Chapter 5
Chapter Five
George
Boots by the locked front door. Kitty kibble for Frankie. Teeth flossed and brushed. Face washed. Lights out.
I run through my nighttime routine, internally checking off each item. It leaves me with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. I like having the same regimen and am anxious when it changes.
Exhausted from the long workday, I climb into bed and yawn.
Meow
My lips turn into a gigantic smile, and I roll over to my side, patting the empty space beside me. “Come here, Frankie.” My voice is hoarse and low as I lean on my elbow with my head against my hand.
The tortoiseshell cat hops onto the mattress and settles in the crook of my arm and chest. My feline companion calms me in the darkness.
I like her soft, warm fur and green marble eyes.
I absentmindedly stroke her with my fingertips, the immediate purring sound whirring in the still air reminding me of a sound machine.
I love my one-bedroom cottage behind the old barn, a comfortable, safe haven all my own. During the week, I eat most of my meals with my grandfather at the big house. Pop’s caretaker, Miss Betty Lou, is an excellent cook and keeps us well-fed.
On the weekends, I’m on my own for supper.
I often experiment in my tiny kitchen, concocting the most surprising meals while Frankie keeps me company.
It helps that there is always a bounty of fresh produce growing right outside my front door, and some of the vegetables are regular staples in my diet.
My eyelids grow heavy, and I blink back sleep, my mind shifting to colorful snapshots of the day. Things had started out ordinary with my usual farming chores and loading the truck with produce and flowers ready to sell at the roadside stand.
The day ended on a high note when Betty Lou made my favorite supper using green peppers I’d picked that morning. I couldn’t remember why Pop hadn’t joined me to eat and hoped he wouldn’t be too cross when he learned I’d pigged out and eaten what would have been his portion.
Still, as good as those peppers were, with fresh herbs in a meaty, cheesy concoction oozing over the bright green fleshy sides, they weren’t the highlight of my day. Nope. That honor belonged to a young woman who stopped by the stand.
A pretty gal named Madison.
I nestle deeper against my pillow and continue stroking Frankie’s fur as she purrs against my bare chest. I stare at the ceiling, the moonlight through the blinds throwing dark shadows across the tongue and groove timber.
Relaxed and satiated from a hot shower, I allow my mind to process Madison, trying to remember every detail.
The way a strand of her light brown hair had come out of her bun, tempting me to tuck it over her ear.
The color of her rosebud lips, the exact same pomegranate shade as the zinnias I’d planted last spring rising high toward the sun in the back fields.
The way she closed her eyes and inhaled the sprig of lavender I’d handed her, our fingers brushing ever so slightly in the exchange.
But it was her kind smile that really did it, zapping me in the feels. It was sweet and adorable, her grin enhancing a tiny dimple in her left cheek when she turned it up full throttle. Just thinking about her dimple makes my lips quirk at the corners in the moonlight.
Her flowery perfume held a hint of gardenia, making me pause. Gardenias were my grandma’s favorite. The precious tended bushes with fragrant white flowers lining the walkway to the barn she’d planted many years ago are a daily reminder of her grace and love.
Oh, how I miss her.
I always say hello to Grandma Rosie’s spirit lingering among the scent of gardenias in the mornings. With fingers splayed and running across the tops of the bushes, I always say a “hello” and an “I love you.” She’d instilled in me one mustn’t ever forget their I love yous.
Had I said hello to Madison?
My brow creases as I try to remember. But I can’t. I must’ve been tongue-tied from staring at her remarkable beauty.
“Madison,” I mumble, my lips puckering on the ‘M’ like a stolen kiss. Her name comes out in a sigh, as if I’d tasted something so delicious I needed to moan.
“Mmmm… Madison.”
Over the years, I’ve met many tourists passing through Heartsboro while working the roadside stand.
Families with cars loaded for vacation, stopping for a quick bag of fresh maters or corn for their beachside low country boil.
Or the city folks, always looking for a bargain, especially the giant bundles of colorful flowers overflowing the utility buckets I fill every morning.
I’ve created a flower utopia in central Georgia, the five thousand lavender plants in the ground ripe for harvest this time of the year.
