CHAPTER 10
Tally
It’s day five, and I’ve learned absolutely nothing since moving in with the grumpiest man alive. I’ve rarely seen Walker, which is fortunate for him, because I think I’d kill him if I did.
I spent the last two days counting flowers.
Each freaking daffodil. Well, maybe not each individual one.
After counting three flower beds and finding they all had almost the same number of stems—give or take ten—I decided to count the flower beds instead.
Much quicker work than counting one hundred thousand bulbs separately.
Though it still took me two days to verify.
The only thing that kept me half sane was trying out that cherries jubilee recipe.
As predicted, with the ice cream that Eli dropped off, it was utter perfection.
Of course, once I got on a baking kick, one thing led to another and I ended up making pineapple upside-down cake, cherry cheesecake brownies, and cherry winks, a cookie made with cornflakes that is surprisingly delicious because of the maraschino cherry baked inside it.
Walker was undeserving of my treats so I took them over to the brewery and the bookstore to share. I hope his stomach was growling, though, when he smelled all the sugary perfection that he never got to taste.
Clearly, the ridiculous chores he’s given me are his way of trying to keep me out of his hair, which I don’t mind, because who would want to spend time with someone so completely miserable?
So what if he’s stupidly good-looking? Or if there’s something in the way he looks at me that makes my pulse thrum.
Makes me seek out his attention even though I tell myself I don’t want it.
Shit, I’ve got some issues to work out. But today is not the day. No, today I’m sneaking around “his” bedroom—can it be considered breaking and entering if it’s your own room?—in hopes of finding something that will tell me why he’s so invested in the farm.
I heard him get out of bed at 5:30 a.m. On a Saturday.
The minute I heard the front door shut behind him, I ran into his room and have spent the last few hours scouring every inch of it—under the bed, in the closets, in his bedside drawer.
That was risky. I was almost positive he isn’t the kind of man with toys, but you never know.
Of course, boring grumpy Walker just had a picture of his nephew on the end table and a lighter, some spare change, and ChapStick in the drawer.
Defeated, I stomp downstairs and step out onto the porch, my eyes searching for the man in question.
It’s infuriating that I’ve learned basically nothing since I got here.
From what I can see—outside of him laying blankets over the flowers despite their requirement for sunlight to freaking bloom—he knows what he’s doing.
He’s hard at work every day, and my mother seems happy and settled, too.
She spends her mornings walking with the Liberty Ladies, then she checks in with me and we share a cup of coffee before I start my chores.
Maybe she’s just handling grief differently than I imagined she would, and this is her way of moving forward.
The farm is too much to handle on her own, and considering all the work I’ve done this week, it’s clear she needs Walker.
I just wish I knew what Walker was getting out of it.
Although, I guess he has a place to stay and she must be paying him a wage.
With what money, I have no idea. We won’t turn a profit for a few more weeks based on past years.
And my parents were never great at saving.
I stretch my legs on the porch and finally catch sight of him coming out of one of the cottages near where my mom is staying by the wildflower fields. I haven’t cleaned any of those properties yet. What is he doing over there?
A fog has settled over the farm this morning, like a cozy blanket hanging heavy in the air.
Walker seems almost mystical as he emerges from the mist. He’s wearing his trademark Wranglers, work boots, and a long-sleeve Henley.
He hasn’t noticed me yet, and I take this opportunity to study him: the scruff that covers his hard jaw, how the lines of his face deepen as he looks into the distance, and the way his lips part and his eyes flare the moment he catches me spying on him.
His steps don’t falter because the man is good at going toe to toe with me, so I straighten my hips and prepare for battle. “You checking my numbers?”
Walker grunts as he climbs the stairs to the big house until he’s standing right in front of me.
I push on despite his silence. “Have any other pointless tasks you want me to do today?”
Walker lifts his ball cap from his head and flips it backward, then arches a single brow. “Pointless?”
“Yes, Walker. Having me count each individual daffodil is pointless.”
“Did you know that daffodils multiply each year and can crowd each other?”
I blink at him. “Um, no.”
“If we have too many,” he continues, taking a step toward me, “they’ll stop blooming and our crop will be destroyed next year.
So, Tally, it’s not pointless. It’s important that the numbers in each flower bed don’t tip too high in one direction.
And if they do, I can adjust by digging and dividing them more evenly. ”
Well, fuck me. I nibble my bottom lip, worried now because I didn’t actually count them, and consider the mammoth task of starting all over again.
“Anything else you want me to explain to you?” he grits out.
I shake my head.
“Then do you mind moving so I can go inside?”
Shit. Do I tell him the truth? It’s probably fine. None of the flower beds look overcrowded, and I can check myself. “Sure. Um, is there anything else I can do? You know, like maybe help take off those tarps.”
“Leave the tarps alone.” The grizzly warning instantly has my hackles up again.
