Bittersweet (True North #1)

by Sarina Bowen

  Jude picked up May’s glass beside him and gave it a deep sniff. “Fascinating,” he said slowly. Then he winked at me.

  I might have lost it completely if Griffin hadn’t distracted me. “Grandpa,” he said. “How does tomorrow sound for moving into the farmhouse?”

  His grandfather—a fork in one hand and Griffin’s excellent brew in the other—only grunted.

  “I can’t persuade Audrey to stay in Vermont if I’ve got her shacked up in a bunkhouse. We could use a little more space, and you could use better access to the dining room table.”

  I saw Ruth hold her breath. Grandpa said nothing for a moment. He shoveled in a bite of stuffing and chewed. Then he sipped his cider. “Coconut rice,” he said eventually.

  “Come again?” Griffin said.

  “I’ll move in here tomorrow if Audrey makes that coconut rice. And the spicy veggies.” A little groan of recognition rose up from others at the table.

  “Anytime,” I said quickly.

  He nodded at his grandson. “You are a smart kid, you know that? Finding the right girl, treating her right.”

  “I’m trying,” Griff said, his voice low.

  “You can bring me over some empty boxes tonight. After pie, of course.”

  “I’ll do it,” Griff promised.

  Ruth squeezed her hands together. “All right! I’ll get your room ready tomorrow, first thing. We’ll set up your TV, and I think Griff could even wrestle your recliner in there, if you want. Or I’ll make a space for it in the den.”

  “Whichever,” Grandpa said as if he couldn’t be bothered to care. He reached for an additional slice of turkey from the platter.

  I hardly said a word after that. I ate my meal and listened to the Shipley family squabble over whose turn it was tonight to control the TV remote. (Monday night football versus Daphne’s show. It didn’t go Daphne’s way.) I sipped my namesake cider and marveled at my own good fortune.

  “You okay?” Griff asked me an hour later. We were driving slowly down the dirt road in his truck. When he made a sharp right-hand turn, it was onto a little track that I hadn’t even known was a driveway.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Just thinking about your grandfather. I hope we’re not shoving him out of his house.”

  Griff chuckled. “Not a chance. Mom’s been working on him for months. But the guy has been stubborn.”

  “Sounds like somebody else I know. Can’t think of who.”

  “I know, right?” Griff touched me on the knee. “Grandpa feels a little weird having his daughter-in-law take care of him, that’s all. He already shows up for every meal, though. And Dylan shovels the snow off his steps. May shops for the coffee and cookies in his cabinets. My mother drives him to doctors’ appointments and fills his car with gas so he can make the trips to our house. He’s dependent on us, but he doesn’t want to be. You and I just gave him the excuse he needed to move in. That’s all.”

  “Okay.” I just wasn’t used to a big family where everybody helped out. I didn’t know how it worked.

  “Here we are. It isn’t much, but…” Griffin’s headlights illuminated a cute little cape cod with wood shingles and red shutters. Two dormers popped out from the peaked roof like eyes, and a stone chimney rose up toward the sky in the center.

  “It’s adorable. Now I really feel guilty.”

  “Don’t. Really.” He leaned in and kissed my cheekbone. “He needs a main-floor shower, which this house doesn’t have. And mom will feed him all the pie he wants, because she won’t be lying in bed at night wondering if he’s slipped on the stairs. Come on.”

  We carried the boxes Ruth had found inside. “Those can go in the bedroom,” Grandpa said from the recliner. “Or just drop ’em. I’m watching the game.”

  “Who’s winning?” Griff asked, stopping to check the score.

  I decided to carry a few boxes upstairs myself. Because it was either that or get caught staring. The house was at least as cute inside as outside. There were gorgeous oak floors, and a stone fireplace with a mantel just begging for Christmas stockings. I climbed the polished wooden stair treads carefully. The staircase was a little steep. I’d have to rein in my clumsy ways.

  When I got to the top I found two bedrooms—one of them obviously unused. It smelled dusty. But the other was gorgeous, with a peaked ceiling with oak beams and walls painted a buttercream color. The generous bathroom had a claw-foot tub set over antique black and white tiles.

