecting a dinner that I could cook entirely on my own. Sit-down service. But timing is everything. Once I realized how many people would be here, I knew it was unrealistic and I had to pivot to the buffet.

I also assumed I would just be in the back, cooking and bringing out food the entire time, that all the speaking would fall on Memphis. Then he let me know this morning that he’d like me to make a speech to welcome everyone and talk more about my plans for the restaurant.

And then there’s Murphy.

God, I’m starting to forget all the reasons why staying away from her was supposed to be the smarter choice.