Bittersweet (True North #1)

by Sarina Bowen

  Strangely, the salad guy hadn’t looked as put out by his ass-ripping as I’d expected. Instead of leaping to clean up the mess, he pinched a salad leaf off the pile and shoved it in his mouth. Then he did it a second time.

  I’d thought it was weird. But I still hadn’t guessed why.

  “It was a busy night,” I told Burton now.

  But when I’d stopped by the kitchen again, I could hardly believe my eyes. The salad boy had been slumped over his station, which was freaky enough. But Jacques hadn’t even noticed. He’d been busy screaming at the fish cook again, while the mega-horsepower exhaust system tried in vain to remove fish-scented smoke from the kitchen.

  Jacques’s rant had been unintelligible. When he got angry, his accent thickened. I couldn’t make out a word of it.

  I’d stood there with my mouth hanging open when the dishwasher stopped beside me, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Awesome revenge, Audrey. Seriously. You’re my fucking hero.”

  Um, what? I’d almost missed what he was saying. As I’d watched, another line cook shoved hand-cut polenta medallions into his mouth. It was as if the whole kitchen lost fifty IQ points and then got the munchies.

  “Doesn’t affect me, because I’ve built up a real tolerance. Looks like the salad boy can’t handle his weed, though. You should get out now, girl,” the dishwasher was saying. “Any second now Jacques is going to figure out who brought in the spiked brownies.”

  “The spiked—” I’d bitten off the sentence as horror crept up my spine. “Oh my God.”

  “I’m definitely inviting you to my next party. Those were killer.” Chuckling, the dishwasher had wandered off to have a cigarette.

  And to think that I hadn’t even needed a lighter to burn my own career to the ground.

  “So…” Burton sighed. “You’re saying you didn’t know the brownies were spiked?”

  “I had no idea,” I whispered. “There are always baked goods in my apartment. I don’t, uh, usually steal them. And I really wish I hadn’t this time.”

  He pushed the file folder away from him on the desk. “I could fire you for this.”

  “I know that, sir,” I said quickly. “But I know I can do better if you give me a second chance.” Or a fifth chance.

  He folded his hands onto the desk blotter and seemed to think it over.

  I held my breath. Bill tapped his fingers on the expensive-looking leather blotter and sighed once again. “All right, Audrey. You’re heading to Vermont.”

  “I’m…really? Did you say Vermont?” Did that mean I wasn’t fired? Did BPG own a restaurant in Vermont? I didn’t think so.

  “We can’t put you in another front-of-house job. And we can’t send you back to the fish market.”

  “I understand, sir,” I said in my most humble voice.

  “But we’re going to give you one more chance, as a favor to your mother.”

  “My…what?” My mother and I hadn’t spoken in over two years, since she cut me off financially. I’d put myself through culinary school, renting rooms in dives all over Boston. “What does she have to do with it?”

  “She owns fifteen percent of the company,” Burton said in a voice that made sure I knew how stupid I was. “We can still fire you next week. But we’ll give you one more chance at bat as a courtesy to her.”

  I didn’t even hear that last bit, because I was still stuck on the bomb he’d just dropped. My mother owned a stake in BPG? I’d had no idea. I guess it shouldn’t be a complete surprise. My mother had her hands in moneymaking ventures all over Boston. And since she dined out with business associates four or five nights a week, she knew her restaurants. In fact, when I’d worked the reservation system at l’Etre, I’d wondered if she’d come in for dinner some night.

  But an owner? Ugh. I could see how she and the company were a good fit. BPG was ruthless, and so was she.

  “Audrey?” Burton prompted.

  “Look,” I said, hating the desperate sound in my voice. “I need this job. But keep me because I’m a good chef. Not because my mother has deep pockets. She doesn’t even know I work here.” We weren’t on speaking terms at the moment.

  He shrugged, as if it made no difference. “Are you going to go to Vermont for a few days or not?”

  “I’ll go,” I said quickly, “as long as you don’t throw out my application for the Green Light Project.” I was in no position to make demands. But if he wasn’t going to let me compete for my own kitchen, I might as well cut my losses and find another job.

