Chapter 1
Chapter One
Madison Adler
“How cute is that?” I say out loud, slowing my car down so I can get a better look.
On the outskirts of town, I notice a farmhand working at a roadside stand.
You know, one of those charming, country lean-two shanties on the side of the road that offer the most delicious produce picked fresh from the fields?
And the farmhand is kind of cute, too. He’s filling buckets and bins with vegetables and gorgeous flowers.
The big sign is cracked with peeling painted letters spelling Jamison Farm, barely legible to a passerby.
“Jamison, huh?” I decide to pull over and take a closer look.
“Hello,” the handsome man hollers, his gleaming white smile hard not to notice.
“Hi.” I smile back, carefully stepping across the rough patches of weeds and gravel on the side of the road. I really need to rethink my wardrobe choices while out on assignment.
Peeling off his work gloves, his beaming smile seems almost overexaggerated. “I’ve got my first batch of homegrown 'maters today.” His voice is thick with a southern drawl. “And the lavender…" He rolls his eyes, his smile growing even wider, if possible. “The lavender is in peak season.”
He grabs a handful from an industrial bucket, the narrow leaves holding a silvery down shimmer to them. The star-shaped, blue-violet flowers grow in clusters at the top of the stems, the heavenly aroma obvious.
“Go ahead, take a whiff,” he insists, his eyebrows rising high on his forehead. With his fingers wrapped around the base of the plant, he stretches his arm toward me.
I cautiously draw nearer to him. He’s undoubtedly good-looking, but his gigantic grin intimidates me. He hands off the lavender and seems to watch my every move, smiling broadly. I breathe in the delicate floral of sweet and woodsy. The scent reminds me of fresh basil or rosemary.
“Mmmm,” I exhale.
The man shoves his hands into the pockets of his overalls and leans back on his booted heels. “My name is George. What’s yours?”
My brow instantly furrows, and I’m unsure if I should engage in more conversation. He’s almost too friendly, which is throwing me off. But isn’t that how all small-town folks are? Friendly?
“Hello, George. My name is Madison.”
“Hi, Madison. It’s nice to meet you.”
His blue eyes rake over my posture, his pleasure on full display. The moment is awkward, and I watch his cheeks turn red before he abruptly walks toward the barn siding of the produce stand as if to get back to work.
I stand there with the lavender in my hands.
“Oh, here you go.” I hold up the bunch of flowers for him to see.
He offers another of his dorky smiles over his shoulder, his voice turning low as if embarrassed. “On the house, ma’am.”
I giggle at the word “ma’am.” No one has ever called me “ma’am” before. And what is it about his silly grin and friendly mannerisms? I know country folks are polite and welcoming, but this guy is unreal, a caricature of sorts.
I clutch the lavender to my chest and watch George work, his muscular biceps straining as he lifts and stacks crates of fresh produce.
I take in his cowboy boots and dark overalls, his gray tee underneath the bib dotted with perspiration.
His strength is evident, and my eyes flit down the entire length of his physique, landing on his magnificent backside.
Maybe it’s the scent of lavender sending me into a hypnotic state of calmness.
Or it could be George’s striking resemblance to my British supermodel obsession, David Gandy.
You know, the Dolce and Gabbana guy in the famous cologne commercial flaunting his tighty-whities on the picturesque island of Capri?
My goodness, George even has the same dark hair and striking blue eyes, causing my mouth to fall open in a stupor.
I humorously wonder if he’s wearing boxers or briefs underneath those overalls.
But no matter how handsome George appears, there is something slightly different about him. I chalk it up to country living.
“Thank you for the lavender, George. You’re a real peach.”
He sets a crate of “maters” on the hard ground and smiles at me again. “Oh, I love me some peaches. You should try Jenny’s peach cobbler at the Wild Daisy Inn in town if you’ve got the time. It’s the best.”
I purse my lips to thwart off a grin of my own. Knowing he’s talking about the same Jenny who checked me into my room earlier, I nod. “I just might do that. I’m staying there tonight. Thanks for the tip.” I twirl the lavender between my fingers. “Take care, George.”
