Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
George
I pop the last bite of turkey sausage into my mouth and stand abruptly, my chair scraping the worn kitchen floor.
The noise startles Earl, and he lifts his snout from the rug near the back door.
The old dog watches me curiously as if hoping for a scrap of table food as I carry my breakfast dishes to the sink with a clatter.
“Why the rush?” Betty Lou asks. She’s standing at the stove in the main house with a spatula, flipping pancakes in a cast iron skillet. “You don’t want any more pancakes? You feelin’ all right, Georgie?”
I nod and politely push my chair in at the round kitchen table, careful not to scrape the floor again and bother the dog. I hate how jittery I get when I’m excited.
“I’m fine.”
My grandfather’s place setting sits untouched, a coffee cup ready to be filled and a plate and cutlery waiting to be used. Pop is usually up way before me, but Betty said he might sleep in because he was out later than usual last night.
My gaze hones in on his empty plate, and I notice the blue flowers decorating the clean center. I’ve never noticed them before, as my plate is usually covered in food.
Forget-Me-Nots, I think to myself. The adorable blue flowers on my grandma’s china remind me of tiny sky-blue stars.
I shake off my random thoughts. “I… uh, I want to get an early start. Set things up for the weekend tourists before it gets too hot.”
She seems to understand. “You stay hydrated out there. The weatherman said it’s gonna be another scorcher today.”
She flips the pancakes and quickly hands me my favorite water bottle, already filled. It’s dark green, like moss, with a silver twist-off top. Leave it to Miss Betty to always have my back.
“I will. Thanks for breakfast. And please, tell Pop I said good morning and that I love him. I’ll see you on Monday. Have a great rest of your weekend.”
“You too, sweetie.”
I carefully step over Earl and chuckle as the dog stretches with a grunt, black paws flexing in the air, exposing his tummy.
“Who’s a good boy?” I give him a quick belly rub before I leave.
There’s a pep in my step as I hop down the back porch steps.
I enjoy Saturday mornings on the farm when Kip and the other workers are off and I have the entire stretch of land all to myself.
When the grass glistens with dew and the sky looks like a giant watercolor painting in broad strokes of sweeping pinks and orange.
When it’s just me, my kingdom, and the promise of a new day.
I’m a simple man who doesn’t need much. Unlike most folks, I’ve never wanted to get rich and buy fancy cars, clothes, and all the world’s lavish things. I’m quite the opposite.
I love backyard chickens, and fresh eggs, gardenia bouquets cut from the yard, and Ms. Betty’s pancakes slathered with lots of butter and warm maple syrup.
I love getting my hands dirty in the flower fields and learning how to grow my own food.
A morning commute that doesn’t consist of an hour in the truck to the city, but a slow walk to the barn to let the hens out for the day.
Instead of designer clothes, I prefer overalls, cowboy boots, and a trip to the agricultural store, not a big city mall.
For me, a night out on the town involves fishing at the pond until dark, the summer cicadas and night creatures performing their twilight symphony for an audience of one.
Slow days filled with picnics in the grass, lying on my Grandma Rosie’s old tattered quilt passed down to me and watching in awe at the star-filled night sky, my body aching from a good old-fashioned hard day’s work.
I live off Paradise Road and often think I’m one of the lucky ones who knows the true meaning of being rich.
But today isn’t about where or how I’ve lived. Nope. Today is all about manifesting and running into Madison again. If she drove by my roadside stand going into town to stay at the Wild Daisy Inn, she’d have to take the same route going out of town when she leaves, right?
I want to jump-start my day in case she’s an early riser.
I assume most city girls are. I imagine her painted lips and eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses as she drives to meet me.
The way her hips sashay in her tight skirt, calves taut in her high heels.
Her feminine scent wafting under my nose and the slow-motion effect of her taking off her sunglasses to lock eyes with mine in a friendly greeting.
I sigh, realizing I’ve been standing in one place, daydreaming about Madison again.
Gripping my thermos a little tighter, I walk toward the barn and run my free hand along the tops of the blooming gardenia bushes lining the path.