  “Hey.” A few minutes later Griffin caught me standing there, mentally adding cute towels and a fluffy bath mat to the picture. “It’s not the Plaza…”

  “Stop. I want to live here with you. Shower sex is out. But that’s the only negative I can find.”

  “There’s still the outdoor shower, so we’re covered.” He set the boxes down and kissed me. “This place needs a new kitchen,” he said between kisses. “I can’t renovate until the cash flow improves. Sometime in the next millennium.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You haven’t seen those ugly 1960s countertops.” Kiss. “But we can do some simple things.” Kiss. “We can paint.” Kiss. “You can choose the colors.”

  I gave him a long, slow kiss. The idea of making a home with Griffin was wonderful and so unexpected. I felt giddy just picturing it. “We’re gonna christen every room,” I breathed.

  “Damn straight.” He growled into my mouth. “I’ll get work done twice as fast if I have that to come home to.”

  Breaking off our kiss, I wrapped my arms around him. When I tucked my head against his chest, I saw the Green Mountains out the window. “This place is so beautiful. I don’t know if I deserve this.”

  “Really?” He gave me a squeeze. “I’m pretty sure I do. So why wouldn’t you?”

  My phone rang in my back pocket. It took me a moment to care, but when I realized that I was expecting a call from my mother, I let go of Griff and answered it. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Audrey. I have some news.”

  “Wow. Okay?”

  “I had it out with Burton. I told him we’re not going to do business that way. But when he pulled out the contract he has with the other cider producer, it had an exclusivity clause.”

  “What?”

  “The other cidermaker’s lawyers put into the contract that theirs would be the only cider on the menu at BPG this year.”

  I groaned. “So you’re saying that the other guy was smarter than I am.”

  My mother sighed. “More experienced, maybe. Or just jaded. Audrey, you’re not a stupid girl. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel that you were.”

  It took a moment for that to sink in. My mother never apologized to me. “Um…thank you?”

  “I got a call from Ruth Shipley a few minutes ago.”

  “You did?” I squeaked.

  “She’s lovely. And she has a lot of nice things to say about you.”

  Oh, boy. “Did she want to talk about cider?”

  “No. She just wanted me to know that you’d arrived in Vermont again, and that you’d been a big help to her when she was injured over the summer. And that she’d look after you.” My mother cleared her throat uncomfortably. “They sound like a lovely family.”

  “They are,” I gushed. “That’s why it kills me to see them cheated.”

  “I get it. And this wasn’t your fault. Burton sent you to negotiate without telling you any of the rules of the jungle. But I know you’re not incapable. Putting yourself through culinary school was a big deal. I want you to know that I’m proud of you.”

  My head was about to explode. “That’s…thank you, Mom. But Griffin is still forty grand poorer than he was this morning.”

  She groaned. “I know. If he sues, he can probably win. But a lawsuit—”

  “—costs a lot of money,” I finished.

  “It does,” she agreed.

  “Okay.” I took a deep breath. “Thanks for trying to help. We really appreciate it.”

  “If you have any other questions
about it, or want to ask me anything about BPG, I’m happy to talk.”

  Again I was floored by the humble tone of her voice. “Thank you. But I’m finished with BPG.”

  “I understand. Maybe you could come and have lunch with me whenever you’re in town again.”

  I was so surprised that I didn’t respond.

  “Audrey?”

  “Sorry. Sure. Maybe after I get settled here.”

  “Good,” she said quickly. “Until then, take care.”

  “You too,” I said softly.

  I hung up the phone, uncertain of which of today’s events was the more shocking—me moving in with Griff or having a civil telephone conversation with Mom?

  “She couldn’t fix it,” Griff whispered. “But she tried.”

  I leaned into him, shaking my head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault. I’m still going to make a hell of a lot of cider. We just have to sell it to someone else. Got any thirsty friends?” He wrapped his arms around me.

  “We were outmaneuvered.”

