Bittersweet (True North #1) Read online

  Bittersweet

  True North #1

  Sarina Bowen

  Contents

  Dedication

  Stay Up To Date with Sarina

  July

  1. Griffin

  2. Audrey

  3. Griffin

  4. Audrey

  5. Griffin

  6. Audrey

  7. Griffin

  8. Audrey

  9. Griffin

  10. Audrey

  August

  11. Griffin

  12. Audrey

  13. Griffin

  14. Audrey

  15. Griffin

  16. Audrey

  17. Griffin

  18. Audrey

  19. Griffin

  20. Audrey

  21. Griffin

  22. Audrey

  23. Griffin

  October

  24. Audrey

  25. Griffin

  26. Audrey

  27. Griffin

  28. Audrey

  29. Audrey

  Excerpt: Steadfast (True North #2)

  Also by Sarina Bowen

  Acknowledgments & Copyright

  For all the people who grow my food, wherever they are.

  Stay Up To Date with Sarina

  Want to hear about all the latest books and discounts first? Join Sarina’s mailing list!

  Part One

  July

  A fruit is a vegetable with looks and money. Plus, if you let fruit rot, it turns into wine, something Brussels sprouts never do. —P.J. O’Rourke

  Chapter One

  Griffin

  Tuxbury Vermont

  “Griffin?”

  My mother sat down across from me at the big farmhouse table as I chewed the last bite of her home-smoked applewood bacon. My farmhand and I had already finished Vermont-cheddar omelets and homemade bread with butter from our own cows.

  Breakfast had been great, but what Mom said next was even better. “I found you some more seasonal help.”

  My coffee mug paused on its way to my mouth. “Seriously?”

  “I did. And he starts today.”

  “You’d better not be teasing.” We were always short-staffed at this time of year, when the grass grew so fast you could practically watch it lengthen, and the bugs waged a full-scale war against my apple trees.

  It wasn’t even nine o’clock in the morning, and my farmhand and I had already worked for hours. At dawn we’d milked several dozen cows in two different barns. We always came in for a nice breakfast after the milking, but then it was back to work. For the next eight hours we’d tackle a to-do list of projects and repairs as long as a country mile.

  Mom’s promise of a new employee was music to my ears. I lowered the mug to our dining table and met her gaze. But when I spotted her uncharacteristically tentative expression, I felt the first prickle of worry. Maybe I wasn’t going to like the sound of her new hire.

  “Angelo called last night,” she said.

  Oh, hell. Now I knew where this was going. Angelo was a lovely man who attended our Catholic church a couple towns away in Colebury. He was also a parole officer.

  “He’s dropping off a young man today. Just released. He spent three years in jail for manslaughter. It was a car accident, Griff. He crashed his car into a tree.”

  The familiar flash of stress that came from running a struggling business bolted through my chest. That second cup of coffee might have been a mistake. “Crashing into a tree isn’t illegal, Ma. There must be more to it.”

  “Well.” Her face went soft. “He killed the sheriff’s son, who was a passenger in his car. And he was high on opiates at the time.”

  “Ah.” The truth comes out. “So you hired a drug addict?”

  She frowned at me. “A recovering addict. He got out of jail a month ago, and he’s been in rehab since then. Angelo said this kid can make it, but he just really needs a job. He’ll stay in the bunkhouse. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me, our property is a drug-free zone.”

  Zachariah, our farmhand, gave a snort of laughter. “Coffee is our drug, Mrs. Shipley. But we’re in pretty deep.”

  She reached over and gave Zach’s wrist an affectionate squeeze. My mother was good at taking in strays, and Zachariah was her most successful acquisition. But they couldn’t all be Zachariahs. I felt my blood pressure notch higher at the idea of adding a drug addiction to our long list of difficulties. Like I needed one more complication.

  Since my father passed away three years ago, my mother and I ran the farm together. I made all the farming decisions—what to produce and where to sell it. But make no mistake—Mom kept the place running. She did the books. She fed me and our farmhand Zach, my three younger siblings, my grandfather and whichever seasonal employees were around. And when apple-picking season began five weeks from now, she’d run our busy pick-your-own business while somehow feeding an army as our workforce quadrupled.

  So my very capable mother had every right to make a quick hiring decision, and we both knew it. Still, her choice of hires made me nervous.

  “He’s twenty-two, Griff.” She crossed her arms, waiting me out. “The young man is clean, as they say. He’s off drugs. But nobody else is going to take a chance on him. And we’d only take him on for the growing season and through the harvest. Sixteen weeks, tops.”

  Right. The sixteen most crucial weeks of my year.

  A smart man knows when to back down to his mother. She’d obviously made up her mind already, and the day was getting on. “Okay,” I capitulated. “We’ll set him up in the bunkhouse when he shows up. Call me and I’ll give him a tour. Let’s go, Zach.” I stood, grabbing my baseball cap, and Zach did the same.

  Carrying our dirty plates, we exited through the kitchen where my sister May was tidying up. She was on summer break from law school. “Did the twins move the chickens?” I asked by way of a greeting.

  “Yes, captain,” my sister snarked. “They’re outside already.”