“Good morning, Grandma Rosie. I love you,” I whisper like I do every day. My smile is cockeyed when I add, “Send me good vibes today. I’m gonna need them for a certain city girl.”
I can almost hear her response in the slight breeze. She’d remind me that there is a purpose in everything on a daily basis and that it often helps a person become who they’re meant to be.
To this day, I’m still not sure who I am or why I’ve been put on this earth. But that hasn’t deterred me from looking forward to the unknown, hoping there might be something extraordinary in my future.
Especially today.
At the end of the row of gardenias, I pause and pluck a dove-white bloom from the thick bush, bringing it up to my nose and inhaling deeply.
The creamy, sweet fragrance immediately conjures up an image of my Grandma Rosie: her wrinkled skin, baby-soft hands, and the kindest, bluest eyes you’ve ever seen.
Gosh, I miss her so much.
Funny how a tiny flower can smell like a memory. Grief is sneaky like that. A sound. A scent. A song. My eyes begin to water, and I will myself to move on.
Tucking the fragrant flower into the front pocket of my overalls, I start my morning chores. Within the hour, I slam the lift gate of my truck closed and rumble across the gravel toward Paradise Road, leaving a plume of dust in my wake.
With my arm resting on the open window ledge, I relish the summer breeze wreaking havoc through my hair.
I’m a huge fan of Saturdays, when I’m all alone and free to take my sweet time gathering my wares for the roadside stand.
When the back country roads are deserted and I can drive a little faster, one hand sticking out the window.
Sometimes, I bend and dip my fingers, pretending to fly with the noisy black crows soaring high above the open fields.
When I don’t have to worry about Kip Johnson reprimanding me for a chore I’d forgotten to do or adding more repairs to a growing list just because he likes to look important in front of the other farmhands and my grandfather.
But I know I’m important too. I have the same last name as my grandparents and the farm. Kip doesn’t hold that legacy. In reality, the bully of a man is just a hired worker.
On the farm, I am king.
With the roadside stand set up and running in no time, I stand back with my hands on my hips and survey my work. The oversized utility buckets overflow with color, and the produce boxes teem with ripe vegetables ready for purchase.
“That’ll do.” I grin. I know the pretty flowers and perfect rows of crated produce might impress Madison if she stops by.
A steady flow of customers keep me busy all morning, cleaning me out of lavender, squash, and most of my tomatoes. Business is booming. During a lull, I take a large swig from my water bottle and stand in the shade of the shack. I stare at the road with hopefulness.
Madison has to drive by. She just has to.
By noon, it’s closing time. The blazing afternoon sun and heat of the day are too oppressive for the tourists.
The gardenia flower tucked into my overalls has withered and turned brown.
I chuck it into the brush. With slumped shoulders, I load up the truck with what little inventory I have left, board up the stand, and flip over a small closed sign. I sigh in defeat.
Oh well. At least I made a stellar profit selling everything at full price with no hagglers trying to pull a fast one on me.
As I crank the truck engine, I’m about to pull onto the road when a honking car startles me.
Confused, I put my vehicle in park and wait to see what the fuss is about.
I know my roadside stand is popular among the locals, and maybe someone is trying to flag me down for the last of my flowers for a party or some other kind of celebration.
But it’s not a local. The car pulls right up in front of me and I recognize the pretty driver grinning from ear to ear from behind the wheel.
Mmm… Madison.
“Hi, George,” she says, slamming her car door. She comes toward me with confidence.
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly as dry as the Sahara Desert. My movements are stiff as I get out of my truck, and my nerves are on high alert. “Hi, M… Madison,” I croak.
Good. I managed to get in a hello. Check.
She splays her hand and holds it over her eyes to fend off the sun’s glare. Her pretty features are more casual without the red flaming lips of yesterday. Wearing flip-flops and a simple sundress with thin straps over her exposed shoulders, she seems relaxed and rested.