  “This time,” he said firmly. Then he kissed the top of my head. “Let’s go turn in early. We have a lot to do tomorrow.”

  “Is that the only reason you want to turn in early?” I asked as he steered us toward the stairs.

  “What do you think?”

  Smiling, I followed him downstairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Audrey

  November, Two Months Later

  I was sealing up a paint can, kneeling on the tarp covering our living room floor when the phone rang. The number had a 617 Boston area code, so I got a little excited. I’d been trying to convince a couple of beverage distribution companies to take a chance on Shipley Ciders, and if one of them was calling me back, that was definitely a call I wanted to take. “Hello?”

  “Hi, this is Sarah from Beantown Restaurant group. I have a call for Miss Audrey Kidder from Raphael Asher. Have I reached Audrey?”

  “Uh, yes?”

  “Hold please.”

  I searched my brain for anyone I might know at the Beantown Restaurant Group and came up empty.

  “Audrey! This is Raphael Asher. I’m the buyer and local forager for twenty-seven Boston restaurants. How are you today?”

  “I’m well, thanks. How can I help you?” Did he say forager? What the…?

  “Ah, well we’ve just hired Chef Michael Quigley, formerly of North End Kitchens. Do you know him?”

  My mind whirled, trying to place that name. I’d met Chef Quigley once for fifteen minutes. He was one of BPG’s rising stars. “We’ve met,” I hedged. “He left BPG?”

  “He did. We lured him away.” This man on the phone—Raphael—laughed. “Anyway—Chef Quigley and I had a long talk about farm-to-table operations last week, and he gave me your name. He told me you sourced some beautiful organic pears for him in September. And some squashes, I think. You ran the farm-to-table program for BPG?”

  “Well…” Should I tell the truth? If I said I ran a program, that would be a terrible exaggeration. “I spent the summer doing laps around Vermont, finding farmers with product to sell. But BPG’s program was too loosely formed to be very effective.” I took a breath, hoping that I’d been diplomatic enough in my description. A girl didn’t trash her ex-employer, even if they deserved it.

  “I heard that place is a wreck right now,” Raphael said, his voice low. “But I also heard that you did good work. In fact, I’d love to sit down with you to chat about the new program I’m starting here. I could use someone like you on my team. Someone experienced.”

  What does a girl say to that? “I’d love to talk,” I said cautiously. “But you should know that I’m not based in Boston right now. I’ve moved to Vermont.”

  “That’s all right,” he said quickly. “Could you drive into the city for a chat? You can pick the day. The job I have for you works better if you’re stationed in Vermont. I have big plans, Audrey. I want to build our farm-to-table program the right way—I want to hire buyers like you to form a real partnership with farmers. It would be a year-round gig, but only part time.”

  “Wow.” It wasn’t the most sophisticated response, but the job sounded awfully neat. “So you’re looking for boots on the ground to coordinate between farmers and restaurants? If it was year round we could actually direct the crops we want before they go into the ground.”

  “Yes! Exactly. I’d love to hear your thoughts about how best to execute it.”

  “Okay.” My heart fluttered. “I’d love to have the discussion. Farmers start ordering their seed right after New Years…” I’d heard Isaac Abraham talking about it at Thursday Dinner last night. “BPG didn’t understand how much lead time matters. They thought they could just roll up for a day or two and farms would just hurl their best produce at the truck. But it doesn’t work that way.”

  “I know it. So meet with me. Later this month, maybe? You can work it out with my assistant.”

  The front door of our little house opened, and Griffin walked in with the mail in his hand. He gave me a wave.

  I gave him the universal sign for just a second. “All right, Raphael. I’ll do that. By any chance would you like to meet an award-winning Vermont cidermaker, too?”

  “Hmm,” he said. “Why not?”

  “I’ll bring him,” I said quickly.

  “Can’t wait! Thanks, Audrey!”

  Click.

  I stared at the phone in my hand.

  “Princess!” Griffin kicked off his boots and then came over to kiss me on the forehead. “Who called? Tell me some good news.”

