Chapter Seven Madison
CHAPTER SEVEN
Madison
“When I die, I want to be buried with my truck,” I say, arms spread wide, star-fishing against the green steel hood.
Emily looks uncomfortable and intrigued at the same time. “What do you mean by ‘with’ your truck? Like, with the steering wheel in your hand?” We all have a morbid sense of humor. I imagine most people who have experienced tragedy at a young age do.
“I’m talking buckled into my driver’s seat and the whole thing lowered into the ground.”
She grimaces. “I was afraid that was what you meant. We’re gonna be digging for ages.”
I plant a big kiss on the hood and then peel myself up. “I’ve missed this old girl.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell,” Emily says with a grin, because nothing makes her happier than seeing one of us Walkers happy.
“You have no idea how awesome it is to decide to go somewhere, grab my keys, jump in the truck, put on whatever music I want, and hit the road. Literally whenever I please,” I say while performing each action like it’s revolutionary.
But after constantly having to think ahead for the last couple years and consider train schedules, walking times, Uber prices, or whether Dan the Lock of Hair Guy is lurking outside the apartment when I’m going to leave or not, this is a dream.
I just wish I didn’t feel so silly for loving this more than the city.
I slam the door shut and the familiar, heavy sound brings a wide smile to my face. Before I drive off, I roll down the window and reach my hand out for Emily’s. We intertwine fingers. Her reds against my chipped rainbow. “It’s so good to be home.”
“It’s good to have you home.” Her words are kind, but there’s something reserved in her expression.
She looks like how I felt on Saturday mornings when I’d walk to my favorite bagel place but wouldn’t let myself get excited for the salted bagel because there was always a fifty percent chance that by the time I got there they’d have sold out.
And now I know what the look means.
“I’m here to stay, Em. This is real.” I say it, hoping to ease some of her fears.
But my words bounce right off her flimsy smile.
Emily is used to people coming and going from her life—and to be honest, I always thought I would be the person who left and never came back.
I didn’t realize until I was gone exactly how much of my heart lived here and wasn’t willing to pack up and move with me.
After leaving Emily’s, I hang my arm out the window, letting it surf through the wind as I drive to Huxley Farm.
I’ve been covered in winter frost, but I’m finally thawing and coming back to life.
It would be nice, though, if I didn’t keep replaying the look on Emily’s face a few minutes ago.
Does she think I’ll get restless and leave again?
Or . . . that I’ll screw up and run away?
I’m not comfortable with how both options align with my character.
But not anymore! I’ve changed. This is going to work. Failure isn’t an option, and neither is running away.
When I turn off the main road, my breath catches. It doesn’t matter how many times I see this place, I’m still mesmerized by this land and the farmhouse positioned at the front of it. It’s paradise.
A large ivory house sits on sprawling green grass—powder-blue sky with happy little Bob Ross clouds dotted across it. Cornfields stretch out from the left of the house, and then behind it, as well as off to the right, are thriving crops and industrial greenhouses.
My dad used to work full time on this farm before he and my mom passed away.
They were best friends with the Huxleys, and even though my mom worked at the Pie Shop with my grandma, she always dreamed of opening a flower shop of her own.
She convinced Mr. Huxley to rent her a little plot of land—for practically pennies—so she could start growing her own flower crop.
I hate that she died before she ever got to see her dream all the way through. But Annie made it happen for her. She still uses the same crop our mom planted and she named her shop after her: Charlotte’s Flowers.
A buzz hums under my skin as I get closer to the house because I finally get to be part of this place.
From time to time I imagine standing in front of my parents and telling them life updates. Usually the news makes them frown. But this time they smile from ear to ear.
“Hello! Anyone home?” I shout, Sammy’s cage tucked under my arm as I make my way into the Huxleys’ house. Or no . . . it’s just James’s house now, I guess.
The scent knocks into me like a bear hug from your best friend. It’s a smell unique to this place and the Huxley family. Warm and earthy with sharp citrus undertones that mix perfectly with some of my favorite memories.
As I wheel my suitcase into the house, part of me expects to see Ruth round the corner, wiping her hands on her white ruffled apron.
