Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Madison
Through my prior meetings and research, I learned generations of Jamison’s have farmed this lush, fertile soil for over a hundred years.
From a recent newspaper article, I read how Ralph Jamison takes pride in preserving his family’s farming heritage by offering homegrown produce, herbs, and flowers year-round.
From ripe, hand-picked tomatoes to a harvest of zucchini, squash, cucumbers, green beans, and more, the Jamison farm provides a seasonal bounty of fresh and delicious produce and gorgeous flowers from farm to table.
But I know farming can be fickle in these parts, with years of bounty often overshadowed by the impacts of droughts and floods. I’ve seen it before in other land deals. The risk and uncertainty are a critical challenge, and many farmers opt to sell their land before losing it all together.
It’s all very sad.
To cope with my empathy, I remind myself that the Jamison property isn’t just a family farm.
It’s a business, and I know a farmer like Mr. Jamison is in it to make money and support his family.
Pretty flowers and lavender-scented air aside maybe I timed this right, and he might be willing to listen to what I have to offer. Perhaps I really can help him?
Too bad the farm looks idyllic and prosperous, with a breathtaking view of the land resembling a shiny feature in Southern Living Magazine.
Exhaling noisily, I know this will be a hard sell from the get-go.
The rural beauty and a family history steeped in farming traditions are a definite roadblock to Gulfstream Dynamics’ attempts.
But I have a job to do, my boss’s voice reverberating through my mind, “Gulfstream Dynamics is counting on you.”
“This is business,” I say out loud, trying to give myself a little pep talk. “And you need to keep your job.”
Driving slowly, parallel to the dark fence posts lining the main entrance, I glimpse a tall man in the distance. His hands are planted on his hips in a defiant pose, and his scowl is perceptible from beneath the tattered edges of his cowboy hat.
His appearance is way older than I expected. Hard work is caked on his overalls, and sweat pours from his neck, saturating the edges of his denim shirt. The old dog behind him barks a low, ragged sound before settling protectively near his legs.
Taking a deep breath of lavender-scented courage, I steel myself for our initial meeting. Speaking with grumpy landowners over the phone is one thing. Meeting them in person, unannounced, is entirely out of my comfort zone.
Quickly, I put my car in park and exit, the sunny smile plastered on my face, intentional.
“Mr. Jamison?”
He pauses for a second and kicks at the gravel. “Who’s asking?”
The man pulls a faded red bandanna from his back pocket and swipes it at his face. His wrinkled features evoke tiredness—or maybe dread.
I confidently shove my hand toward his in a shake, to which he looks at me with repugnance. Not about to cower under pressure, I retract my hand, slip my sunglasses into my hair, and stand slightly taller.
“Hi. I’m Madison Adler, a representative for Gulfstream Dynamics. I’ve left you several messages hoping we can discuss your farm.”
“Not interested.” He turns and shuffles away, his canine companion dutifully following.
“Excuse me, sir? I hear you loud and clear, okay?”
The bright sunlight causes me to squint, my voice turning up a notch in case he’s hard of hearing. I hope my tone doesn’t come across as too desperate.
“This area—your farm is gorgeous. It really is paradise, isn’t it? Especially with all the blooming flower fields this time of year.”
I carefully navigate the gravel in my pointy shoes and boldly follow him. He doesn’t take the bait and continues toward the house. I throw him a Hail Mary.
“Hey, if you’re not in the mood to talk, could you at least tell me where the nearest gas station is?”
The man stops in his tracks, obviously listening to my plea.
“This early June weather is mighty hot in these parts, and I could use a bottle of cold water. I’m dying of thirst from the long drive.” I wave my hand in front of my face like a damsel in distress, my accent tinged with a Southern twang I only bring out when absolutely necessary.
Maybe I shouldn’t have used the word “dying,” but it seemed to do the trick when he looked over his shoulder and gave me the once-over. I timidly offer him a smile and bat my lashes with innocence.
With a quick flick of his wrist, he waves me forward. “Well, come on, then. I’ve got the coldest water around. My well is fed from an underground spring. You’re welcome to a glass before you get on your way. Can’t have you die of thirst on my property now, can we?”
I accelerate my pace, my quick thinking opening the door to a business conversation. But I’m not about to push too hard. Oh, no. This is a delicate dance. And I’m more than pleased he’s made the first move.
“I appreciate it very much.”
“Where’re you from?” he asks. He’s focused on the vintage house before him, work boots crunching over gravel. His big, panting dog trots alongside to keep up. The man sure is sprightly for his elderly age.
“I came by way of Savannah. That’s where the corporate office is. But I live in Atlanta. Born and bred.” I struggle to match his pace in my heels, my calves taught from beneath my pencil skirt. I regret my choice of business attire while traversing the rural driveway. What had I been thinking?
“Ah, a city girl,” he mumbles.
He pegged me from the get-go; my polished, professional outfit and smooth bun settled at the nape of my neck, a poor choice in this environment.
Even my nails are freshly manicured, the French tips sophisticated and pretty.
I should’ve thought this through better and worn blue jeans and boots, my hair in a ponytail, and my shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
Against the backdrop of the rolling hills and flower fields, I stand out like a sore thumb—a city girl’s manicured thumb.
