Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Madison
“Well, here we are,” George says, slamming his truck door shut.
“Here we are,” I repeat.
“The fields are this way.”
We follow a gardenia-lined pathway past the barn and into a clearing, the barnyard deserted in the heat of the Saturday. I gasp when he stops at the gentle slope of the lush field beneath the powder blue sky.
Amid the farm’s idyllic landscape, rows upon rows of vibrant flowers dance in the summer breeze, their intoxicating scent wafting through the air. The postcard-perfect scene stretches before us in pastel purple and deep violet.
“Oh my goodness.”
I clumsily take my phone out of my dress pocket and snap a few pictures. George shoves his hands into his denim and seems humored by my actions.
“I understand your reaction, Madison. It happens to everyone who comes here. After seeing the fields and getting that first whiff, folks go a little crazy. They can’t get over the beauty and the heavy lavender scent.”
“You got that right,” I admit. The intense, harmonious symphony of floral notes tinged with woodsy undertones is soothing and invigorating—a total sensory experience.
“Come on,” he beckons, allowing me to walk before him. His broad grin and confidence are back, probably from being on his home turf.
I follow the well-worn path to the edge of the field, and we stroll through the purple paradise together. He explains how this is his ultimate happy place.
“It’s like a dream. This is heaven,” I utter breathlessly, taking it all in.
“That’s what my grandfather always says. It’s heaven on earth.”
I stop on the path and turn to look at him, his blue eyes holding me captive.
He takes a step closer. “What?”
I shake my head. A slight smile plays on my lips but doesn’t reach my eyes. All around us it’s so quiet, as if the air itself has gone still. “I wasn’t sure what to expect. But it wasn’t this.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m entranced. Captivated.”
A look of bewilderment crosses his features.
“It’s almost like I’ve been seduced.”
George’s blue irises latch onto mine for a few beats. I expect him to laugh. But instead, he stares at me like he’s thinking, his expression holding vulnerability. Perhaps I shouldn’t have used the word “seduced,” the word turning into a basic misunderstanding.
“I mean, just look at this beautiful field.” I wave my arm out in front of me like a game show host. “It’s very tempting to skip through it and take all the pretty pictures with my phone.”
He licks his lips, face turning a beet-red. “Oh, yes. I understand.”
“Can I?” I ask.
George furrows his brow. “Can you what?”
I cock an eyebrow and look up at him with a mischievous grin on my face. “Can I skip down this path through your field?”
He shrugs. “I mean, sure. If that’s what you want to do. Why not?”
I press my top teeth into my bottom lip and hand him my phone. “Take a few pictures of me while I’m skipping, would ya? My sister’s gonna love this.”
Before I give him a chance to reply, I take off like a little kid, my skirt billowing around my bare knees and my ponytail flying haphazardly behind me. My giggles are infectious, and I hear George laugh, hoping he’s capturing something special in my spur-of-the-moment idea.
Streaks of purple and violet fly past me, the sun overhead kissing my skin with sizzling heat.
I slow and turn around, happy to see George keeping up and obediently taking pictures of me.
He looks like one of those paparazzi trying to capture the perfect shot, his large hands dwarfing the phone.
I play along with him, striking a few different poses while holding the edges of my skirt and curtseying before taking off again.
But the humidity is oppressive, catching up quick, the area above my lips dotting with perspiration. I pause and pick a stalk of lavender, holding it up to my nose and taking a deep breath of heaven.
I’m giddy, happy-go-lucky, and childlike. When was the last time I’d been entirely in the moment like this? Present in my own life without worrying about the past or the future? Beverly would be proud of me, I’m sure of it.
Given the fast pace and hectic schedule of my job, I’ve held a base level of anxiety, stress, and even unhappiness as part of my norm. I realize I’ve been stuck worrying all the time about my career and my future. I’ve felt out of touch with myself.
But things are about to change.
Thinking back to my sister’s pep talk, I’ve decided to be fully aware and mindful of where I am.
At this moment, I’m just a girl skipping along a beautiful flower path surrounded by the heavenly aroma of lavender.
And a kind farmer curiously follows my antics with a wide grin stretched across his ridiculously handsome face as he captures my joy in pictures.
For once, I’m not distracted by the ruminations of my past or my worries about what’s next. I’m centered on the here and now. And right now, I want to get to know George Jamison.
“I’m thirsty,” I say as he finally catches up to me. I twirl the sprig of lavender in my hand, my chest rising and falling against the taught fabric of my sundress, my heavy panting noticeable.
His eyes are clear pools of cerulean staring back at me, and I notice his quick glance at my chest. Heat pools in my belly, the chemistry between us palpable.
He hands me my phone and says, “We can, uh, get some water back at the barn. We’ve got an underground spring on the property. It’s the coldest—”
“It’s the coldest water around,” I interrupt. “I know. Your grandfather told me.”
He seems shocked. “My grandfather? You’ve… you’ve met Pop? When?”
I’m not ready to tell George why I’m in Heartsboro. The timing doesn’t feel right, and I’m unsure how to explain myself.
I promised Mr. Jamison I’d spend time on the farm and get to know his grandson. How in the world can I explain this to George?
I realize my grave error and try to backtrack, my explanation coming out in a mumbled tone. “I have met your grandfather,” I answer truthfully. “It was a week ago when I was here in Heartsboro doing research for my company. I ran into him while I was in town.”
“What kind of research?”
The overhead sun sizzles the top of my head, and I swear my hair might catch on fire. A trickle of sweat makes a path down my cheek, and I wave the stagnant air in front of my face, desperate for a breeze.
“I’m sorry. I’m a little… dizzy from this heat.”
George immediately catches my elbow as I teeter on the path. How did it get so hot all of a sudden?