But she and Martin live in Florida now, in a sixty-and-up retirement community.
Which is why the Huxley house now belongs solely to James. A concept that’s still strange to me.
In high school, I would come over here from time to time with Noah, but he and James would run off to do something out on the farm, and I would sit at the island, watching Ruth work around the kitchen.
She was one of those hospitable ladies who would, when she heard someone walk through her front door, fly off to the kitchen to whip up a cake.
Or brownies. Or a meal if you hadn’t eaten yet.
You never left her house hungry—and now that I think of it, she’s part of the reason I fell in love with cooking.
The thing about Ruth, though—her hospitality didn’t stop in the kitchen.
It extended to making the coziest atmosphere you could imagine.
The Huxley house was where you wanted to spend your days because not only did Ruth and Martin love each other, but they saw the best in everyone who walked through their door.
And they knew how to laugh. Sitting around their table was never a polite experience.
It was a lesson in cackling. It isn’t hard to see why they were my parents’ best friends.
And because of that friendship, they always kept us Walker kids close.
That’s why I couldn’t refuse James’s offer to run his restaurant. To live on this farm and be part of the magic I always wanted to live inside.
No one answers when I call out, but that won’t stop me from making myself at home anyway.
This place is a farmhouse through and through. It has a grand entryway that leads to a big kitchen and a living room. A full wraparound porch, visible from every window. And the bedrooms are all upstairs.
It’s the kind of space that demands for you to kick off your shoes, curl up on the fluffy couch, and spill your deepest, darkest secrets.
“James? Tommy?” I yell out one more time but still don’t get a reply. No signs of life in the living room either.
Oh, the living room. James’s mom left almost all of her previous decor because they moved into a fully furnished retirement home in Florida.
And selfishly, I’m glad James kept everything mostly the same after they left, because these are not your average dusty and crusty old furnishings.
Picture the female main character’s home in the best Nora Ephron or Nancy Meyers film and then you almost have something as lovely as this place.
After setting Sammy on the kitchen counter and telling him to behave, I go upstairs to see if I can find James. The incredible scent that blankets the house intensifies with each ascending stair, and just as I crest the top of the landing and peek into James’s room, I see why.
His bathroom door opens, releasing a billow of steam, and James walks out in nothing but a white towel. Water droplets cling to his skin, and his hip bones seem to hold the towel up with passive indifference.
I am not shy about the human body—a fact that is more than evident in this moment as I openly stare at James—but as I watch him a hot flush creeps up my neck.
Because here’s the thing: Real-life farmers do not live perpetually half-naked like the ones portrayed in movies.
They do not bale hay with their shirts off, till crops with glistening sweat beading down their bare backs, or shower off under the hose while giving the horse a bath.
Which means I’ve had little opportunity to see James’s unclothed body.
He’s tall with suntanned forearms and crowbar collarbones. His shoulders are thick with muscle and the rest of him . . . yeah, also a muscular masterpiece. There’s proof in fifteen different places that he has a physical job, one he’s been doing most of his life.
Luckily, he hasn’t seen me ogling him, so I quickly duck back down the stairs and take a seat at the dinner table, positioned in the open space between the kitchen and living room, like I’ve been sitting here all along.
I open my bag and pull out my laptop so I can stare at it, but all I can see is James’s body.
What the hell is wrong with me? It’s just James—the responsible town golden boy who has always looked at me like I might strip naked and dance on the bar, embarrassing him to death at any moment. (Which maybe is a fair judgment.)
Point is, he’s as far from my type as a man can be. So why am I flushed from head to toe thinking of him in that towel?
“Oh, hey.” Tommy’s voice makes me jump as he comes in through the side door from the porch. “When did you get here?”
“A few minutes ago,” I say in a rush. “But I’ve been right here the whole time. Reading emails.” I umbrella all ten fingers over the keyboard. “Right here.”
He laughs, and I think there’s something in my tone or the fact that I keep mentioning my location that’s tipping him off. He rounds the table to inspect my laptop, and that’s when we both register the blank, dark screen.
I smile up at him. “It died.”