Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Beverly
And suddenly, it’s November again, and time has passed without my permission.
I’m back at Jamison Farm for the Thanksgiving holiday week, and I can’t help but think November has a memory that the other months don’t.
It has a slight clinginess, like hay, that you can’t pick out of your clothes.
Scattered family flashbacks from long ago.
Autumn scents reminding me of my childhood.
Seasonal music and foods that usually fill me with happiness.
But I’m not happy, which is odd because I usually love the official kickoff to the most wonderful time of the year.
I find myself sitting on the front porch of my sister’s farmhouse early in the morning with a rooster crowing in the distance, hot coffee warming my hands. Fallen leaves dance in circles, the chilly breeze a concerted effort to wake me up from another fitful night’s sleep.
Where does the time go? What do the upcoming holidays have in store for us? And what was it I thought I had, and where did it end up?
“Good morning.”
I turn at the sound of George’s voice. My sister’s sweet husband is dressed and ready for the day, his flannel shirt and jeans a regular uniform on the farm. “Morning, George.”
“Rough night?” He curiously peers down at my attire. I’m dressed in mismatched socks, leggings, an over-sized sweatshirt, slippers, and my winter coat.
“You could say that.”
His heavy boots cause the porch boards to creak as he ambles to the rocker next to mine and sits. “You wanna talk about it? I’m a good listener.”
I smirk and lift my mug closer to my face, the hot vapors warming the tip of my nose. “I know you are, but there’s nothing to talk about.”
“You sure?”
I angle my head and look at George. He’s staring out at the land without a worry line on his face. I’m thankful he’s in a good place, the man a great husband and an extraordinary father. I’m glad for him and my sister. I can only hope that one day I’ll be as lucky as they are.
My shoulders lift in a heavy sigh. “I’m just tired, George. The last few weeks of teaching before the holiday break can be tough.”
He nods, as if he understands. “I’m glad you get a break and you’re here for Thanksgiving. So is Madison. We’re both looking forward to your pumpkin pie again this year.”
I laugh. Leave it to George and his insatiable appetite for my desserts. “I’ll have you know I made two pies.”
“Two?” His brows lift high on his forehead, and he turns to look me square in the face. He seems shocked by his good fortune.
“Yes, sir, two pies. But don’t be getting sneaky on me and stealing a piece before we’ve had our turkey.”
Now it’s George’s turn to laugh. “No, ma’am. I won’t be doing none of that, I promise.”
“Good.” I stare out at the family land my sister is now a part of, a hazy fog lifting from Pine Mountain Ridge in the distance.
Ridge.
It’s been several weeks since I left California, and I desperately miss him.
I miss the low timbre of his voice during our late-night phone conversations.
I pine for his kisses and his strong hand holding mine.
I long to gaze into his eyes that hold a trace of mischievousness and sex appeal.
Thank goodness we agreed not to completely end things.
Instead, we made the mutual decision to take a break and circle back after the New Year.
This has allowed him time to navigate this new chapter of his life, especially over the holidays.
Still, wherever I go and whatever I do, I can’t help but wonder where we truly our in this relationship.
I can’t even imagine how Ridge has been handling being a new father in the spotlight.
Arthur and his team helped him navigate the public scrutiny that followed after an official statement was made during a press conference I saw on TV.
Since then, the entertainment news stories splashed across the magazines at the grocery store are filled with images of him and Whitney, the public eating them up.
Interestingly enough, they are never together.
Always apart. Believe me, I’ve noticed. It’s been surreal watching his life play out in pretty pictures from afar.
The first public images of Whitney and baby Roman probably fetched a handsome amount of money for the lucky videographer who captured them on film.
They’d arrived at a movie studio, Whitney appearing boho-chic in her long maxi dress and tattoo sleeves, while wearing dark sunglasses and carrying her son inside.
I was glued to the TV watching the entertainment news story unfold, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ridge.
But he was nowhere in sight. Or maybe he was already inside the studio, waiting for his newly-formed little family to arrive? My heart ached not knowing.
“Talk to me, Beverly,” George says.
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the rocker. Maybe talking to my brother-in-law might do me some good?
“The holidays can get kind of lonely for me, that’s all.”
“What about that Hollywood fella? You know he’s more than welcome to join us for Thanksgiving.”
I open my eyes and look at George, touched by his offer. “That’s very kind of you. But I don’t think you’ll be seeing him anytime soon. He needs to stay in California for a while. That’s where his son lives.”
“Yeah, Madison told me all about it.”
I rock quietly and sip from my mug, ready to move on from this sore subject.
“She also told me you’re in love with him.”
I stop rocking. “What?”
“Madison said you love him.”
“I never said that.”
“Well, you miss him, don’t you?”
I frown. “Maybe?”
“I’ll bet he misses you too, and if you invited him here for Thanksgiving, he’d come in a heartbeat.”
“I doubt it. He’s been kind of busy dealing with the media storm in California.”
“Media storm?” he questions.
I backpedal, knowing George often misunderstands word variations because he’s on the spectrum.
“Haven’t you seen the gossip papers in the grocery store checkout line or the paparazzi videos on Entertainment Tonight lately?
The media won’t leave the poor man alone.
They’re like a tornado swirling all around him. ”
“Oh, I get it. A ‘media storm.’ Right. Well, all the more reason for him to get out of town.” George stands and walks to the porch railing. I watch him grip the edge with his large hands. He sniffs the air. “Smells like more rain again today.”