I carefully backtrack to my car and get in, gently placing the lavender in the side pocket of my purse.
Pulling out onto the road, I look in the rearview mirror, and I’m stunned to see George standing next to the produce stand, waving at me like a little kid.
He has one hand on his hip, the other signaling goodbye with broad strokes through the air, his overzealous, gleaming white smile glinting in the bright sunshine with a diamond ping.
“Whew,” I whistle. “I wonder what his story is? He’s either high on life or…” I pause for a beat. “High on something.”
***
“Turn left at the stop sign and continue for two miles on Paradise Road,” the auto-voice instructs through the car speaker.
The smooth British accent programmed into the system seems fitting among the instrumental music softly playing throughout the interior, like a butler announcing high tea at a London hotel.
I come to a complete stop where the road dead-ends and look both ways. In the distance, heat waves sizzle on the black asphalt of the country road, and thick kudzu covers the trees like a green blanket, the pointy leaves snaking their way up the steel pole of the road sign.
“Paradise Road?” I question out loud. “Nothing about this area looks like paradise to me.”
I turn left and continue on the empty road flanked by more trees and dense vegetation.
There’d been little to no traffic, except for the oncoming snail of a rusty tractor I barely got around.
I offered a slight nod to the bearded driver, whose immediate grin revealed a few spaces of missing teeth.
He tipped his cowboy hat from behind the wheel in a friendly greeting.
Yup. I’m officially in the heart of the redneck Riviera. Not that I have anything against these folks. I just wish it wasn’t so hot.
Gripping the steering wheel, I relish the cool air blasting through the vent closest to my face. I envision myself somewhere in England, the voice giving me directions through the car speaker miraculously turning into my handsome British supermodel crush.
I imagine my current setting morphing into a lovely English countryside. We’d flirt incessantly as I navigated through winding woodlands dotted with moss-covered moors and stone walls, his Dolce cologne of citrus and musk tickling my senses.
But alas, my dream destination is far, far away, and the Brit is nothing more than an AI-generated GPS voice I’d chosen on a silly whim. And the smell in my car isn’t even close to Dolce cologne.
I sniff the air, my fantasy imploding like a popped bubble. The lingering aroma of stale coffee and the extra swipe of maximum strength deodorant to get me through the long, sweltering day bring me back to reality.
With my eyes glued to the back roads of middle Georgia, I’ve driven through several Podunk towns in the above-average humidity. I have no idea what to expect at my final destination. And I’m sure there are no British supermodels within a five-thousand-mile radius
Darn.
My reality hits me over the head like the southern humidity, the heavy air all muggy and sticky.
I’ve been tasked with convincing the Jamison farming family to sell their land to the corporate giant I represent.
My years as a consultant in mergers and acquisitions often take me to other parts of the US, usually meeting with land and company owners ready to make a deal.
But my latest prospect reminds me of a petulant child: feet firmly planted in the red Georgia clay, unwilling to even listen to the hefty financial proposition offered.
After months of unanswered phone calls and emails, my boss, Kevin Phillips, suggested a surprise in-person visit.
He seemed to believe I could magically woo the family into a preliminary conversation, even though I hadn’t scored a deal this size in years.
In fact, I’m sure my job is precariously on the line because of my unlucky losing streak when it comes to deal closings, the current market throwing a wrench into my career.
I know this is a do-or-die situation.
“Get the ball rolling, Madison,” Kevin insisted.
“Wine and dine them. Whatever it takes. Let them get a whiff of the kind of money we’re talking about, and I guarantee they’ll cave.
They always do. Gulfstream Dynamics has been scouting this area for years.
It’d also be a real boost for the town, with the potential to employ thousands just like the Savannah headquarters, a huge win for the community.
Gulfstream is, after all, the state’s top industrial employer. ”
I’m well aware of the successful plant in Savannah, Georgia, where over eleven thousand employees manufacture business jets.
They’re the top contender in their industry, the jets they produce used by the government and private corporations.
And because Georgia’s property tax rates are lower than most states, this helps investors realize larger profits.