Why is he so damn insistent on keeping the bulbs covered?
I might have been wrong about the daffodils, but I know tulips need sunshine.
I listen to the sounds of Walker’s boots hitting the wooden planks until he stops and turns to me again.
“If you want to help with the flowers so much, why don’t you mist them? ”
“Don’t we have an irrigation system for that?”
Walker’s brows lift again and I realize he’s probably going to mansplain. “Flowers like little drops of water.”
I sigh as I study Walker’s position. With his arms crossed and the cocksure expression on his face, it’s as though he’s king of this farm and I’m his lowly servant. “And how does one mist a flower?”
“With a mister.” He holds up his hand and squeezes his fingers to his palm, as though he’s explaining science to a six-year-old.
“That seems ridiculous,” I mutter.
“Well, they aren’t standing as tall as I’d like, so it would be great if you could mist them. Unless you’re ready to quit?” He grins.
I realize this is the first time I’ve seen him smile. Even though it’s a cruel one, my stomach flips as I discover that Walker has a dimple. And now I am unreasonably turned on. Great.
I raise my brow and cross my arms, trying to remain calm and professional.
“No. Of course not. Are you going to tell me why you haven’t taken the blankets off the flowers?
” I can’t stop pushing. Or maybe I don’t want to stop pushing.
I shouldn’t want to spend another second in his dark cloud, but I seem to be chasing the lightning.
Chasing the electric current that thrums just below the surface of my skin whenever he’s around.
“No,” he growls. And without another word, Walker storms into the house, taking all that energy with him.
—
I’d like to say it was hard to find a mister in the tool shed, because why in the fuck would anyone actually mist plants?, but there are several of them.
God, I wish I could talk to my father right now. To have five minutes to ask him all the questions circling in my head. Why did you hire Walker? Why did you like him? What the hell am I supposed to do now that I’m here and you’re not?
The wind howls around me as I stomp down the path toward the fields. The frustration inside me swirls and builds until I feel like I’m out of control. Dropping the misters, I fist my hands and look to the sky. “Why, Daddy? Why did you have to leave? Why?”
“Breathe, Tally.” I can hear the words he’d utter so often when I’d spin out like this. “Just breathe. Take a minute, sit down, and breathe.”
“I don’t know how to do it, Daddy,” I whisper back as I suck in a lungful of air and try to pull at his memory to ground myself. My heart settles more with each breath I take.
I close my eyes. “I’ll probably need to do more than breathe if you want me to survive the next few months with this man.” I smile at my own joke, knowing my dad would be smiling, too. He didn’t expect people to be perfect and somehow found the good in everyone. God, I wish I was more like him.
Feeling calmer, I take the path to the fields near my mother’s cottage.
Her new home—which is the only property on this part of the farm that isn’t tattered and run down—is dark at the end of the long lane. I take in the sad state of affairs of her porch. At our house, my mother always had flowers adorning the steps leading up to the porch.
Daddy would pick them for her daily—and in seasons when we didn’t have beautiful flowers blooming, he’d use other decorations to make her day brighter: a random garden gnome with a silly face, pinwheel flags that spun with the warm breeze, or whatever he could find in town.
That’s what my dad did: He looked for ways to make life brighter. Not just for Mom, but for everyone.
I smile as I think of him and rush toward the wildflower meadow.
I won’t dare touch Walker’s other flowers, but these should be safe.
No one else ever seemed to notice the beauty in this field, but I have always loved it.
The fresh aroma of earth and damp soil clings to the dewy air as I enter the field, which overlooks the marina.
The fog hangs heavily above the water, and the sound of the boats rocking gently back and forth is a soothing balm after such an infuriating morning.
Humming, I pluck the prettiest flowers I can find.
Pinks, purples, and my favorite golden ones.
The grass is a vibrant green because it’s left mostly untouched and it almost appears to be preening beside the wildflowers, as if searching for the sun.
The raindrops start slow. It’s really nothing more than a mist to begin with, and I start to laugh before throwing my head back and hollering, “Thank you for helping with the chores, Daddy!”
My smile grows bigger as I let the raindrops gently wet my face.
It’s like a baptism. A rebirth. In this field, under the New England sky, I promise my father I’m going to do better.
I’m going to make this daffodil season the best one yet, and help Mom get through this.
I’m going to put our family back together.
Finally, I allow myself to let go of the guilt I feel for not returning sooner.
All the what ifs and maybe I should haves.
From here on out, I’m going to live like my dad did.
While I’m on this farm for the next nine weeks, I’m going to find ways to make everyone’s life brighter. Ease their burden. Help.
Without judgment and sarcasm.
I snort. That’s probably too big of a goal.
Renewed, I grab two metal planters from the shed and arrange wildflower bouquets in both before setting them on my mother’s porch. It might only be step one, but it’s a step in the right direction.