I turned the historic old barn initially built as a Tack Barn to house saddles and horse gear into a drying space.
Once dried, I sell the lavender bundles to make farm fresh products like the purple soap used at the Wild Daisy Inn.
I also grow thousands of daylilies, zinnias, cosmos, sunflowers, daisies, and other specialty flowers, and I experiment each year with a new variety.
Before my grandma died, she suggested I start a “pay-to-pick” section of my lavender and flower fields for the tourists. At the time, her enthusiasm rubbed off on me, and I was genuinely gung ho about the idea. Now that she’s gone, my excitement has vanished.
I’ve thought long and hard about it over the years since her passing, and I’ve decided I’m not too keen on strangers coming to my sanctuary and picking and pilfering through my perfect rows of flowers.
I prefer to choose and pick them myself.
I pass them off to farm foreman Kip Johnson, who ships the colorful bounty of flowers and vegetables to the local farmers markets and grocery store chains.
My sunflowers and lavender are always a huge hit.
I fixate on my fields, the financial rewards because of my intense green thumb, a bonus for my family. Thank goodness my grandfather and Kip handle the business side of things. I’ve never been any good at money, math, or contracts.
But the roadside stand is mine. All mine. It’s off-limits to anyone else but me. It’s my baby, and I prefer it that way, my daily routine planned carefully.
I like driving my old truck overflowing with flowers and vegetables to the lopsided stand on the side of Paradise Road.
The only downside is that I’m not very good at negotiating with bargain shoppers who lowball my prices.
I often receive less for what my produce and flowers are worth because I admittedly have a hard time saying no.
I want others to experience the goodness and beauty I have to offer and cave. But believe me, I make up for it when the kinder folks tip, my meager savings shoved into an old coffee can hidden in the floorboards of my cottage kitchen.
The makeshift produce shack built of old barn wood stands proudly by the roadside, each piece hammered into place by my grandfather and me.
Grandma’s project was the sizeable hand-painted sign spelling “Jamison Farm” in every color of the rainbow.
I can still remember her wrinkled hands splattered with paint as she gently stroked the brush across the uneven wood , the piece of oversized lumber lying on a tarp covering the front lawn.
A decade later, I know the sign is long overdue for a repaint.
All the letters have faded from the hot summer sun and are barely legible anymore, especially the “i” in “Jamison” drawn to look like a stalk of lavender.
But there is something extraordinary about my beloved grandma’s paint strokes, and I can’t bear to cover them up with a fresh coat.
Even if I were to intensely follow the exact curves and lines she created, I know it would never look the same.
I decide not to think about that anymore.
I want to think about Madison.
The woman is a breath of fresh air in my lonely world. I wish I could’ve talked to her longer to find out if she’s just passing through or staying for a while. I sure hope it’s the latter.
There are only a few other times in my life I’ve been smitten by another female.
The first was when I attended Heartsboro Elementary School.
A little red-headed girl named Charlotte gained my attention in second grade.
The dainty girl wore ankle socks with lace trim around the edges, her tiny feet fitting into shiny black shoes.
She never gave me the time of day, but I spent countless hours entranced by the shade of her hair.
The color reminded me of the roses my grandfather planted for Grandma Rosie on their thirtieth wedding anniversary.
And then there was Alyssa Johnson in high school.
Back then, her big brother, Kip, was hired at the farm during the summer before our junior year.
When Kip got wind that I liked his little sister, he threw me up against the old barn when no one was looking and clutched me by the throat, his voice low and gruff.
“What do ya think you’re doin’, you brainless halfwit? I saw you at school today. Don’t be looking at Alyssa like that, ya hear me? My sister is way out of your league, so don’t be gettin’ any ideas. In fact, you’re never gonna score with any of the girls at school. You know why?”
I frantically shook my head, scared for my life.
“Because you’re not a smart man. You’ve failed basic math every year since middle school, and you eat lunch with all the other morons!
” Kip threw me to the ground. Pointing his finger at my face, his expression turned sinister, driblets of spit flying from his mouth as he continued.
“You’re slow and simple. Everyone in this town knows you’re a weirdo.
