Page 34 of Sweet Escape

Not for anything that isn’t directly related to work.

Not for anything personal.

Maybe that makes me an asshole.

But I’m okay with that.

So, even though I didn’tneedto handle things like that with Vivian, it’s easier to cut things off at the knees. Make sure she knows nothing else between us can happen again.

No matter how desperately I might want it to.

And that’s probably the most infuriating part of it all.

The following morning, my father and I drive the thirty minutes out to the Trager farm to pick up the produce order for this week’s restaurant menu.

Normally, the farms that service our kitchen deliver directly to us on a rotating schedule. But the Tragers are having issues with their trucks this week, and so we agreed to do our own collection.

It’s not ideal, since we have a lot going on. Harvest begins next week, but sometimes you have to reprioritize. And since the restaurant is bringing in the majority of our profit right now, stepping in to handle a delivery is one of those things that has to get done.

“You seen Keith recently?” I ask my dad as we pull out of the drive and head east.

My father and Keith Trager have been friends since they were kids. They might not get together regularly, but I know their friendship is important to my father. His daughter, Quinn, was best friends withMurphy when they were growing up, and our families used to do a lot together.

Not so much over the past few years, though.

My dad shakes his head. “Not in a couple months, no. Not since ... maybe since the restaurant opened.”

“We should do something,” I find myself suggesting. “With the Tragers, I mean. Invite them over for dinner at the house.”

It’s not an ideal time to add anything else to my schedule that will pull me away from work, but it still feels like the right call.

Dad gives me a friendly smile and pats my shoulder. “That sounds like a great idea, son.”

We shoot the shit a little bit, discussing the likelihood that the Giants will make the playoffs—low—and the possibility that we’ll get in a full harvest without a storm this year—high. Things between my dad and I can get a little tense, but we can still slip into casual conversation when the pressures of work take a back seat for a few minutes, even if it is a tad superficial.

Eventually, we pull down the long dirt road that leads to the Trager family’s farm, coming to a stop outside their big white barn.

“Hey, guys,” Keith calls down to us from the back of a refrigerated box truck parked outside the barn doors. He hops out, leaving a few other crew members to continue working as he crosses to us.

“Good to see you, Keith,” I say, shaking his hand.

“Hey, bud,” my dad says.

“Hey, Jackie.” Keith embraces my dad briefly, the two slapping each other on the back before pulling away. “Sorry to make things difficult this week,” he adds, thumbing in the direction of where I now realize the workers are unloading boxes of produce. “The truck won’t stay cool once we start driving, so we’re trying to do single runs at a time to avoid opening the doors and letting all the cool air out. Appreciate you coming out. We should have it all resolved by your next delivery.”

I pat Keith on the back. “Hey, it’s not a problem.”

Dad and I tug on some gloves and head over to the stacks of cardboard crates filled with produce. We hoist them onto our shoulders two at a time and carry them over to the bed of the truck. It doesn’t take very long with the help of Keith and his guys, and then we’re closing the gate and climbing back into the cab.

“I hope things get sorted out soon,” I call over to Keith as we wave goodbye. “Let us know if we can do anything.”

“I ’preciate ya!” he calls back, giving a little wave. Then he taps the back of our truck, sending us off.

We’re on the road for less than ten minutes when my dad speaks.

“I think their farm might be at risk of going under.”

I look to him, taking in his tight expression. “Why? Did he say something to you?”

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