  “It could be good news,” I said carefully. When I met with Raphael from Beantown Group, my eyes would be wide open, that was for damn sure. I explained to Griff what the man had asked for.

  “Huh,” he said, stroking his beard. “If this guy is smarter than those tools at BPG, it might be a decent job for you. If you’re interested.”

  “I’m interested,” I said quickly. In the past eight weeks I’d begun helping Zara by taking over her morning hours at the Goat, and getting her breakfast and coffee service started. I’d helped Griffin make a whole lot of cider. But a decent job for a restaurant company could come in handy. “Maybe we can sell some cider, too.”

  Griff smiled. “We’ll try.”

  “And if he has a part-time job for me that I could do here—”

  “—that’s pretty much perfect,” Griff finished.

  “It is. And the money would come in handy.”

  “Speaking of money.” Griff sifted through the mail in his hand. He handed me an envelope.

  I turned it over to find the seal for my mother’s bank. “What’s this?” I slit it with my thumb, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. No—a check. For forty thousand dollars. “Oh my god.”

  “Hey,” Griff said as something fluttered out of the envelope. He bent to pick it up. “There’s a note.”

  It was in my mother’s hand, on her prim, embossed notepaper. Audrey— I’m proud of you for completing culinary school. Here is the tuition money I owe you.

  “Holy crap,” I whispered. My throat got tight and my eyes hot. That was the second time she’d said she was proud of me. Maybe she even meant it.

  “That’s a lot of money, baby. Want to buy some cider?”

  I looked up into Griff’s teasing eyes, and started to laugh. “Sure. Four dollars a bottle.”

  “Aw, fuck.” He grabbed me into a hug. “No deal, my little corporate raider.” He lifted me off the floor and squeezed me.

  I buried my face in his beard. “The money is going to come in handy, though. Maybe you won’t worry so much.”

  He set me down, then stepped back, both big hands on my shoulders. “We are going to be fine, princess. The cider will sell—just not all at once like I wanted. Put that money in the bank. Someday you’ll have a big plan of your own to carry out. You’ll see a building for sale and realize that it ought to become a restaurant called Audrey’s. I still want that
for you.”

  “I like how you think, Griff.” I stood up on my tiptoes and kissed him.

  “Mmm,” he said against my lips. “I like how you think, too. But we can’t do this right now. I came home to get you so you could say goodbye to Jude.”

  Oh. “It’s time?”

  “Yeah. He and Zach tuned up that heap he just bought. And he’s loading the trunk now.”

  “Okay. I’m coming.” I tucked my mom’s check—and her note, which was even more precious—into my purse. Our living room furniture had been shoved to one side and covered by a tarp while I painted. The little house was pure chaos right now, but I’d been enjoying every moment of making it ours. Our living room walls were becoming a warm cream color, and I’d painted a bookcase sage green. Ruth was going to help me re-upholster the sofa and make throw pillows.

  I ducked into the kitchen—which really did need a renovation, but wasn’t going to get one anytime soon—to get the cookies I’d made for Jude. They were gingersnaps, his favorite kind.

  Grabbing a coat, I followed Griff to his truck. It was a windy November day. The scarecrow Dylan had made to guard the mailbox waved its tattered sleeves in the breeze as we rolled past and up the driveway to the farmhouse. I was going to get to watch all the seasons change. The Green Mountains looked more purple than they had a month ago. Soon they’d be covered in white.

  Griff killed the engine beside the ugly old car that Jude had bought for a few hundred dollars cash. My boyfriend gave his head a little shake just looking at it.

  “Jude will fix it up,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt.

  “Some things can’t be fixed,” Griff said, his face grave. “I hope he’s okay at his dad’s in Colebury.”

  I poked Griff in the ribs. “Look who’s a softie.”

  He turned his rugged face toward me, brown eyes gentle. “Never said I wasn’t. Especially for you.”

  “Aw. Just for that you get a kiss.” I scooted closer and put my hands on the sides of his face. Then I planted one on him. He leaned into the kiss, teasing my lip with his tongue. Thank God for our own private little house down the road because we’d both been insatiable since the day I arrived.