A girl like Alyssa wouldn’t be caught dead with you, so cut it out!
” He kicked me in the ribs and stomped away, leaving me cowering in the dirt.
I never told my grandparents about the encounter for fear of retaliation. And then Kip became a huge brown noser, gaining my grandfather’s favor while working on the farm during those years.
Unfortunately, my grandfather grew to rely on Kip.
He’s smart and knows how to handle others.
He was the captain of the football team and homecoming king, a regular celebrity in our shared hometown.
Kip became head foreman within a few years, eventually taking over the business side of things.
I stayed in the shadows of the fields, working harder than ever while keeping my head low and my mouth shut.
The last time I fell for a woman was in my early twenties.
I was helping French bakery owner Jean Dion fix his industrial oven.
A beautiful blonde creature reminding me of a woodland fairy came out of nowhere and offered me a pink macaroon.
Her name was Chloe, and her French accent did funny things to my insides.
She was Jean’s niece visiting from Paris for the summer.
“There’s a hint of lavender in the filling,” she said, her pretty smile and accent beguiling. “Go on. Essayez-le. Tu vas adorer. It is good.”
I took one bite of the pastry and was hooked.
Maybe it was the floral taste with hints of mint and rosemary that did it for me.
Or perhaps it was Chloe’s stolen French kisses in the storeroom among the scent of chocolate croissants baking in the big oven I’d repaired.
Whatever it was, she’d shown me kindness and love from the opposite sex for the first time in my life.
She also helped me cross over from boy to man that summer.
Chloe became my teacher, gentle and patient with her instructions. I learned how to please her, to woo her, and to care for her. And when I was about to offer her my heart forever, the summer months ended.
I admit I cried when she returned to her homeland, even after she reassured me she might return one day.
But she never did. A few months later, her uncle Jean sold the bakery to an Atlanta couple who turned the place into a coffee house, replacing the scent of lavender with the rich, bold aroma of espresso and lattes.
Chloe is the reason I became fascinated with lavender. My first foray into farming the plant started innocently enough in a few rough dirt troughs. I was inspired to keep her memory alive; the distinct scent reminding me of our summer love.
In time, the ache in my heart began to fade, and it was easier to let her go, like the last fragile petals of my flowers dispersing in the autumn wind. But I often find myself looking for Chloe among the townspeople and tourists, her memory emblazoned on my fragile heart forever.
Grandma Rosie once told me summer romances are like a shooting star or a colorful rainbow after the rains—brilliantly beautiful and something I’ll remember for the rest of my life. She wasn’t wrong about that.
Fast-forward, and now I have thousands of lavender plants growing on the hillside of Jamison Farm, the explosion of purple harvest an annual love note to the one who got away.
I’m not bitter or sad anymore because I know what I felt was real.
And I’m thankful Chloe taught me so much.
I’m ready to use what I’ve learned. I’ve been more than ready to grow in love with someone else.
Someone like Madison.
“Mmmm,” I mumble again.
Madison reminds me of one of my flowers—the ones that are so beautiful I’m not in any rush to pick them. I want to stare, happy just to be near her. I want to look at her like I would one of those gorgeous flowers in the fields. I want to appreciate the joy because she entered my world.
Even though our encounter had been brief, she struck me as smart and kind, tenderhearted but bold. She looked like a professional worker, like one of those ladies at the local bank or real estate office in town, but ten times more beautiful.
I know she doesn’t live here in Heartsboro.
I would’ve noticed her by now. Besides, she told me outright that she was staying at the Wild Daisy Inn.
She’s probably just passing through on her way to Atlanta, a city girl getting a closer look at the flowers and homegrown vegetables at a dilapidated country roadside stand.
My brow creases with a thought.
But she didn’t take any pictures. And she didn’t buy anything. The only thing she took away from the stand was the handful of lavender I’d offered as a gift.
Bringing the tips of my fingers closer to my nose, I breathe in the faint scent of the purple flower embedded in my skin, my perplexed frown replaced with a broad grin.
There is no way she can smell this aroma and not think of me, right?
“One can dream,” I mumble in the silver moonlight.