As I climb the last step of the covered front porch, the man points to a wicker chair near the front window, not even bothering to turn around and introduce himself.
“Sit there. I’ll be back out with your water in a minute. Earl will keep you company.”
“I’m much obliged, sir,” I holler after him. When he doesn’t answer, I sigh. At least he hasn’t kicked me off his property yet.
Shifting my focus to the old dog, I smile. “Hey, Earl. How are you doing, boy?”
The big dog resembles a mixed breed, like a retriever or a lab. He makes a sound in his throat and eases his tired body onto the floorboards. The clever animal chose a spot underneath a spinning ceiling fan, his body rising and falling in deep pants.
“I feel your pain,” I giggle, fanning my hot face.
I scan the front porch area, delighted by several old-fashioned rockers among the suite of white wicker furniture with comfortable cushions.
Lowering myself onto the faded pale blue and cream checkered fabric, I sit primly with my hands in my lap and look out over the farmland.
Even though the scenery evokes serenity and reminds me of a pretty postcard, I can’t imagine ever settling down in such a rural environment so far from civilization.
A rusty windmill stands tall in the open fields. I watch it teeter and tilt, the spindly-looking tower rising from the land like a pinwheel spinning in the breeze. I wonder if the windmill is harnessed to the spring-fed well, pumping water up from the ground for irrigation.
A slight breeze dances across my heated cheeks, and the summer air is humid and hot. Looking around at my surroundings from the front porch, I feel a familiar aura I can’t quite put my finger on.
Sure, I’ve spent a lazy weekend here and there with my sister, Beverly, at an Airbnb on Tybee Island. The sleepy beach town’s wide, sandy beaches and 18th-century lighthouse conjured something eerily similar to my current situation.
And there was that time years ago when I joined some of my closest sorority sisters for a reunion on top of Fort Mountain.
Images of campfires, s’mores, and the scent of bug spray and wood smoke come to mind.
Tittering girlfriends tipping back libations in the heat of the Georgia summer makes me nostalgic, and I smile.
I love reminiscing about those trips. When work wasn't even a blip on my radar and the only thing I cared about was what cocktail I craved or what kind of food I was in the mood for. And now, as I sit here on a farmer’s ancient front porch in the June heat overlooking the land with a big dog by my feet, my smile widens when I hear the faint ping of a wind chime tinkling in the corner.
The scent of sweet lavender tickles my senses and nudges at my memory again.
I close my eyes and listen. After a few seconds, I realize being here feels familiar. But how could it? I’ve never set foot in this part of the country before. But my feelings are definitely the same as those trips I’d taken. I snap my eyes open, and that’s when it hits me.
I’ve been completely amped up and anxious about this deal, knowing my job is on the line if I blow it. Constantly working from sunrise to sunset, I’ve had little to no time to enjoy my sister or my friends, my career consuming me.
Thinking about those past trips while taking in the beautiful view of Mr. Jamison’s farm makes me realize I need to slow down.
I need some peace and quiet, fresh country air, and a cold drink.
I need a few precious moments to breathe in the perfume-scented flowers and hum to the tune of a wind chime.
Maybe a little country getaway is just what the doctor ordered?
My thoughts are quickly interrupted as the elderly farmer pushes through the front entrance. The screen door slaps closed with a thwack, and in his hands are two tall glasses of water.
“Oh,” I squeal with delight.
“Mark my words; this is the coldest spring water you’ll ever find around here.”
I nod and eagerly take the glass from his hands. It’s cold to the touch and slick with dribbling drops of condensation. The man sits in a nearby rocker, and I wait for him to settle before raising my glass into the air, offering him heartfelt gratitude. “Thank you very much.”
Pressing my lips to the edge, I’m immediately taken aback by the first trickle of wetness in my mouth.
The water isn’t cold; it’s downright frigid, as if the glass had been filled with big chunks of ice and chilled in a freezer before he filled it to the rim.
But there isn’t any ice in my glass. The arctic liquid polarizes my throat, and if I’m not careful, I know I will surely end up with a brain freeze.
The large gulp immediately quenches my thirst. It’s clean, crisp, and refreshing, the perfect beverage on a hot summer day.
Heaving a deep breath, I look at the man with wide eyes. He wasn’t kidding when he said this was the coldest spring water around. His expression holds mirth as he nods and puckers his lips with satisfaction.
“Told ya,” he chuckles.
Draining his glass in three gulps, I watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. He sets the empty glass on a wooden side table that has seen better days and exhales a satisfied “ahh,” angling his body to face me.
“Now that you’re comfortable and quenched, why don’t you go on ahead and give me your spiel so you can report back to your boss and let him know you did your due diligence.”
I lick my lips again and set my glass next to his. I like this man. He’s kind and direct, a gentleman showing chivalry on a sweltering day. He’s accommodating but still aloof. His easygoing vibe makes me feel safe, too, like I’m sitting next to my father.
“I’d love to,” I say. “But first, won’t you please tell me your name?”
The man harrumphs. “You know who I am. You tracked me down, didn’t you?”
I offer him a sincere smile and thrust my hand out again, my professional, tidy bun and manicured nails on full display. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Jamison.”