Chapter Six #2
“Sounds perfect. I’ll make sure to have a desk set up and ready for you. Do you have your own computer, or will you need one?”
“I have my own that I can bring, thank you though.”
“Absolutely. I’m so glad you stopped in, and I can’t wait to tell the team that you’ll be joining us!” Her smile appeared to have almost as much excitement as mine did.
I hugged her one more time, giving her an extra squeeze before turning and walking toward the door.
“Thanks again. I’ll see you Monday!”
“See you Monday, darling!”
I practically skipped down the town square, unsure if my buzz was coming from the commotion around me or the excitement inside of me.
Donna was right that it wasn’t Chicago, but I decided it would be better.
I had to chat with Wilson and let him know I wouldn’t be coming back, at least not full-time. Although, I couldn’t imagine he’d care too much considering I’d been MIA for seven months.
The black soft top of my old white Jeep Wrangler was easy to spot among the line of trucks that diagonally lined the street. I’d planned to run by Salvation Army first, but I was too keen on sharing my news with George that I headed straight south toward Rolling Meadows instead.
Leaves littered the winding road that led to the farm.
The canopy of overhanging trees had me contemplating whether I wanted to pull over and remove the top because nothing compared to a chilly little drive through the mountains.
The fresh air leaving your cheeks cold to the touch, the smell of burning firewood that would get stuck in your hair—and on your clothes for days—and the promise that new beginnings always looked a little sad before they bloomed.
I rolled down the window to test it out, and the chill that snuck down my spine strung a memory across the stage of my brain.
The fall after I turned seventeen held some of the worst months of my entire life after making one decision that would change the course of my entire life.
I remembered hating the change in the air, the coldness chilling me to the bone, slowly stealing who I was away from me.
The fall signaled that summer was over, and saying goodbye to that summer wasn’t about the summer at all.
Darkness came along with that goodbye, one that consumed me to my core and honestly still lingered in the shadows of my consciousness today.
My Jeep rolled still at a four-way stop, the red octagon forcing another memory to emerge. A better one. The sign was tattered with a few bullet holes and some graffiti under the large white letters that read STOP.
A smile creeped out.
Dad.
During one of our trips to Rolling Meadows that fall, on one of the really bad days, Dad had pulled his old red truck to the side of the road and made me get out.
“Come over here,” he’d said, pulling a chunky black Sharpie from his pocket.
Before I could ask him what he was doing, he started scribbling on the sign.
“Dad! What are you doing?” I gasped.
He hadn’t responded, at least not until he was done writing.
“We all need a reminder every now and then.”
He stepped back, enough that I could see the letters that now permanently resided on the sign.
Never STOP trusting who you are.
A tear had escaped and barreled down my cheek.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, don’t ever forget it,” he’d replied.
While the darkness at the time had been debilitating, I was lucky enough to be equipped with the impenetrable light of my parents’ love.
The three of us had always been close—perks of being an only child—but unfortunately, they no longer lived in Quincey Falls.
After they retired, they decided to move south—even farther—and settled in Florida.
And while I knew they couldn’t love it more and I was constantly getting updates from Mom, especially when it came to Dad’s weekly pickleball appointments with all of their new neighbors, I desperately missed them.
But I’d never say so, because nothing beat seeing the two of them happy and enjoying the life they had worked so hard for.
Hell, last week, they sent me a selfie of the two of them at some jazz festival, drinking beer and having the time of their lives.
If anyone deserved happiness, it was them.
My turn came quickly as I was lost in my thoughts.
Rotating the steering wheel to the left, I turned off Route 27, signaling I was close.
The gravel under my tires made the coins in my console jingle.
Just a few miles from the main route was the familiar natural-colored wooden fence I’d helped George build back when I was in high school, about the same time that shit had felt really heavy.
Despite the circumstances, we’d done a pretty damn good job. That was nearly thirteen years ago, and she was still standing just as strong as the first day.