Gone are the pointy high heels and tight pencil skirt, her simpler weekend wardrobe stunning me into silence. I like this version of Madison even better. Her hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, exposing her flushed cheeks, and I notice her toes painted a cheerful peony pink.
“I thought I might find you out here.” She grins. “You got any more of that lavender you gave me yesterday?”
I blink at her three times before I find my voice again. “I, uh… I’m sold out for the day.”
Her face falls, and my heart falls with it. I hate the look of disappointment marring her beauty. I quickly come up with a reply.
“B… but I can go home and get some more real quick. It’s just down the road.” I eagerly turn and point toward the farm, my voice amped up a notch with pure excitement. “You could even follow me and pick some yourself if you like. I could give you a private tour of the fields.”
Her frown morphs into a dazzling smile, making my pulse tick with pleasure.
I did that.
I made her smile with my simple suggestion. I feel lightheaded and downright giddy, my own broad smile making my cheeks hurt.
“I’d love to see the fields, George. The only problem is I’m on my way to Atlanta. But I’ll definitely be back.”
“You will?”
“Absolutely. Can I have a rain check?”
“A rain check?”
My brow furrows as I stare at her, unsure of what she means. This happens to me often when someone says something odd, which turns into a misunderstanding.
She patiently explains. “May I accept your invitation at a later time, when I’m back in town?”
“Oh. Yes, of course.”
“Great. I’ll see you soon, George.”
“See you soon.”
I watch her walk toward her parked car when I notice a wayward sprig of fallen lavender on the side of the road baking in the sun.
“Wait!”
She stops and turns around. I grab the stray stalk and present it to her with a wide grin. It’s not much, but in my mind, it’s something she can remember me for.
“Here you go. To tide you over while you’re away.”
I’m enamored by how she gently strokes the top of the plant’s crowning glory with her index finger. Just by touching the flower, I know her skin will hold an immense aromatherapeutic scent from the precious essential oils for the rest of the day.
I suddenly want to hold her hand and bring it to my nose to test my theory.
“Thank you, George. You’re very kind.”
I take off my cowboy hat and hold it in my hands. Even though my back is drenched with nervous perspiration, I try to act cool. With eyes focused on her pretty mouth, I hardly notice the blazing sun searing the back of my neck.
“You’re welcome, Madison.”
After a beat, she clears her throat, imploding my dreamy stance. I awkwardly shove the hat on my head and nod.
“There’s more where that came from when I can show you the fields.”
She sniffs the purple flower and smiles. “If you’re sure it’s not any trouble.”
“No trouble at all.”
“Great. Goodbye, George. I’ll see you soon.”
“Goodbye, Madison. Love you.”
Immediately, I slam my eyes shut and grimace. My face is hot with embarrassment. I shift uncomfortably and stare at the ground, too mortified to look at her.
“I’m… I’m so sorry. It’s a habit of mine.”
“—telling strangers you love them?” She interrupts, her voice tinged with an awkward giggle.
I look up, her syrupy eyes fixated on mine. I’m surprised by her relaxed demeanor. She doesn’t appear to be offended in the least.
“My… my late grandmother instilled it in me. She said, ‘One mustn’t ever forget their I love yous.’ So… I tend to say it fairly regularly to my grandfather, especially when I say goodbye.” I shrug. “Old habits die hard, I guess. My apologies.”
The sweet expression on Madison’s face lets me know right away I’m forgiven. “No apology necessary, George. I think your grandmother was on to something.”
I watch her get in her car and I step out of the way.
As she drives off toward the freeway, I wave.
I wait until her car disappears over the hill before I get in my truck.
My hands become annoyingly sweaty as I drive home, and I keep glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure Madison hasn’t changed her mind and might be following back to the farm.
But why would she?
Maybe I imagined her. Or maybe she was nothing more than a mirage in the heat of the day or some wild fantasy I made up in my head.
One thing is for sure, the swell of pride in my chest is undeniable for being bold and inviting her to the farm. Proud of not making a complete fool of myself when I slipped up and said, “Love you.” Proud of believing I’d see her again.
And for some reason, I know I will.