Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

“She really was something,” Brooke adds. “And it’s just the neatest thing that she tried to make it big. You know, so many of us have these huge dreams, and we’re never brave enough or lucky enough to go after them. And she did it. I bet she has a million stories.”

Jack doesn’t say anything else, and everyone goes back to their meals and conversations.

Soon enough, Murphy’s back, holding a black guitar case and setting up a chair in the corner. She tugs a beautiful old guitar out and slings the strap around her shoulders. She plucks at the strings for a few seconds while she tunes it up.

“Sorry, it’s been a little while,” she says, her voice breathy.

But then she clears her throat and begins to strum the keys more intentionally.

“How about a little Mumford & Sons?” Without waiting for an answer, she begins to strum a slowed-down version of a familiar song.

It’s clear she’s incredibly talented, her fingers moving adeptly over the strings.

Then she starts singing, and I’m stunned. The raspy quality to her voice settles over the room, like rough velvet, burrowing its way under my skin.

The words go in one ear and out the other, but the sound of it vibrates through me.

As she gets further into the song, the bit of shakiness she began with starts to flake off, revealing the true confidence of who she is as a performer. Her smile begins to emerge, and she makes these little faces when she hits certain notes.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so captivated by a performance.

Of course it feels like it’s over before it even really started, and we all burst into a round of applause.

I search the table, gauging the reactions from my fellow listeners, and I’m unsurprised to see everyone looking at her in awe.

Except her father.

He glares at her for too long, and when Murphy looks to him and sees his expression, her gaze dims.

Jack turns toward the table, giving his back to his daughter, then digs almost angrily into his dinner.

“Great job, Murph,” Memphis says as she lifts the guitar strap from around her shoulders. Then he bumps his father, and I watch a stare down between the two of them.

Something is happening, but I don’t fully understand what.

The only thing I know for sure is that the woman who stood up there singing was incredible. An absolute showstopper. And her father didn’t offer a single note of praise.

I’m grateful that the other dinner guests don’t seem to notice the unease in the family. I’m flooded with relief, for Murphy’s sake and mine, when the evening’s agenda comes to an end.

“That was really something, sweetheart,” Brooke says to Murphy as the Trager family rises from the table, all of them exchanging hugs as they prepare to go. “Next time you come by the farm, make sure you give me a hello. I’d love to hear about LA.”

I wince. It’s doubtful Mrs. Trager will get the same story I did.

It makes me wonder if Murphy has shared how things ended in LA with any of her family. I can’t imagine she’s told her father. He’d probably say I told you so, if I had to guess.

There’s a small possibility that she’d talked to Memphis about it. My money’s on Micah, though. She’s said she’s much closer with her younger brother, and that he was the only one to visit her when she lived in Venice Beach.

“I didn’t know she could sing like that,” I say to Memphis a little while later as we’re reclined in Adirondack chairs on the patio, looking over the vineyard.

He takes a swig from his beer. “She’s always had that killer voice. She’d never admit it, but she really was the star of her high school choir. People might have shown up for their own kids, but it was Murphy they wanted to hear.”

I chuckle, then take a sip from my own bottle. “Why’d she go to LA?” I already know the answer, but I’m curious to hear her brother’s thoughts on it.

It takes him a while to respond, and when he does, I’m surprised at his answer.

“She wasn’t happy here. Never was, and I don’t know if she ever will be.” He stares out over the vines. “Besides, she’s got way too much talent to be stuck here. She’s just gotta figure it all out.”

I ruminate over his answer long after he’s left the restaurant for home.