  Burton startled me by laughing. He actually laughed at my dream. “Audrey, it takes a hell of a lot of savvy to win the Green Light. There are guys who have been trying for years.”

  I knew that. But I didn’t have years. I needed to win BPG’s annual new restaurant competition on the first try. “I know it’s hard to win.” It had to be. A company like BPG didn’t just fund every idea that walked through their door. But I was going to bring them a great idea, and I was going to take top honors. “But promise me you’ll let me try.”

  “Go ahead and give it a shot.” He spread his hands magnanimously. He was humoring me, I was sure of it. “You never know. Now, let’s talk about this assignment in Vermont.” He picked up another file folder and opened it. “I’m sending you to talk to some farmers for me. I want you to help our supplier fill some late-summer, farm-to-table acquisitions. You’ll be negotiating prices on two dozen agricultural goods.”

  Oh, brother. Here we go again. I was a trained chef. A good one. And yet BPG kept giving me tasks that weren’t aligned with my skills, and then yelling at me when I failed.

  “Sir, I don’t know anything about negotiating.” He could have sent my mom, though. The woman could make a deal with a field mouse and come out ahead.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Burton grabbed a printout from the folder and tucked it into a BPG envelope. Then he handed it to me. “The goods and the prices are listed right on these pages. All you have to do is stop by each farm and offer to purchase the items on the list. Just fill out the sheet with who’s supplying what. These guys will be eager to sell their organic produce to upscale Boston restaurants. It’s good exposure for them. Here.”

  I took the sheet of paper from him and scanned it. It was a list of farms and addresses. They all had cute, scenic names. Muscle In Arm Farm. Misty Hollow. The Lazy Turkey Farm.

  The task sounded easy enough. But I’d worked here long enough to be suspicious. Nothing was ever simple when it came to BPG. “Why aren’t we doing this over the phone?” I asked. It had to be cheaper than sending me off to Vermont in a rental car to go door to door. And a hotel, too? BPG hated spending money. Something about this whole idea was just weird.

  “Farmers don’t answer their phones,” Burton said. “They’re too busy growing things. So off you go. Pack a bag and get on the road already. It’s a two-hour drive.”

  I stood up, clutching the envelope, hoping for the best.

  “Do a good job, Audrey,” he said as I turned toward the door. “If this doesn’t work out, I don’t know if we can give you another chance.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Two and a half hours was a long time to ponder one’s failings, even if the scenery was beautiful. I wound the rental car higher and higher along a country road on a pretty Vermont hillside. Out the driver’s side window I caught glimpses of the Green Mountains in the distance.

  I was still a bit stunned that Bill Burton hadn’t fired me. But the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that my mother’s stake in the company wasn’t the reason. Premier Group was famous for chewing up and spitting out culinary grads. Having their corporate name on your resume was like a badge of honor. It was the Purple Heart of the foodie world. There was even a Facebook group called I Survived BPG.

  Their business model seemed to depend on slaves like me. As an intern, I was expected to work seventy hours a week for very low pay. They called the paycheck a “stipend” only because it sounded better than “slave
wages.” If they fired one of us every time something went wrong, there would be nobody left to do the shitty jobs and fetch the coffee.

  That’s what I was going to keep telling myself, anyway. Because I was sick of letting my mother influence my life. I’d thought that moving away from Beacon Hill would be enough to shake her off. Turns out I should have left the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

  Maybe Vermont was far enough to avoid Mom’s bad juju. I hoped so, anyway. Outside my car windows, everything was green. Meadows lined the hillside, and the tree branches that framed the country road created a leafy tunnel. I didn’t have the first clue where in the hell I was. But it was very beautiful.

  Thank God for GPS, because navigation wasn’t my strong suit. Again—put me in the kitchen with a knife and I’m a happy girl. But if you want me to run your business or negotiate your multi-farmer purchase agreement in the wilds of Vermont in a rental car? Dicey, people.

