Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Beverly
Apart from driving by numerous times, I’ve only ever set foot on the Milton property one other time.
It was shortly after we found out Mr. Milton had passed away while I was visiting Maddy, George, and the baby.
We left a dozen sunflowers on the doorstep, along with a sympathy card for the family.
No funeral or celebration of life service was planned.
Just a tiny obituary published in the Heartsboro Crier, letting the townspeople know Mr. Milton had peacefully died in the nursing home where he lived.
George insisted we tuck a black-and-white photo into the card: a picture of his grandfather, Ralph Jamison, and Mr. Milton together.
Two friends with stoic expressions across their weathered faces, arms slung across each other’s shoulders.
Once word got out, the entire front porch of the old home resembled a memorial, with flowers, photos, and cards scattered across the wide board planks; a testimony to the obvious respect the townspeople had for this Heartsboro native.
I remember being introspective and thinking about Mr. Milton as Madison and I walked the perimeter of the home and explored the surrounding land while George stayed behind with Joey in the truck.
It was all very innocent at the time. But a seed had definitely been planted.
I had peeked through the windows and wondered what the family was going to do with the place now that Mr. Milton was gone.
It was the end of an era for Ralph and Mr. Milton, these two pillars of Heartsboro leaving a void in the community as the baton of family land and homes were passed on to the next generation.
However, Mr. Milton’s family lives out of state, and according to local real estate agent Keri Clayton, the elderly siblings and their grown children aren’t interested in carrying on the family legacy in Heartsboro and are exploring their options.
As tragic as this may sound, it could be an open opportunity for me to stake my claim and start a new heritage.
What that looks like, I have no idea. But I can still dream of the possibilities…
Before I enter the home, I stand under the deep overhang and imagine dropping off my muddy boots after working in my garden all day, or sitting on a porch swing in the shade protected from the withering heat of the afternoon sun, hoping a breeze will stir up.
Perhaps I’ll duck for cover from a fast-moving thunderstorm and stare out at the land with a smile plastered on my face while I rock back and forth in one of those handmade rocking chairs?
The wraparound porch is what first drew me to the Milton house, and standing here again, it does not disappoint.
I grin at Ridge as I cross over the threshold to the inside.
The interior of the farmhouse is empty, the faint scent of musk and mildew mixed with familiar traces of cleaning supplies assaulting my senses.
Our footsteps echo across the weathered pine floors as I stare up at the ten-foot ceilings, my jaw dropping.
The last time I was here and looked through the first-floor windows, I could make out mismatched antique furniture, rugs, and heavy draperies.
Now that I’m inside the cleaned-out vacant space, I can see clearly for the first time how marvelous and large the home really is.
“Wow,” Ridge says, palming the mahogany newel post of the grand staircase in the foyer. “This place is huge!”
“Yeah. Without all the furniture and window coverings, you can really get a true sense of it all.”
The traditional 19th-century Southern farmhouse, stripped of its furnishings, now looks different to me. It’s rich with potential. My mind is spinning with thoughts of furniture placement and wall coverings, where I’ll hang my late father’s artwork and place my own antique collectibles.
I drag my fingers across the hallway wall into the kitchen, my whispered respect for Mr. Milton and his family a kind of manifestation to make this real estate sale happen.
With its large cookstove and built-in cupboards, I marvel at the heart of the home, imagining myself pulling out loaves of banana bread and numerous pies.
I grip the edges of the farmhouse sink and look out the window.
The screened-in area of the back porch shows wear and tear, with curling pieces of ripped screen hanging sadly from the trim.
But in my mind, I can envision a twirling ceiling fan and bright green ferns hanging from iron hooks, swaying in the breeze.
We explore the upstairs and get a kick out of the ancient wallpapered bedrooms, the playful botanical designs of colorful flowers, leaves, and geometrical shapes, giving each room a theme of sorts.
Oh, how I wish I could’ve seen this home back in its heyday, with four-poster beds stacked with linens, and vanities with oval mirrors and cushioned benches.
Steamer trunks and trundles. Woven rugs and patchwork quilts.
I look out the window toward the field beyond a shaded patio.
I imagine my own fire pit and Adirondack chairs circled up for intimate conversations and fellowship.
A big grill, and maybe an outdoor kitchen where I can entertain.
I can see deer grazing in the meadow, the wind moving in waves over the field just as relaxing as watching ocean tides crashing on a beach.
I look over at Ridge, who’s standing in front of the adjacent window with his hands on his hips.
“Do you see the deer?” I ask.
“Yeah. I can see them.”
“Madison told me the entire back field is filled with sunflowers in the summertime.”
“I’d love to see that.”
I walk over to him and wrap my arms around his middle. “Me too. What else do you see?”
He rests an arm across my shoulders and points at a large magnolia tree, the waxy dark green leaves tinting in the hazy autumn dusk. “There’s an old tire swing hanging from the tree.”
I follow his pointed finger and spot the black tire attached to three rusted chains fastened to a substantial branch. I’m instantly delighted. “Maybe we can get it refurbished so Roman and Joey can enjoy it someday?”
