Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Ridge
I’m enamored watching George and Madison from across the dining room table, the sweet couple taking turns holding baby Joey while we eat dinner.
It makes me wonder how Roman is doing back in California on his first Thanksgiving.
Is Whitney holding him? I doubt it. I push my guilty thoughts out of my mind and focus on the present.
Since I arrived on the farm, my interactions and conversations with the Jamison couple have been effortless.
George and Madison are more like long-time married friends than the sister and brother-in-law of the woman I’m falling for.
And isn’t it obvious that’s what I’m doing? Falling for Beverly Adler?
It was nice spending yesterday exploring the farm and fields with her.
It was nice coming back to the main house and getting to know her sister and brother-in-law with the tea kettle on the stove and fresh banana bread slices lined up in a scalloped dish on the kitchen island.
The old dog, Earl, and Frankie, the tortoiseshell cat, lounging across the rug by the screened door near George’s discarded cowboy boots.
It was nice waking up to Beverly greeting me on the front porch of the guest cottage, his and her cups of hot coffee in hand, her hair still damp from a shower, and her eyes lighting up at the sight of me.
It was nice being pressed against her in a good-morning hug, her skin warm and fresh.
Since the first day I met Beverly, I’ve felt this pull toward her.
But now that I’m here on the farm, it’s worse.
I find myself watching her and grinning like a lovesick teenager.
Her fondness and loyalty for her family are heartwarming and something I yearn for.
I’m more settled around her, her sunshine smile and pink-highlighted cheeks opening some secret part of me.
I’ve been thinking about Beverly since she left California.
And now that I’m near her again, I’m undoubtedly happier. I don’t know how else to explain it.
During a break in our dinner conversation and in between bites of the most delicious turkey and mashed potatoes I’ve ever put in my mouth, Beverly leans close to my ear, her lips brushing against my skin. My entire body erupts in goose bumps.
“Save room for pumpkin pie,” she whispers seductively.
I turn, and we’re nose to nose. “I’m looking forward to it.” There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes as I offer her a luscious smirk. I watch her cheeks blossom with my favorite shade of peony.
We’ve been like this for the past twenty-four hours, our flirtatious banter a kind of foreplay enhanced by our secret kisses, subtle touching, and cuddling.
I’m dangling on the edge of desire, doing my best to love this woman respectfully.
I shift in my seat and take a quick sip of cold water to tame my growing libido.
She has to know what she does to me, unless she’s naturally oblivious and acting on untamed instincts.
Still, I’ll do just about anything to be close to her, her powerful kisses igniting a burning flame inside of me.
“Could you please pass the gravy?” I ask.
Madison smiles and hands over a delicate gravy bowl with a small ladle. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” I pour some on the side of my bulging plate loaded with Thanksgiving favorites.
The entire morning preparing for our feast was a blur of activity after we watched the New York parade.
It was fun standing at the farmhouse sink and peeling potatoes.
Lifting the twenty-pound bird out of the oven so Beverly could baste it every hour with her buttery herb sauce.
Sitting on the front porch in ancient rockers while staring up at the cloudless sky as blue as a California mountain lake.
Traipsing dirt paths past the red barn to the field’s edge to collect pinecones for the dining room centerpiece.
Cracking stupid knock-knock jokes with George, his son strapped to his flannel-covered shoulders in a baby carrier, the autumn air nipping at our noses.
I feel myself start to settle in this comforting place, my shoulders finally relaxing with the first deep breath I’ve taken in what feels like years.
“Bev, you should take Ridge to the Milton’s old place,” George says with his mouth full of cornbread dressing.
I look at Beverly, who’s nodding at her brother-in-law. “I totally should,” she says.
I fork a bite of gravy-covered turkey and pause. “Who are the Miltons? And what’s so special about their place?” I ask.
Madison chimes in with gusto. “It’s the old farmhouse about a mile down the road from us. Beverly’s been eyeing the property, hoping the family might put it on the market since Mr. Milton passed.”
“He was well into his eighties and a good friend of my grandfather,” George adds.
“But he hasn’t been living there for the last five years.
His family put him in a nursing home after his health started to deteriorate and the farm became too much for him to handle on his own.
Since his passing, they’ve been trying to decide what to do with the house and the land. ”
I’m intrigued. “Well, why wouldn’t they want to keep it in the family?”
“They all live out of state,” Beverly explains.
“It’s more of a hassle for them to keep up the home and property being so far away.
I’ve been emailing Keri Clayton at the Heartsboro Real Estate office for updates.
She told me she’s talked to the family and believes it’s only a matter of time before it goes on the market. ”
“You’d pack up your life in Atlanta and move here?”
“Yup, that’s the plan.” She grins and takes a big bite of a buttered roll.
“Bevy and I have a sister-pact to be neighbors one day. She’s been scouting real estate around these parts since George and I got married.” Madison winks across the table at Beverly.
“I’ve always wanted to live out in the country,” she admits.
“Really?”
“Yes. Since I was a young girl. But Maddy here beat me to it.” She laughs and throws a pinch of roll across the table at her sister.
“Hey!” Madison hollers, catching it. “It’s not my fault George Jamison swept me off my feet and saved me from my suffocating corporate job.” She stuffs the bite of roll into her mouth and chews. George beams and kisses her on the cheek as we all laugh.
“Tell me more,” I request. I’m enthralled watching Beverly come alive while talking about her dreams.
“Well, I’ve always wanted a house with a wraparound porch with meadow views. The Milton farm has both.”