  According to the dashboard indicator, I was just a half mile from the first grower on my list—the Shipley Farm. I’d known a Griffin Shipley during my first unsuccessful year of college. He was a football stud and party boy, and we’d hooked up a couple of times. I remembered those nights with perfect clarity. Every thrilling moment.

  But I hadn’t known Griff very well, except in the biblical sense. And I couldn’t remember whether he was from Vermont or not. Maybe Shipley was a common name. The man I’d been sent to find today was someone else, anyway. My instruction sheet listed August Shipley: Apples and Artisanal Ciders.

  I’d picked the Shipley Farm as my starting place not because of the name, but because of the artisanal ciders. Perhaps Mr. August Shipley would let me taste them. If you were drinking for business purposes, it didn’t matter that it wasn’t quite noon yet, right?

  The ciders were the most interesting product on my shopping list, with a few gourmet cheese products tying for second place. Before driving out of Boston, I’d put in a call to Bill Burton’s son, Bob. He was the buyer who’d made up the list. “We’re a bulk buyer, so we need the bulk price,” Bob had said. “The rates on this list ought to do the trick. Call me if you need to wiggle some numbers around, but we can’t negotiate much.”

  That was no surprise. I was already familiar with BPG’s take-no-prisoners approach. But I was determined to make the whole thing work. I needed this job. My arrogant mother had made sure of it when she took away my car and my tuition money. Yet she still emailed me all the time and demanded updates on my progress at adulting. She left voicemail messages, too.

  I responded only occasionally—just frequently enough to let her know I was still alive. But I thought about her more than I liked to admit. I often fantasized about the day a restaurant critic would give me a favorable review in the Globe. I wanted her to read it. Though I’d probably blacklist her on my reservations list, just because I could.

  The dashboard GPS spoke up. “In two hundred yards, the destination is on your right.” I sped up. It had been a long two-and-a-half hours in the car.

  A moment later, the road turned suddenly from pavement to dirt, taking me by surprise. The little rental car bounced on the rough surface, and I felt a sudden loss of traction. So I slammed on the brakes.

  Big mistake.

  I skidded, the back of the car swinging its ass over to the right. I experienced a moment of terror as the earth shifted in an unpredictable way. Two seconds later, the car came to a dramatic stop. My teeth knocked together and my seatbelt bit into my shoulder. But I was still clutching the wheel, still vertical. Mostly. The passenger side had dipped into a gully at the side of the road.

  Okay. I’m still on one piece. Thank you, baby Jesus.

  With shaky hands, I unlatched my seatbelt, opened the door and struggled to climb out of the tilting car. My heart was whirring like a KitchenAid mixer on the highest setting. I had a rush of adrenaline from the loss of control. “Shit!” I swore, standing on wobbly knees on the dirt road.

  Trying to get my breathing under control, I eyed the Prius. It wasn’t at that weird of an angle. Maybe I could just drive it out of the ditch.

  But when I circled the rear bumper, my heart sank. The back tire was as flat as a fallen soufflé.

  Damn it!

  And now where was my phone? I opened the car door again to look for my purse. But naturally everything had shifted toward the passenger side and then slid onto the floor. The angle was a bear, so I resorted to lying on the driver’s seat and sort of diving for my bag on the passenger-side floor. I got my hands on it, but of course the bag had been open. So I spent the next couple of minutes grabbing stuff and shoving it back in the bag. Lipsticks. House keys. My phone.

  Only when I thought I had everything did I finally heave myself up and out of the car again, ass first. When I spun around, my heart nearly failed. A giant, bearded man was standing in the road behind me, muscular arms crossed over his chest, frowning. “Audrey Kidder?” he growled.

  The growly monster knew my name. Wait. I knew that growly monster. “Griffin?” I squeaked. He looked so different. Five years had elapsed since my freshman year at BU, so it hadn’t been that long. He’d been an upperclassman and a football star. I was used to seeing him clean-shaven in football pads or holding a red cup at a frat party.