  “Thanks.” I gave her elbow a squeeze as I passed by to make up for my lack of manners. At times I could be an overbearing grouch, especially during the growing season. And my sisters were quick to call me on it.

  “Hey, Griff?” May called after me as I opened the door. “Do you still plan to send Tauntaun off to freezer camp today? I’ll need a heads up.”

  I paused in the doorway. “Good question.” Butchering the pig would be a lot of work, and I didn’t really have the time. Then again, next week would be the same story, if not worse. “Yeah. We should get it done, unless the day gets crazy. I’ll give you some warning, so you can heat the water.” May gave me a salute, and Zach and I went outside.

  Scanning the property, I spotted the twins in the back meadow, beyond the bunkhouse. They were moving the portable electric fence we used to keep our chickens safe from predators, and probably squabbling over something. At seventeen, they were a decade younger than I was.

  A year from now I’d be paying both their college tuitions, and not a day went by when I didn’t worry about it. I gave my property the usual critical glance. The big, aging farmhouse where I’d grown up was in good shape for now. We’d redone the roof and the paint last year. But on a farm, there was always something going awry. If there wasn’t a problem with the farmhouse, it would be the stone bunkhouse or one of the dairy barns. Or the cider house or the tractor.

  And even if nothing broke down today, there were business decisions in my near future. I needed to reinvest in the farm, yet we also needed cash. Somehow I needed to guide the farm toward greater profitability without borrowing a pile of money.

  If only I knew how to do that.

  With a sigh, I turned to Zach. “You want the fences or the m
owing?” I asked him. There was plenty of work for both of us, so I was happy to let him choose.

  “You pick,” he said immediately. Zach was a dream employee. He worked like an ox from sunup until supper, and he never complained—I didn’t know if he even knew how.

  “I’ll mow,” I said. “But maybe we’ll swap after lunch. The new guy’ll be here…” Shit. “Walk with me a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  I headed across the circular meadow toward the tractor shed.

  “We’re going to have to keep an eye on this kid. I never asked you to spy on anyone before. But this is a little weird.”

  He grinned. “It is…colorful. But Angelo’s no fool.”

  This was true. “Now, is there anything I need to know about the Kubota?” Not only was Zach a model employee, he was a skilled mechanic.

  “She’s running fine. I’m more worried about the milking rig in the big barn.”

  I swore under my breath. Most of our dairy cattle lived across the street on a neighbor’s property. The bulk of our milk went to an ordinary dairy. On our own property, we raised a dozen organic cows, and that milk was sold to friends down the street who made fancy cheese from it.

  “Did the pump give you trouble again?” Every farm had aging equipment, because no farmer could afford to upgrade his tools like the rest of the world upgraded their cell phones every year. I was a chemist by training, not a mechanic. So Zachariah was the one who coaxed all our most difficult equipment into performing. And the milking rig was about the most important machine on the whole property.

  “It’s not going to last much longer. Some of the gears are stripped, and I can’t find those parts anymore. Odds are we’ll have to taker ’er out back and shoot ’er before New Years.”

  I groaned. “Never tell me the odds.”

  “Right, Han.”

  “Thank you, Chewie.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Chuckling, I walked off through the July morning toward the tractor barn, my head full of worry. I tried to imagine walking a hundred cows across the road to be milked in the smaller of the two dairy barns twice a day. Investing in new equipment on land I didn’t own sounded like a bad idea.

  I’d figure it out somehow. I’d have to.

  Chapter Two

  Audrey

  Boston, Massachusetts

  I wore a halter top to be fired.

  Since the bigwigs at Boston Premier Group had asked me to appear at corporate headquarters at nine, I assumed I’d be pounding the pavement for a new job by nine-thirty.

  I was a trained chef, and a damn good one. But my cleavage would be more interesting than my knife skills to most of the restaurateurs of Boston. I’d already learned this the hard way.

  These were my thoughts as I rode the elevator up to my doom.

  Getting fired was nothing new for me. I’d been kicked out of two colleges before I turned twenty. Disgusted by my lack of academic achievement, my mother fired me next. She took away my car and withdrew all financial support.

  Things seemed to turn around after that. I put myself through culinary school, which I really enjoyed. But now my first job had proven to be a disaster.

  As the doors parted on the fifteenth floor, I checked my watch. At least I was one minute early. My mother, wherever she was, would be thrilled that I was prompt to face the firing squad.

  Go me!

  “Mr. Burton will be right with you,” the receptionist said from behind a beautiful desk outside several C-suite offices.

  “Thank you.” Nervous, I slipped into one of the deep leather chairs in the waiting area. I picked up a copy of Boston Magazine from the selection of periodicals on the table and hid behind it.

  By now, the details of my latest failure would have made it into every manager’s office. Not only had I ruined a night’s worth of business at their top-rated restaurant, my fuck-up had made the gossip pages of the newspaper.

  My hands began to sweat on the magazine.

  The problem wasn’t my cooking, of course. I was a good chef. A natural, as one of my teachers had said. At twenty-two years old I’d finally found something I was good at. And I’d needed this job on my résumé, damn it.

