Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

It never occurred to me that anyone in my family would assume I’m doing something nefarious. Like some kind of sabotage. That is just … wild. And hurtful.

“Look, I’m not trying to hurt your feelings,” Micah says, his voice soft. He reaches out and places a hand on mine. “I’ve just been really concerned about things with the vineyard. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”

It doesn’t surprise me that my brother instantly catches on to how hurt I am. He’s sensitive like that. Knows how to pay attention to the small things.

And knowing that there really are some serious problems going on at the vineyard, I can’t be too mad at him for picking up on the fact things are in a precarious spot.

So I place my other hand on top of his and give it a squeeze.

“Love you,” I whisper.

“Love you,” he whispers back.

We continue working on the menus, leaving the conversation of Wes behind and instead returning to the vines.

It’s the topic my brother loves the most, so it isn’t surprising that he slips right back into it.

Something warms in my heart, sitting here, setting up menus with my baby brother. Knowing that I get these moments with him now that I’m back home makes a rickety part of my heart click into place.

I think it’s the first time I’ve truly felt thankful to be back.

The very next day, we’re opening the doors for our first dinner when Memphis drops a bomb on me.

“I need you to go get your guitar.”

I look at my brother, confusion surely covering every square inch of my face.

“We’re ten minutes into our first service,” I tell him, plucking a few menus from the basket at the host stand. “I’m not going to get my guitar.”

“You have everyone working tonight, and I know they know what they’re doing because I watched you train them. They’re good without you. But the guy who was supposed to be playing live music called and said he had a family emergency and wouldn’t be coming, so …” He points to the spot in the corner where I performed for the family dinner, where there’s now a stool and microphone set up. “I need you to do it.”

I roll my eyes. “The guests will be fine without music, Memphis.”

“Murphy, you asked me what you could do to help,” he says. “You said you have extra hands. This is what I need.”

I pin him with a glare and purse my lips. “You don’t get to just pull that out every time you want me to do something. And there’s no way that me singing tonight is going to help save the vineyard, or whatever.”

“Murphy, please?”

I grit my teeth, my eyes tracking around the room. But as hard as I try to find something I desperately need to be doing right now, it’s very clear that Harper and Enid are fine at the host stand without me, and that the servers on the floor are in control and doing their jobs.

So I let out a loud, grating sigh and untie my apron from around my waist. “Fine.” I chuck the black fabric at his chest. “But don’t ever spring something like this on me again.”

He beams at me. “You won’t regret it.”

I ask Enid to keep an eye on things for me before heading out the front door and finding the little golf cart that Dad likes to drive around the property. I ride it through the vineyard and over to the house. It takes me only a few minutes each way, and before I know it, I’m unbuckling my case and throwing the guitar strap around my shoulders.

The conversation across the room quiets just slightly, and I see people glancing at me with interest as I twist the pegs and pluck at the strings.

Something thick coats my throat, and I clear it a few times before feeling fully ready to go. I lift onto the stool and place one heel on a footrest, leaving the other on the floor. I scan the room and remind myself that I’ve done this before. That this is just for tonight … just for Memphis and to help out.

I strum lightly against the strings, playing a melody as I try to decide what song to start with.

“Play your stuff, Murphy,” Memphis says as he walks past me with menus in hand and a group following behind him. “No covers.”

I actually smile at that and begin to strum the notes to “Tragic Mess,” the song I sang to Wes in the car when he was having his anxiety attack. Closing my eyes, I begin to sing, staying far enough away from the mic that I’m giving our patrons some light background music instead of a full-fledged performance.

This was a song I wrote in high school, surprisingly. It perfectly encapsulates my hormonal teenage years—all the times I felt like I wasn’t enough coming together in a single song.