Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Madison
I’m not sure how I did it, but somehow, I convinced Mr. Jamison to have dinner with me.
Not wanting to go into my “spiel,” as he called it on his front porch, I told him I was staying at the Wild Daisy Inn overnight and would rather talk to him at a nice restaurant.
Truthfully, I was tired of feeling little beads of sweat dribble down my back, my silk blouse uncomfortable and sticking to my skin.
I’d much rather shoot my shot in an air-conditioned restaurant with good food and wine.
Imagine my surprise when he said yes.
When I mentioned I was staying at the Wild Daisy Inn, Mr. Jamison suggested the café in the main lobby for dinner.
“I know the owner, Jenny,” he said. “She makes the best pulled pork. And don’t get me started on her strawberry cake. It’s to die for. If I remember correctly, I think the recipe was passed down from her grandmother.”
“I met Jenny when I checked in. Sounds perfect. I’ll see ya at seven then,” I say, opening my car door.
“Seven it is.”
“And tonight is my treat.”
“You mean it’s your company’s treat,” he chides.
I nod, my face beaming with a cheeky smile. “You got that right. We’re gonna order everything on the menu.”
Mr. Jamison laughs out loud, the sound deep and warm. “You betcha.”
“And please, feel free to bring the whole family if you’d like. The more the merrier.”
His face instantly clouds over for a beat before he replies, “I, uh… I just might do that.”
As I drive away, the car kicks up dust, the image of Mr. Jamison in the rearview mirror with one hand on his hip and the other thrown up in a polite, hazy wave, similar to farmhand, George.
The way he stands there brings back a flashback of memory—my father waving at me when I drove off to college over a decade ago.
It’s the last memory I have of him.
Shaking my head, I’m determined not to get lost in the melancholy moment.
I turn on the radio and find a local music station.
The classic country energizes me as I travel the back roads toward town, and my focus is on my first meeting with Mr. Jamison.
I’m thrilled he’s accepted my dinner invitation, and I know my boss will be impressed.
Traffic picks up the closer I get to Main Street, the tiny town teeming with locals out and about during the summer afternoon. I park in the Wild Daisy lot behind the ancient brick building and climb the back staircase.
A narrow hallway runs the length of the first floor, and I peek into the kitchen at the small staff preparing lunch for the day. My stomach growls.
“Hey, Madison,” a female voice singsongs from behind.
I startle and turn to see none other than innkeeper, Jenny Griffin.
“Hey, Jenny. How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Jenny is a regular Southern belle. Her wide-brimmed hat tilts back to reveal her pretty face and red lips. She wears an apron in a bright and cheery daisy print, and her hands are covered in plastic gloves.
“I’m scooping up some chicken salad plates for the late lunch crowd. You hungry?”
The Wild Daisy feels like a grandma’s house full of coziness and serving up comfort food. The heavenly smells coming from the kitchen cause me to waver.
“I am hungry. But I’m having a guest join me for dinner in the café at seven.” I look at my watch. “Any suggestions on something light so I can save room for the main course tonight?”
Jenny smiles. “Absolutely. Follow me, and I’ll set you up in the dining room with something delicious. Do you want some sweet tea while you wait?”
I follow her through the hall and into the common area.
The 1908 building was once a general store, renovated with a dramatic staircase leading to the large upstairs, which has four guest rooms, including mine.
With its exposed brick walls, worn wood floors, and an eclectic mix of antique furniture, the lobby and café downstairs exude a bygone era.
“Do you have any un-sweet tea?” I ask tentatively.
Jenny motions for me to sit at a small two-person table by the window overlooking Main Street and laughs. “Of course. I’ll be right back.”
I lean my elbows on the quaint table and take in my surroundings. I didn’t have much time to explore my home away from home before I headed to the Jamison farm. But if I were to really lean into my country getaway, I’d need to change my clothes and shoes and hit the sidewalks for a better look.
“Here you go,” Jenny says, setting the cutest Mason jar before me. It’s filled with crushed ice, tea, and a substantial bright yellow lemon wedge.
“Thank you.”
“What time did you want to eat dinner tonight? I’ll need to make a reservation for you because we can get pretty crowded on a Friday. There’s live music next door at The Tipsy Daisy, and people like to grab dinner here before it starts.”
“The Tipsy Daisy?”
“It’s the bar my twin sister owns.”
I grin. “That’s so cool.”
“Yeah, we love being business neighbors. So what time for dinner tonight?”
“Oh… um, seven if that’s available.”
“Great! And how many for dinner?”
I think for a moment. “Two for certain. But I’m not sure if Mr. Jamison is bringing his family.”
Jenny’s red-lined smile fades, and she seems perplexed. “You’re having dinner with Mr. Jamison?”
“Yes. You know him?”
“Of course, I know him. Everyone in town knows Ralph and George.”
I frown. “George?”
An image of the roadside produce stand and George’s beaming face and bulging biceps flash through my mind. She’s not talking about that George is she?
Jenny’s attention is diverted when a server hands her a plate. She immediately places it in front of me, the scoop of chicken salad and a side of cucumbers and tomatoes marinated in white balsamic vinaigrette making my mouth water.
“Yes, George Jamison is Ralph’s grandson.”
“Wait. You mean, the farmhand at Mr. Jamison’s roadside stand?” I question.
“Yes, have you met him?” Jenny shifts her stance beside the table, her inquisitive chocolate-brown eyes staring down at me.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I stopped at the stand earlier to check it out. He gave me a sprig of lavender and called me ma’am.”
Jenny’s features soften. “Sounds like George.”
I unroll silverware tucked in a fabric napkin covered in a daisy print. Boy, the Wild Daisy Inn certainly takes its branding seriously.
“What’s the deal with him anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“He sure smiles a lot.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a grown man smiling.”
Jenny has a point.
“No. I guess not.”
She palms my shoulder. “For what it’s worth, George Jamison is one of this town’s kindest, most loveable men.
Why, he’d give you the shirt right off his back if you needed it.
And he can fix just about anything you put in front of him.
Never charges enough, if you ask me. He prefers his payment in the form of baked goods or a hearty supper. ”
I nod and grin from ear to ear. I don’t know squat about George. But listening to how Jenny talks about him makes me like him from the get-go.
“You’ll never meet another man as happy and loyal as George. And I know it’s none of my business why you’re having dinner with Ralph, but you should know the entire town is praying for him, myself included.”
I ponder Jenny’s words, disappointed when our conversation is cut short because her staff needed her in the kitchen.
I’m well aware of how small-town folks seem to know everybody’s business and wonder why the entire town of Heartsboro, Georgia, might be praying for Ralph Jamison.
Maybe he really does need help because of farming troubles?
And if George is Ralph’s grandson, then where are the parents? I check my notes on my phone, and a black-and-white screenshot of the Jamison land deed stares back at me. Ralph is the only landowner listed.
“Hmmm,” I hum, perplexed by this turn of events.