  “Audrey!” a voice barked.

  Startled, I dropped the magazine and scrambled to stand. “G-g-good morning,” I stammered, shaking the hand that Bill Burton offered me.

  “Come with me,” he said, leading the way into his plush office.

  My mouth dry, I followed him. He waited for me to sit down in the chair facing his big desk, and then he shut the door with an ominous click.

  Shit!

  I sat up straight in my chair. I was going to go down fighting.

  He sat in his chair and measured me with his eyes. There was a deep silence before he finally said, “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  Right. Okay. That was a better opener than “Get the fuck out of our office building.” But where to start? “Well, sir…” I hesitated, hating the tentative sound of my voice. C’mon, Audrey! This is for all the marbles. “I’m an excellent chef, sir. Top of my class. But BPG keeps giving me assignments outside the kitchen.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Your job title is intern, sweetie. Nobody becomes a great chef without learning the business.”

  Sweetie? I had to bite down on my tongue to keep myself from screaming. But now was not the time for a rant. Deep breaths, Audrey. “I do want to learn the business,” I said carefully. “But when you toss an intern into a job unprepared, you shouldn’t be astonished when things go badly.”

  Flipping open a folder on his desk, he frowned down at its contents. “Six weeks ago your first assignment was tracking seafood deliveries at the fish market. You lasted one day.”

  “True.” I’d reported for work at four-thirty in the morning, where a computer system I’d never seen before had greeted me.

  “You were supposed to order two hundred lobsters for our flagship seafood restaurant. But you ordered two hundred gross. That’s more than twenty-eight thousand lobsters.”

  I kept the cringe off my face, but just barely. “Nobody taught me the software,” I insisted.

  Bill Burton sighed. “Fine, but software wasn’t the problem last night, was it?”

  “Yes it was,” I insisted again. “Indirectly.”

  He sat back in his chair. “Explain.”

  “My latest position has been at l’Etre Suprême.” It was Boston’s only Michelin-starred restaurant, and I’d felt lucky just walking in there every night. Chef Jacques was one of my culinary heroes.

  But they hadn’t put me in the kitchen where I could be useful. Or course not. They had me up front, working on the restaurant’s reservations.

  I cleared my throat. “The other night, the software over-booked a reservation for thirty CFOs, and I didn’t catch it. There was no place to put them.” When the suits realized we weren’t prepared to seat them in our private alcove, they began abusing the staff and they never really stopped. “And while I scrambled to solve the problem, the rest of the seating and dining schedule went haywire. Orders were lost and meals were delivered out of synch…”

  I started sweating just remembering this disaster. Chef Jacques had nearly had a coronary. His screaming could be heard all the way out to the beaten copper bar, where bartenders in elegant vests had poured free drinks to soothe irritated customers.

  Jacques did not know my name and was therefore unable to scream it. But that was no blessing, since it takes longer to screech: “Zee fucking wench who makes zee reservations.”

  That would be me.

  “Go on,” Burton prompted.

  “I was mortified that I’d caused trouble in the kitchen.” I folded my damp hands in my lap and looked him in the eye. “My roommate is a pastry chef.” A slovenly one, I could add. I rented a room in his apartment because it was all I could afford. “I wanted to make amends, so I took a big pan of brownies he’d baked, and I brought them to work with me last ni
ght. It was a peace offering.” I’d deposited my chocolaty gift in the middle of the kitchen. The staff fell on them like seagulls. “Then I’d gone out to the front of the house to spend the evening working on reservations.”

  That wasn’t exactly true, but Burton didn’t need to know that. In between tasks I always headed back to the kitchen. Some women might have trouble staying away from designer shoes or hot actors. My weakness was a star chef in action. I’d rather watch Jacques whisk a balsamic reduction than watch Channing Tatum strip for the camera. So I had a front row seat on the evening’s unfolding disasters. When I’d snuck back to watch, I’d found Chef screaming at the grill cook.

  “Zat is not how we treat zeh fish!” he had yelled at Enrique. “You must respect zeh filet!”

  I’d cringed as Chef Jacques smacked Enrique on the back of the head. Jacques was an asshole on his best day, but last night he seemed to be wound even tighter than usual.

  On the other hand, Enrique had been acting awfully sluggish. Normally a hard worker, last night he’d seemed off his game. If Enrique didn’t treat the fish like the governor of Massachusetts, I’d known it wouldn’t bode well for him.

  Now, if there were any justice in the world, I would’ve been the one wielding the fish spatula. I would have respected the hell out of that filet, if they’d only given me a chance. I knew I could cook circles around many of the people in that kitchen.

  But no. It had been back to the reservations system for me.

  The next I’d seen Jacques he was chewing his salad boy a new one. “Leaves should make pretty hill,” he’d said, holding a plate in the air for the entire kitchen’s inspection. “Zhis is alps after earthquake. Feex it!” He’d tossed the plate onto the steel work table, where it broke in two.

  Haute cuisine may be the only industry where the boss is encouraged to behave like a cranky toddler. They pay extra for that, especially if you’re a man and from France.