It really is a win-win for all parties involved, including the beneficiary of the potential land sale, who would become a multi-millionaire overnight.
Still, I’m not convinced I can pull this off. With my self-confidence at an all-time low, my stress level is off the charts.
“Stan told me the patriarch of the family, Ralph Jamison, is a fourth-generation farmer who wouldn’t give him the time of day,” I’d countered.
Stan is my co-worker, and when he hadn’t been able to land an initial conversation with the family after numerous attempts, Kevin pivoted and reassigned the task to me. I feel like this is my last chance to prove myself among my testosterone-drenched colleagues.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “With the economic downturn in the southern farming industry, believe me, these folks are looking for a way out. Just work your magic like you always do, Mads. Stan couldn’t do it, so I’m counting on you. Gulfstream Dynamics is counting on you.”
After a few days of debriefing with Kevin and the bigwigs in Savannah, I got an early start to Heartsboro. My home base is in Atlanta, but I often drive to my clients’ corporate headquarters, especially if they’re in the same state.
With a large coffee in hand and the clearest blue sky overhead, the three-and-a-half-hour drive from Savannah to the small town of Heartsboro, Georgia, where the Jamison farm is located, flew by. Rolling into town, I was pleasantly surprised.
The community has a rural, almost Mayberry-esque aura.
It’s like stepping back in time, and I half expected to see Andy Griffith himself strolling along the uneven brick sidewalks outside the old-fashioned barber shop.
I marveled at the cheeriness of Main Street, which had obviously undergone a recent rehabilitation.
Heartsboro is simply charming.
The one-stoplight town has been brightened up and given new life with the addition of decorative, historic light poles painted a glossy black running the length of the street.
This adds a nod of nostalgia to days gone by.
Many of the storefronts still hold original windows and refurbished doors, and most of the historic buildings house an eclectic mix of businesses.
I immediately discovered how vital the Jamison family is in the community when I stopped by their popular roadside stand on the outskirts of town.
The bins were filled with fresh produce and flowers for customers.
The larger-than-life, weathered Jamison family logo painted on worn planks of old barn siding screamed, “buy local.” And let’s not forget about handsome farmhand, George.
He’s an added bonus for the tourists and locals, stopping a few cars and ladies in their tracks.
Even the Wild Daisy Inn I’d checked into earlier has a nostalgic feel, with its happy yellow front door flanked by giant urns of lavender and sunflowers.
The cherry on top of this small-town sundae is a prominent American flag flitting gently in the breeze, welcoming travelers into the 1908 turn-of-the-century building.
This is quintessential small-town southern living at its finest.
Even though Heartsboro is only an hour and a half from Atlanta, I planned on spending at least one night at the Wild Daisy Inn.
My motivation to convince the family to an all-expenses-paid dinner is foremost in my mind.
But as I drove down Main Street, I worried how the addition of thousands of Gulfstream Dynamics employees and their families might ruin the allure and appeal of such a quaint little town.
That’s always been my problem in this career. I care way too much.
Shaking off my wayward thoughts, I forge ahead, Paradise Road going from asphalt to dirt in the last mile toward the Jamison farm. A few minutes later, the Brit on the car speaker announces, “You have arrived at your destination.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gandy,” I forlornly quip, turning onto a gravel driveway. My British supermodel fantasy flashes through my subconscious a final time.
Slowing the car, I roll down the window and come to a stop. I rest my arm on the open ledge and peer over my sunglasses, taking in the surrounding pastureland.
The Jamison property is a hidden gem bordered by four hundred acres of cattle and horse farms with picture-perfect views of rolling hills along Pine Mountain Ridge.
The old farmhouse, circa 1885, stands prominent, the homestead complete with vintage barns and rows and rows of freshly planted produce and flowers among fields peppered with dark fence posts.
But the heavy lavender scent in the air is what makes me pause. The purple meadows are ripe for harvest in early June. One entire side of the property holds not only lavender but thousands of flowers, ranging from zinnias and cosmos to sunflowers and daisies.
“Wow,” I exhale dreamily.
Maybe I’ve arrived in paradise after all?