Chapter Nine #2
“Yes.” She sits down on a wooden folding chair, relief easing her hunched shoulders. “This is perfect. Thank you.” She ditches the baseball hat and sets it on the table, dragging the elastic from her ponytail. After tugging it onto her wrist, she gathers her hair over one shoulder.
I take the opposite chair and watch as she sips her cocktail. She has a heart-shaped face and a wide, full-lipped mouth. One of her legs is crossed over the other, and her ankle wriggles restlessly.
I glance pointedly at it. “Nervous?”
“Kind of.” Two lines appear between her eyebrows, which are a shade darker than her hair. “I mean, the last time I saw you, we were running out of a burning building.”
“We survived.”
“The bakery didn’t.”
I shrug. “It was rebuilt.”
“But your family sold it.”
“Yes.”
She takes a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really—”
“Hey.” I meet her eyes. “It wasn’t your fault.”
She takes another sip. That ankle won’t stop jittering.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I say. “What brings you to Hart’s Landing, home of the Mighty Muskrats?”
“My mom. I’m in town for six weeks to take care of her while she recovers from a double hip replacement. The surgery is Monday.”
“Wow, taking care of someone for six weeks. Doesn’t sound like something a terrible person would do.”
“Maybe not, but I said something shitty to her before leaving the house tonight.”
“Told her to fuck off? She’s dead to you?”
A flicker of a smile graces her lips. “It wasn’t anything like that. I was just sort of rude. But she makes me feel guilty about doing anything for myself, and she twists things around so that I end up apologizing. Then she’ll be like, ‘I don’t know why you have to make things so difficult.’”
I nod, swirling the ice around in my glass. “Mothers are good at pushing buttons.”
“Tell me about it. She’s always critical of me, but today was ten out of ten unbearable.”
Curious, I tip my chair back onto its rear legs. “Critical about what?”
“You name it—my clothes, my cooking, my cat, my wedding.”
The front legs of my chair hit the gravel. “You’re married?”
“Not anymore.” She sucks up more of her drink. “I was, for about a year.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” I lie.
“Don’t be. I’m better off without him.”
I tip up my glass. “So, Brooklyn, huh? What do you do?”
“I’m a freelance botanical illustrator. Or as my mother likes to say, I doodle flowers.” She laughs after she says it, but I can tell the insult bothers her.
“I’m sure there’s a lot more to it than that. Show me something you drew.”
“Right now?”
“Yes. I want to see what you do.”
After another slow sip of her vodka soda, she sets the glass down and picks up her phone. “I have some things on my Instagram.” She swipes and taps at the screen, then hands it to me. “Here.”
“Wait a minute.” I look up at her, incredulous. “You drew that?”
Color creeps into her cheeks. “Yes.”
“Holy shit.” I look again at the detailed rendering of two apples hanging on a tiny cut branch.
It’s as real and textured as a photograph, but as beautiful as a painting.
You can see delicate veins on the leaves, the reflection of light on the fruit’s pink-and-green skin, the rough surface of the branch.
At the bottom is an apple sliced in half horizontally, showing the star at the center, seeds spilling out.
Gazing at this illustration, I can practically taste the fruit on my tongue. “Unreal. Can I see more?”
She shrugs, but her expression tells me she’s pleased. “Sure.”
I scroll through more drawings—a watermelon radish, a pair of daffodils, a few vanilla pods, a bright hibiscus blossom. Each one is exquisitely detailed and unbelievably lifelike. “Jesus, Mila, these are amazing. Like, fuck Van Gogh, that guy’s a hack. You’re the real deal.”
She laughs. “Thank you.”
A different sort of post catches my eye, a photo of her in a long black dress holding up some kind of certificate. “What’s this?”
“It’s an award I won last year for excellence in botanical design from the American Botanical Art Society.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Another self-conscious chuckle. “No one has ever heard of those awards, but it was a big deal for me.”
Hungry to know more about her, I ask, “How’d you get into this field?”
“As a kid, I liked books illustrated by Beatrix Potter. I used to try to draw like her, but it was really just doodling. I’d cover my notebooks and folders with designs, but I never took it seriously.
I was really focused on my dance training back then.
” She pauses to sip her drink. “My senior year of high school, I had a hole in my schedule, and my counselor suggested an art class. She’d noticed my notebook covers.
The art teacher, Mrs. Frye, was really encouraging, and I fell in love with drawing. ”
“Mrs. Frye is still around,” I tell her.
“Is she? Maybe I’ll get in touch. I’m an adjunct professor now at a small art school in Brooklyn, and I often think about how she made a difference for me.”
“You’re dangerously close to unlocking my competency kink, Professor Ferguson.”
Her blush practically radiates heat, sending a shock of satisfaction straight to my crotch. Ducking her head to hide a smile, she takes her phone from my hand and sets it down. “Okay, enough about me. Catch me up on you.”
“Hmm, let’s see. Last time I saw you, I was working on my family’s farm, and now I work on my family’s farm, but I’m also the mayor, and I have a dog.” I grin. “That’s about it.”
She smiles. “What kind of dog?”
“A yellow lab. His name is Merlin. I got him from the rescue after he failed therapy dog school.”
She bursts out laughing. “What?”
“Apparently he was too enthusiastic about comforting people to make the cut. He likes to give full-body hugs that aren’t always gentle. But he’s friendly. He loves playing with all the kids who visit the farm.”
“How’s everything at McKean Cherries?”
I lock my hands behind my head. “The usual. We had a late frost this year that made things difficult. And there are always issues with pests, root rot, labor availability, market timing… Are you turned on yet?”
“Didn’t you hear my panties hit the floor?” she says, with so much wide-eyed earnestness that my brain momentarily short-circuits.
I clear my throat. “Then there’s the pressure from land developers to just take their money and walk away.”
“Have you ever been tempted?”
“All the fucking time, believe me. I nearly put a sign out when I got the property tax assessment this spring. But then I stood on the back porch and looked at the land three previous generations of McKeans have given their blood, sweat, and tears for, and thought, I’ll be damned if I’m the McKean to watch it become a fucking golf course. ”
She smiles. “And what made you run for mayor?”
“My friends bet me I wouldn’t. I needed the money.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. A hundred bucks is a hundred bucks.” The sound of her laugh warms me right down to my boots. “Plus, I like a challenge.”
“And you hate free time?”
“Apparently.”
She pokes at the ice in her glass with the straw. “Are you good at being mayor?”
“I’m good at a lot of things, Freckles.”
Her eyes meet mine, and a familiar blush creeps into her cheeks.
When I look at her, it’s like no time has passed at all.