“Come on,” he says, planting his cowboy hat on my head. “The barn isn’t too far. Let’s get you some of that cold water.”
“Sounds good.”
The welcome shade from the oversized brim of his hat is a relief. The leather hat band gives off a sweet, woodsy smell mixed with the undeniable scent of a man.
We leisurely walk, his hot fingers gentle against my skin as he guides me over the uneven divots of the pathway. My body is damp with perspiration, and the summer heat is doing a number on me.
“Is it always this hot in June?” I ask.
George helps me up a small embankment, his chivalry on full display. “You get used to it.”
“Oh, I don’t think I could ever get used to this kind of heat,” I heave.
We enter the barn, and I swear the interior is at least ten degrees cooler. George insists I sit on a hay bale while he fetches me a cup of water.
“I’ll be right back.”
I nod, remove his cowboy hat, and set it beside me.
Swiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, I’m grateful for the shade.
Looking around, I notice chickens pecking the hard-packed dirt.
I’ve never seen a chicken up close and personal before, and the bawk sounds coming from their feathered bodies are oddly comforting.
“Here you go.” George hands me a plastic cup with the Wild Daisy Inn logo.
“Hey, I’m staying at the Wild Daisy Inn again.”
“You should. It’s a great place.”
I grin up at him before I take the cup and press my lips against the rim. After a deep pull, I swallow, my eyes closing as I relish the cold spring water sliding down my throat. It’s exactly as I remember from the first day on the front porch with Mr. Jamison.
“Wow, this is so refreshing.”
George sits near me on a second bale. “Are you cooling off? Probably shouldn’t have skipped so much.”
“You got that right,” I laugh.
Holding the plastic cup on my lap between my hands, I ask, “What would you be doing right now if I wasn’t here?”
He runs a rugged hand across his prominent jawline and seems to think about it for a few seconds.
“On Saturdays, after I close down the produce stand, I return to the farm, unload the truck, and grab a bite to eat. After that, I sometimes go fishing, or maybe walk around and pick some flowers and vegetables for the week.”
Those words coming out of his manly mouth are an oxymoron. “You pick your own flowers?”
His expression flattens, and he seems embarrassed. He hunches over and tents his hands, staring at the dirt. “I, uh, I like putting together flowers in an arrangement, is all. I like to experiment with the colors and sizes. Believe it or not, it helps with sales.”
“And you do this every Saturday?” His routine fascinates me, and I’m eager to hear more.
“Yes, ma’am. Every Saturday. It’s the only time I have the farm all to myself.”
“So, you need to be alone to do this?” I ask, trying to understand.
He glances at me, shrugs, and reaches for his hat, placing it on his head. Geez, what is it about a big, strong man wearing a cowboy hat? My pulse ticks, and I feel another trickle of sweat slide down my neck.
“I do this alone because the other guys don’t get it.
They don’t get me. They’d rather go into town and get drunk at the bar.
I like to stay here, on the farm. I especially like it on Saturdays and Sundays when our foreman, Kip, isn’t around.
Even though he said he wants to be my friend, I don’t trust the guy. I never have.”
“Why?”
“He’s a big bully and makes fun of me. He’s been harassing me since we were kids.”
It dawns on me how this gentle giant has deep feelings. He’s not like most men. He’s a guy who wants to be left alone to do something he enjoys without the snickers and sneers of the other workers. And whoever this Kip guy is, I already know I don’t like him.
I reach out and palm his knee, startling him. “I think it’s great you have a Saturday tradition. Really, I do. I’m glad you’re not like those other guys, especially Kip. I mean, what kind of stupid name is Kip anyway?”
My comment makes him smile.
“Tell me more about yourself, George. Tell me what you like. What gets you excited?”
His blue eyes scroll my face. Like he’s trying to figure out if I can be trusted. If he can be honest and tell me without fear of being made fun of, like that bully, Kip.
“Tell me.” My tone holds reassurance.
After a few seconds, he shifts on the hay bale and tips his hat back to reveal more of his handsome face. I swear he looks exactly like a countrified version of British supermodel David Gandy, and I swoon.
“I like sunsets,” he says simply.
I nod and wait for more. “I like sunsets too. What else do you like, George?”
His lips quirk in a lopsided grin. It’s subtle and adorable.
“I like… the night sky. And thunder. I like the smell of mud after heavy rain and real conversations, like the one we’re having right now.”
I feel my cheeks blossom with heat. I like knowing George is enjoying our conversation in the barn. His full lips part ever so slightly, and his blue-flame eyes are fully focused on me.
“The regular world doesn’t excite me,” he admits. “I want land, the scents and colors of flowers. The rustling leaves of the trees. I want a quiet life. I wish I could just… get lost in it.”
I realize my mouth is agape and quickly press my lips together. George is a poet, and his heartfelt words align with my spirit somehow. It suddenly dawns on me how his words are similar to my sister’s advice. How I should embrace a more “soft life.” I’m absolutely intrigued.
“Beautiful explanation, George,” I reply. “You’re… different. I like that you’re independent from the others.”
He scowls.
"I didn’t mean it as a diss. I mean it as a compliment.”
“Oh.” His features soften. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I look around the barn, my eyes landing on the chickens again.
The way they bob their heads in a Charleston-like motion makes me smile.
“George? Would it be okay if I hang out with you for a little longer? I’d love to see how you create one of your Saturday flower arrangements. I mean, if that’s all right with you?”
The corners of his mouth tweak again, his blue eyes boring into mine.
“You don’t think it’s weird or too girly for a guy to arrange flowers?”
“No, I don’t.”
“For real?”
I nod. “For real.”
And I mean it too, my mouth turning up into a beaming smile, matching his. If this is what getting to know George Jamison looks like, I’m all in.