  The man standing in front of me was still just as tall and muscular as the football player I’d once known (biblically). But there the resemblance stopped. This Griff Shipley was tanned and ripped in a different way. He wore a tight T-shirt reading FARM-WAY and a baseball cap with a tractor on it. His work pants were paint-spattered and worn in a way that did not resemble the faux-aging of an Abercrombie pair, but rather seemed weathered from actual work.

  And my God did he fill them out beautifully.

  I had a flicker of a memory of the last time I’d seen Griff Shipley. We were in his room at the frat house, and he had me up against his bedroom door. My legs were wrapped around his waist while he fu—

  “What are you doing on my farm?” he demanded. “Aside from driving into my ditch.”

  “Your…farm?” I squeaked, feeling hot all over. “I’m, uh, here to see your father. I work for Boston Premier Group. They want to talk about buying produce. And cider. The yummy alcoholic kind.” I was babbling now.

  He lifted his chin thoughtfully. “Do they now?”

  Get it together, Kidder. I stood up straighter. “I’m the representative. Is your father home?”

  Griff lifted an eyebrow. “You’re too late.”

  “Really? I can come back tomorrow.” That was a great idea, actually. I needed to compose myself.

  “You’re too late, because my father passed away a couple years ago.”

  “He…” Griff’s words finally sunk into my addled brain. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.” He waited, staring me down.

  “So…” I dug into my purse for the list of farmers. “BPG gave me his name. August Shipley. I’m sorry they got it wrong. Are, uh, you the one I should speak to?”

  He grinned, and I saw just a flash of the old Griff. “That piece of paper is right. My full name is August Griffin Shipley the third. And yeah—I’m the farmer and the cidermaker.”

  My brain struggled to wrap itself around this idea. Football jock Griff Shipley in charge of a business? I hoped his family had other means of income. Griff Shipley in charge of a tailgate party—maybe I could see that. But a farm and beverage operation?

  Nope. Not possible.

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “Can we talk? Do you have some time?”

  Griff lifted his big, bearded chin toward the sky and sighed, as if I had just asked for the moon. Then he pinned me with a big, ornery stare. “Time is pretty scarce, seeing as I gotta pull your car out of that ditch, too. And your tire is probably toast. I have to mow, inspect the fences, milk the cows and slaughter a pig. I have to interview a drug addict and check my apples. But then, maybe. After that.”

  “All right…” I shifted my weight, noticing that
my cute little strappy sandals had allowed little bits of the gravel road to sneak under my feet. “My thing might only take a few minutes, though. It’s a couple of lines on a page.”

  He lifted one giant hand to stroke his beard. “You might have called first. Did you think of that?”

  “Good point,” I said gamely. “The BPG buyer told me that it was better to just drive up. He said farmers don’t answer their phones.”

  Griff tipped his scruffy face toward the sky and made an unexpected sound which I eventually identified as laughter.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He crossed his bulky, lickable arms. “Look,” he said. “I have a feeling I know why your man at BPG doesn’t have his calls answered too often. His prices are probably bullshit, right? So his new plan is to send a hot sorority girl in a halter top and short skirt to dazzle the poor hicks who grow his food. Your guy thinks I’m a big enough idiot that a nice rack and a bright smile will blind me for long enough to agree to sell apples for a buck a pound.”

  Later I would remember this moment as important. Standing there on Griff’s road, I’d gleaned the first prickle of understanding that a flat tire was just the start of my buzz kill. A brand new sinking feeling kicked in, because I had a hunch that Griff Shipley knew what he was talking about for once. I opened the price list in my hand to see that the first item on the list was, indeed, Apples: $0.99 / lb.

  Fuck. “So you’re saying that a dollar a pound is not the market rate for wholesale apples?” I said it as sweetly as possible, but Griff’s face began to darken like a stormy sky.

  “Listen, princess,” he growled. “You can buy shitty, mealy apples for that price from a giant orchard out west or from a farmer that got swindled into growing only Red Delicious during the eighties and can’t afford to re-graft his trees. But your guy wants organic apples, probably heirloom varietals. He wants bragging rights on the menu—apples grown locally in New England with no pesticides and blessed by virgins in the moonlight. That’s what he wants hand-lettered on the menu, right?”