“Bummer,” I reply.
He’s quiet for another minute. I’ve learned from my sister to let him be during these moments so he can mull over the words in his mind he wants to say during a conversation.
Finally, he says, “Do you want to know what I think?”
“Of course. Tell me, George.”
He nods and continues to look out over the horizon, his voice calm and truthful. “Sometimes the best love stories are the ones that develop softly. Patiently.”
“I agree. You and Madison are proof of that.”
George turns and looks down at me with a slight half-grin on his rugged face, his intense blue eyes holding my attention. “But in your case, maybe your love story needs a different location. A place far away from Hollywood, without an audience.”
A shiver runs through me, and I clutch my mug a little tighter to steady my hands.
“Think about that for a little bit while I top off your coffee. I’ll be right back.” He takes the mug from me and disappears into the house, leaving me alone with my whirling thoughts.
“No audience,” I mumble to myself.
George Jamison might be one of the wisest men I know.
***
I’m content watching the autumn rain through the windows as I sit at the kitchen table and sip my last cup of morning coffee.
Baby Joey has dozed off in his bouncy chair, and my sister is upstairs taking a quick shower while I keep an eye on him.
I could fall asleep myself, the rhythmic sound of the rain hitting the roof a form of white noise lulling me into a relaxed state of mind.
That, and the possibility of seeing Ridge again sooner rather than later.
But I want to talk to Madison first. I want to ask her why she told George I’m in love with Ridge. I also don’t want to boldly invite him for Thanksgiving without her blessing. I mean, I know she’ll be all for it. But will Ridge?
We’ve kept in touch for the most part, but only through text messages.
If I suddenly call him out of the blue and ask him to pack up and come to Atlanta in the next twenty-four hours to join us for Thanksgiving, would he even be able to get away?
Maybe Whitney has already made family plans for them?
As she should, I guess. And what if Ridge genuinely wants to experience his first Thanksgiving with his son? I can’t deny him that.
I must admit, I still have feelings for the man. Deep, heart-pounding, I-need-to-see-him-again feelings. Is it love? I don’t know. I’ve never been in love before.
I shrug, my hand accidentally bumping my mug and causing it to spill. “Shhh,” I whisper to myself. My eyes dart to Joey, who hasn’t moved. My sister’s child can sleep through anything.
I grab a napkin from the lazy Susan in the middle of the table and pause before wiping up the spill.
Instead, I dip my index finger into the dark puddle and hold it over the napkin pressed against the solid surface.
The liquid seeps into the thin paper as I draw a rudimentary heart shape with droplets of coffee and smile.
I remember the first day I met Ridge in the library.
When he entered my life in all of his magnetic, larger-than-life glory.
And then I went and branded him with a splash of coffee in the shape of a heart…
“What are you doing?”
I lift my head to see Madison coming toward me with a humored expression on her makeup-free face. I immediately wad up the napkin and wipe up my coffee spill.
“Just cleaning up my mess.”
Maddy sits in the chair across from me. Her face softens as she looks at Joey peacefully napping, the look of motherly devotion a beautiful sight to behold. I’ve never seen my sister appear more radiant.
“I hate to wake up my little boo-man,” she says.
“Why do you have to wake him? He looks so comfortable and content.” We both stare at him, snuggled in his long-sleeved onesie dotted with little cowboy boots across the fabric, his rosebud lips suckling the air.
“He’s on a great feeding schedule and finally sleeping through the night. If I let him nap and miss a feeding, he gets all out of whack.”
I nod and watch her unclip the safety harness holding him in the seat.
She gently lifts him from the chair, and he slowly stretches and wakes, making the cutest little groans and grunts.
Knowing that Ridge’s son, Roman, does the same thing fills my heart with happiness.
I’m mesmerized watching my sister in mother mode. Learning. Waiting. Wishing.
“I want to ask you a question, Maddy. It’s been on my mind this morning, and the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve warmed up to the idea. But hey, it’s okay if you’re not on board.”
Madison rocks Joey against her shoulder, one hand on his little diapered butt, the other holding his upper back and neck.
She’s a natural with him and has transitioned brilliantly into a loving mother and wife out here on the farm.
It’s hard to believe it was only a year and a half ago that she was flying all over the states, working her corporate job like a boss, wearing designer heels and pencil skirts.
Witnessing her transformation into a more relaxed and contented woman while helping her husband run a flower farm and mothering her child has been the most joyful and rewarding experience to behold.
“I already know what you’re going to ask me,” she remarks. “And the answer is yes.”
“Wait… what? How do you know what I’m going to ask you?”
I watch in amazement as she lifts up her oversized shirt and unbuttons the flap of her nursing bra with one hand while holding Joey with the other. She cradles him, and he goes right for the bull’s-eye without missing a beat. These two are something else.
“George,” we say in unison before erupting in a bout of giggles.
“Yes, he told me you were thinking about inviting Ridge for Thanksgiving. You totally should,” Madison says.
“And did you tell George I was in love with Ridge?” I cock an eyebrow and stare my sister down. She hardly flinches, shifting Joey under her shirt while he nurses.
“I told George you were ‘falling’ for Ridge.”
“Well, that’s a big difference.”
She waves me off. “You know how George can misinterpret the way we phrase things. Just let him think you’re in love with Ridge. It makes him happy.”
I snort-laugh. “Well, if George thinks I’m in love with Ridge, then who am I to deny him his happiness, right?”
She smiles. “Exactly.”