Two large metal Fs—for Freeman—flanked the giant wooden entry gates. Centered and dangling above them was a metal sign that read “Rolling Meadows Farm” with the farm’s logo of a single barn sitting atop the famous Tennessee hills.
Pulling in, I noticed George’s F150 parked at the barn, so I headed there first.
“George! George, are you here?” I called from the driver’s side window.
I slid out of the seat, snagging my caramel-colored barn jacket from the passenger side.
“George?” I yelled out again.
With no response, I figured he was tinkering around inside the barn apartment.
I tugged the door open, a gust of warm air greeting me.
George didn’t live in here, but all of his hobby shit did.
Fishing flies was George’s thing, and when he committed to something, he really committed.
The entire space had been consumed with everything one might need to tie the perfect fly and then some.
That was what I loved about George. That man had never half-assed something in his entire life, and he had the stories to prove it.
“George, are you in here?”
Again, no response.
Walking back into the main part of the barn where the heater was nonexistent, the crisp air came with a wave of shivers, making me grateful I’d grabbed my jacket.
“Shit,” I heard from near the tack room, followed by a loud thud.
“Are you good?” I yelled back, but still got no answer. A tad worried, I put a little effort in my step, reaching the door in no time. “George?”
“Oh. Shit.” My eyes caught a backside that most definitely didn’t belong to a sixty-eight-year-old man.
“That’s what I’m sayin’.”
There it was. The low rumble of his gravel voice.
“Stetson?” I questioned.
“I’d love to respond with your name, but unfortunately you ran away before I could get that from you the other night,” he said with his smart-ass mouth.
“Scarlett, I wasn’t expecting you for a little bit.” George’s voice rang from behind us, his six-foot frame standing just outside the tack room.
“Scarlett,” Stetson repeated, the T stuck to his tongue like honey.
“That’s me. I’m Scarlett,” I said.
“Fitting.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I harped.
“It’s fiery.” He chuckled. “Just like you.”
“You might be on to something there, Stetson,” George chimed in, mimicking Stetson’s laugh but sounding far less angelic than him.
I whipped my head in George’s direction. “Hey now, aren’t you supposed to be on my team?”
“I never said it was a bad thing. Quite the opposite,” Stetson disputed.
I was grateful my head was facing George at that moment because I could feel a little army of red soldiers marching toward my cheeks.
“How do you two know each other?”
“Remember that show I told you about? The one I played at Booker Baker’s farm about a month ago, when I first got into town?” Stetson said.
George nodded.
“Scarlett was there”—it was as if he were testing emphasis points in my name, lingering on the L a little longer than normal this time—“and I had the pleasure of sharing a dance with her. Or rather a few seconds of a dance before she scurried off into the night.” He laughed.
“She was like the Southern version of Cinderella, except she didn’t leave her boot behind, so instead of being Prince Charming, I was just another lost cowboy. ”
The last sentence caught my attention enough to make me peer up and into his direction. Those baby blues were already locked on me, letting me know he knew exactly what he’d said.
Another lost cowboy.
“You left the poor man all alone?” George asked.
“I imagine he was just fine,” I said. “Plus, I’m sure he had a few autographs he needed to sign.” I shot a raised eyebrow right back at him.
Two could play this game.
“Oh, now that I’m sure of. Our town hasn’t stopped talking about you since the second you stepped foot on Quincey Falls soil. Not very often does a big-time star come play a private show, let alone take up residence here.”
Great.
I was over here doing my best to keep this man humble, and George was telling him the whole damn town hadn’t slept in a month because they were too busy planning out their next chance to spot him.
“George, you’re too kind, sir. I really was just looking for a quiet place to catch my breath, maybe slow down a bit, and Quincey Falls seemed like a good fit.” Both his voice and his body shifted. He turned around, collecting the last few bridles that still lay at his feet from the earlier mishap.
George was oblivious to his response, continuing on with, “I think you’ll find it’s the perfect place.”