Ridge flicks his gaze at me. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, and I don’t press him. Instead, I squeeze my arms tighter around his waist and lay my head against his chest. Boy, am I deep into this happily ever after scenario or what?
We discover hidden stairs to the attic and both agree that the giant space with dormer windows would make a great bonus room.
We also concur that all the bathrooms are in a state of disrepair and in dire need of renovation, with the potential cost increasing significantly in my mind.
Still, standing there in the hallway and eyeing the claw-foot tub from afar, I can envision my fantasy slowly coming to life.
A ringtone from Ridge’s cell phone brings me out of my daze. He frowns, looking at the screen. “I better take this.”
“Whitney?”
He nods. “I tried to call her earlier to see how Roman is doing and to wish them a happy Thanksgiving, but it went straight to voicemail.”
“No worries.” I offer him a reassuring smile. He nods and clambers down the staircase, his rich baritone voice greeting his California baby mama with politeness.
I sit on the top step and rest my elbow on my knee, cupping my chin with my hand.
This is the part of our relationship I’m not sure how to navigate.
I know he’s trying to keep the peace with Whitney so he can have some semblance of a relationship with his son.
But how will our relationship continue to grow with the long distance between us?
I can make out Ridge talking from somewhere in the house, his clipped conversation brief and concise. When he hollers for me, I sit up with a start.
“Hey, Beverly, you’ve gotta come and see this.”
I trot down the stairs and come around the corner of the living room. I immediately frown when I see it. “Do you think they left it on purpose?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
Ridge is standing next to an upright piano in the corner of what would have been the formal living room, the naturally aged dark wood adding character to the space.
Light streams in through the nearby window, illuminating the dust on the piano’s surface.
The scratches and dings bear the marks of generations of Miltons, who might’ve gathered around and played the giant instrument.
He sits down on the creaky piano bench and opens the lid, revealing yellowed keys chipped with age.
Pressing a few of them in a chord, the immediate sound is slightly dissonant and unstable.
I wrinkle my nose. “Ew. That sounds terrible.”
“Not very melodic, is it?” He laughs and continues to play the notes. “The longer a piano goes without tuning, the more the sound is dulled or muted. It sounds very old.”
“Yeah, like an old saloon piano. It’s off kilter.” I sit next to him.
“It’s probably from the hot summers and humidity. But you might be able to salvage it. It fits right in.”
I love his positivity; he talks as if I already own the place. I dare to ask, “Everything okay back in California?”
He nods and continues to play slightly skewed musical intervals as I watch his hands move gracefully across the instrument. Long fingers. An expensive watch surrounding his tapered wrist. Well-groomed nails. Strong hands I desperately want wrapped around my body.
“I didn’t know you played the piano,” I say, shifting uncomfortably on the bench.
“You saw my baby grand at my house, didn’t you? I love to play, but I can never find the time.”
“You took lessons?”
“Sure did. Four years of piano lessons when I was a kid. My mom always wanted me to join a lounge band and play in Vegas.” He playfully wiggles his eyebrows and starts tickling the ivories with a vaguely familiar Frank Sinatra tune. “I’m kidding.”
I laugh, and we look at each other before I purposely lean closer, his lips so close I can practically taste them.
He stops playing and cups my chin with a sturdy hand and pulls me forward, devouring my mouth in a rush of heated breath.
I feel my face warm, my center pulsing with butterflies.
We linger in the passionate kiss for several seconds.
When I pull back, my tingling mouth kicks up at the corners. “Have I told you what an incredible kisser you are?”
Ridge leans in and presses his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. “You’re the one who’s incredible.”
“Mmmm.” I moan and greedily lean in for another luscious swipe of his tongue.
Every single time we’re together is incredible, but kissing this man is something different. I’m needy, his lips opening up a portal inside of me that I’ve not known. It’s serotonin overflow, like an awakening, stimulating my brain. Intriguing thoughts. Unquenchable desire. Arousal.
I jerk back from him with an epiphany.
“What’s wrong?” He frowns and gently slides his fingertips across my heated cheek.
“I… I’m…,” I stutter. I’ve never openly discussed sex cravings with a man, only that I’m saving myself for marriage.
“Tell me.”
My escalating passion for Ridge Wilson makes me feel like I could burst wide open.
I realize I’m teetering across both sides of a fine line I’ve created between us.
On one side is this incredibly handsome, sexy-as-sin celebrity, who’s probably been with dozens of women over the years.
My goodness, the man already has a child who is the result of a drunken one-night stand!
On the other side is me, an inexperienced, never-been-touched, thirty-something virgin.
What makes me think he’d ever wait for someone like me, unless my abstinence is some kind of conquest for him?
Maybe he can’t help himself, driven by a primal urge to pursue me.
To woo me into submission, my virtue destroyed in a single moment…
“—Beverly,” Ridge says a little louder, interrupting my invasive thoughts. I stiffen as he holds my face in his hands. “Where did you go just now?” His expression is scrunched with worry, his eyes tracing my face.
My breath is shallow. Panting. My only logical response is to tell him the truth. It’s now or never.
“I want you, Ridge. I want you so bad… I think I’m willing to go back on the things I believe.”