Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Madison
I kick off my pointy shoes and stretch out on the green velvet Parisian couch situated under the large window of my room. The afternoon sunlight filters in through the gauzy white curtains, giving my surroundings a hazy, romantic vibe as I scroll through emails on my phone.
I message Kevin, letting him know I’m having dinner with Mr. Jamison tonight. His reply is immediate.
Great news. If you have any questions, I’ll have my phone on me. Please don’t hesitate to call.
Thanks, I text back. I’m grateful for my boss’s positive attitude. So far, so good.
I lay the phone on my chest and sigh. Usually, I would’ve been thrilled to have gotten the ball rolling, as Kevin called it.
I would’ve been scrolling the internet, intent on finding more information about the town and its economic strengths and weaknesses.
I’d be taking notes and rehearsing my “spiel” right down to the moment when I’d slide a piece of paper across the table with the exorbitant offer Global Dynamics approved.
But deep down, I’m not so sure about this deal. Something seems… off.
I settle my head against my bent arm, stare at the dramatic tin ceiling of the refurbished room, and try to relax after my delicious lunch.
I don’t have to be downstairs in the café until seven, so there’s plenty of time to change and explore.
Or maybe I need a nap? Either way, I’m not motivated to work at the moment.
Instead, I lie there like a slug and listen to the delightful peal of afternoon church bells outside.
I’m checked into the Hummingbird Suite, complete with a sitting area and antique vanity.
A classic barn door on a rolling track separates the sleeping area from the bathroom, which holds a vintage claw-foot tub with shower attachments.
The decadent space is stocked with big chunks of homemade lavender soap with little daisy imprints, the hotel’s branding impressive.
The bathroom and the main room each have large chandeliers hanging from the ceilings, the ambiance old-fashioned yet dreamy. I feel like I’ve traveled through time.
My phone pings with another text message, bringing me out of my food coma.
Hey! How’s country life treating you? The text ends with a pig and chicken emoji, making me laugh. Leave it to my sister, Beverly, to check in.
The two of us are thick as thieves but total opposites, except for the fact that we’re both single.
I’m a corporate girl who lives in the city, and Beverly is a kindergarten teacher who lives in the Atlanta suburbs.
We make an effort to have dinner together every weekend, filling each other in on our long work weeks and often venting about our struggles.
I adore my sister, who always has my back.
Having dinner with Mr. Jamison tonight, I reply.
I add a GIF of a mic drop for extra measure and watch as the little text bubble percolates. Within a few seconds, my phone pings with her positive response.
Good for you, Maddy. Go get ’em!
Beverly is more than my sister. She’s my best friend.
She’s never been jealous or made things a sisterly competition between us.
She actively listens, respects my ideas, and only gives advice when I ask for it, especially when it comes to our eccentric mother, who divorced our late father when we were both in elementary school.
And Bev was instrumental in helping me through my grief when our dad passed away.
We talk about our father often and complain about our free-spirited mom even more since she recently landed a job traveling the States as a hair stylist for a Broadway touring show. For the most part, it’s been just the two of us, except for an occasional holiday when Mom makes a rare appearance.
I wish I had invited Bev to come to Heartsboro with me. This town is right up her alley, and we could’ve had some fun antiquing and exploring together. Maybe even discover a local winery or brewery.
Love you. My grin is melancholy, knowing exactly how Beverly will respond.
Love you back!
Later, after a decadent nap and luxurious bubble bath in the claw-foot tub, I make my way to the downstairs café and sit at a four-top table, early as usual. Dressed casually in dark denim and a white peasant blouse, I palm my thighs, thankful to be out of my constrictive corporate attire.
I like being early to get my bearings before presenting my clients with a life-altering offer.
The substantial seven-figure number my company agreed upon swirls around in my head, the shred of pink paper burning a hole in my pocket.
I’m not sure how Mr. Jamison will react.
But I know I can offer him something with fairness, his decision either way coming at a high cost.
Condensation glistens on the Mason jar glass in front of me filled to the brim with sweet tea, the waitress not hearing me correctly when I’d asked for unsweet.
The first sip makes my teeth hurt. Truth be told, I would’ve preferred another glass of cold water from the Jamison farm or, better yet, a generous pour of merlot.
But the café doesn’t sell any libations.
I’ll have to go next door to Jenny’s twin sister’s bar at the Tipsy Daisy if I want a drink.
I tuck that thought in the back of my mind for later.