“She wants a garden to grow her own vegetables and a huge kitchen with an island so she can bake,” Madison adds.
“Don’t forget about the kitten,” George says.
“A kitten?” I chuckle.
Beverly shakes her head. “Y’all know me too well. And yes, Ridge, in my farmhouse fantasy, I’ve always wanted to rescue a shelter kitten.”
“Oh, this isn’t some fantasy, Bevy. This will be your reality someday soon. I just know it. You’ve been talking about it since we were kids.”
“I guess I have.” She turns toward me and asks, “Do you like kittens?”
“Absolutely.” My answer induces an immediate blush and a fluttering of lashes from her. What this woman does to me…
“I’ve already looked into transferring to one of the rural schools. And the thought of spending weekends working in my own garden or antiquing in the surrounding area of Heartsboro would be a dream come true.”
“And having four or five kids,” George interjects. All heads swing in his direction, and he seems taken aback, his cheeks immediately dotting with color. “You said it, Beverly, not me.”
I look at her again. Her embarrassed expression is a dead giveaway that George is correct.
“What can I say?” She forces an uncomfortable giggle. “I love children, and I’d like to have a few of my own someday.” Her eyes dart to her sister’s, and her voice switches into a playful, husky sound through gritted teeth. “Give me that baby.”
We all laugh as Madison passes Joey off to Beverly.
I’m spellbound watching her every move, the tiny tot’s toothless grin as she tickles the underside of his chin making me melancholy to check in on Roman.
I shove another forkful of turkey and cranberry sauce into my mouth, my thoughts swirling with possibilities.
Beverly wants a farm. A kitten. Children…
After we finish second helpings, we’re all too full for pumpkin pie and decide to wait until later for the decadent finish to our Thanksgiving feast. Clearing off the pretty china and leftover food from the dining room table, Beverly hip-bumps me.
“You wanna go for a little ride while it’s still daylight?”
“Where to?” I ask.
Her cheeky grin is immediate. “Milton Farm.”
***
Beverly drives me across the remote country back roads like a boss in George’s old pickup truck. The undercarriage creaks and squeals with each divot we hit, our bottoms bouncing on the leather bench seat. Oddly, a pickup truck suits her.
I stretch my arm across the seatback and caress a strand of her hair hanging over her shoulder. “Thanksgiving dinner was great,” I say.
She glances at me and smiles. “It sure was. We’re going to have leftovers for days.”
“I love leftovers.” I glance at her and then back at the road.
I want to remember this holiday, this version of her, forever in my memory.
Golden meadows flashing by the windows. A satisfied smile on her pretty face.
Her perfect posture with her hands placed on the steering wheel in the nine and three o’clock position.
“The Milton place is just over this hill,” she says, slowing the truck down.
I sit up a little straighter, my eyes roaming the horizon.
A crooked mailbox sits by the roadside, the worn, denim-blue letters spelling “Milton” barely legible to a passerby.
A barbed-wire fence runs the length of the property parallel to the road, and the driveway entrance is littered with leaves in varying degrees of decomposition.
Beverly speeds right over them under a canopy of twisted trees lining the drive.
“Almost there,” she squeals. Her excitement is contagious.
I lean forward to get a better view, the dappled early-evening light through the branches in the rural setting making it hard to get a good look at the farmhouse from afar.
I can tell it’s a two-story, and right away, I can see the welcoming, wraparound porch, the main feature on her dream-home bucket list.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Beverly sighs, putting the vehicle in park. She doesn’t give me time to answer and scurries out of the truck like an animated little girl. “Come on!”
Her quiet laugh is music to my ears. “I’m coming.”
I join her on the footpath that leads to the center entrance, the rustic farmhouse and surrounding land reminding me of a movie set. Standing side by side, we both stare at the large home, and I’m touched when she grabs my hand and squeezes.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“I think it’s incredible.”
She turns her body to face me, beaming with pride. “Really?”
“Yeah.” I look up at the metal roof and dormer windows, imagining myself looking out over the property with a bird’s eye view. It’s extremely quiet and peaceful, the surrounding area exuding privacy. The thought of living out in the country is suddenly very appealing to me.
“Any chance we can sneak inside?”
She giggles again and lets go of my hand, trotting up the front steps to the door. A worn mat still sits on the ancient porch boards in front of the door, thousands of feet from over the years making it threadbare. She lifts the edge and produces a brass key.
“I told Keri, the real estate agent in Heartsboro, that I’d be in town this holiday weekend. She said she’d leave me a key under the mat so I could take a look inside.”
“The old key-under-the-mat trick. I love it.”
“I haven’t been here since they hired movers and cleaned the place out.
She said they left the appliances and a few boxes in the basement they’ll get to later.
” She stands stick straight and holds up the key.
“Do you like exploring old houses? Or have you seen enough and would rather get back and have pumpkin pie?”
The way she’s looking at me with hope gleaming in her gorgeous eyes leaves me unsettled.
I can’t wait to get inside and explore her dream home with her.
To see her innocent face light up at the sight of vintage floors and walls, her mind going into overdrive, imagining herself living here.
For her to welcome me into her fantasy world is a gift.
And for a split-second, I let myself picture what it might be like—Beverly, Roman, and I, living here in our own little country paradise far away from all of the Hollywood craziness.
I slowly come up the steps, take the key from her hands, and stick it into the lock. Palming the door open, I say, “After you, Lovely.”