The cozy evening atmosphere of the café, laden with antiques and mismatched china place settings, is comfortable, unpretentious, and just the kind of place where I can talk freely with Mr. Jamison.
It feels like dining in someone’s home, not a restaurant.
And a plate full of pulled pork, chicken fried steak, and fresh okra can’t hurt either.
Oh, and how can I forget the strawberry cake? He mentioned the dessert earlier, and I spied the pinkish-berry frosting displayed under a cake dome on the counter with a handwritten card in pretty letters making me grin. I took it as a sign.
There will definitely be celebratory cake.
At seven o’clock sharp, Mr. Jamison arrives.
He’s right on time and holds his cowboy hat as he sheepishly approaches the table.
His jeans are pressed with a crease down the center, and his collared shirt, the color of the summer sky, appears stiff from a good starching.
I notice his clean-shaven face, and his aftershave scent smells eerily like my father.
“Good evening, Mr. Jamison,” I greet. I stand and offer him a sincere smile. “Won’t you please sit down?” I gesture toward the chair across from me, my ponytail swinging from the motion.
The man grins, sets his hat in the empty chair between us, and eases into his seat. His movements are slow and intentional, and his slight grimace before he settles is noticeable.
“You look pretty tonight, Ms. Adler,” he compliments. “You’re a little more relaxed.”
I smile again, enjoying the flattering remark. “Why, thank you. I feel like I could pass for a local now.”
“Hardly,” he chuckles.
We talk briefly about the weather after we order dinner, and I ask him a few questions about his property.
His face lights up when he talks about the farm, and he’s generous with the details.
He tells me all about the booming flower business and how they’re a top supplier to a popular organic grocery store chain, fulfilling orders in and around the Atlanta market.
“That’s incredible,” I congratulate. “You must have a great team behind you.”
Mr. Jamison nods. “I’ve got my long-time foreman, Kip Johnson, at the helm. But most of our success is due to my grandson, George.”
I demurely look over the edge of my Mason jar and take a tiny sip of tea.
The drink’s sweetness and the mere mention of George’s name bring to mind his megawatt smile and chivalrous behavior.
Earlier, I placed the sprig of lavender he gifted me into a short glass I found in the bathroom and set it next to my bed, the fragrant aroma infiltrating the entire room.
“Yes, I met George at the roadside stand earlier today.”
“You did?” Mr. Jamison seems surprised.
“Sure did. He was super nice and gave me some lavender on the house. It smells like heaven in my room upstairs.” I giggle and watch his mouth turn up into a melancholy smile.
“Sounds like him. He’s a generous boy.”
“Boy?” I guffaw. “I’d hardly call George a boy.”
My face grows hot when I realize my comment might have come across as inappropriate. But Mr. Jamison doesn’t seem fazed.
He clears his throat as if to backpedal. “You’re right. He’s going on thirty-something, which is definitely the age of a grown man. But I will say he still has the heart and spirit of a young man.”
My brow pinches, and I lean forward. “May I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Why didn’t you invite George to dinner tonight? It would’ve been perfectly fine if you did. His mom and dad too.”
We're interrupted by Miss Jenny setting plates loaded with delicious food onto the table. “Hiya, Ralph. How are you this evening? You look good.”
“Jenny,” he grins, reaching out and squeezing her hand.
I watch as they make small talk, their genuine friendship fully displayed. There is nothing pretentious or gossipy about them. They’re just two old friends who obviously care for one another.
“Well, y’all enjoy your supper. Tell your server when you’re ready for some of my strawberry cake. I know it’s your favorite, Ralph. I made it fresh today.” She winks and squeezes his shoulder.
“You’re my angel,” he replies cheekily.
I continue to watch him. He rubs his hands together with glee before he picks up his fork and takes a big bite of pulled pork. I’ve never seen a man so excited about food.
“Mmmm,” he groans, eyes rolling with pleasure. When he notices me staring, he wipes his lips with the tip of his napkin. “I know, I know. I never answered your questions.”
I pick up my fork and stab a bite of salmon covered in a creamy lemon-dill sauce. It’s delicious.
“Oh, I figured if you wanted to answer me, you would.”
Mr. Jamison takes another big bite, narrows his eyes, and points his fork at me. “There’s something about you I like, Miss Adler. Therefore, I’ve decided I’m going to tell you the truth about everything.”
“Everything? Is that so?” I kid.
There’s something I like about him too.