Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Madison
“So, you’re not coming home today? No Saturday night sangria and chicken tacos?”
I have my phone on my chest with the speaker on as I lie on the comforter in my hotel room bed. For a split second, I feel guilty for not being back in Atlanta, where Beverly and I usually indulge at our favorite weekend watering hole in the suburbs.
“Not tonight, Bev. I’m staying in Heartsboro indefinitely.”
“Why?” Her voice is tinged with confusion.
I sigh. “The deal isn’t done yet.”
I press my lips together, unsure how to explain my situation regarding George. “I’ve been asked to stay in town for a little longer, remember? Mr. Jamison wants me to… survey the land and the community. You know, make sure the offer is fair.”
“But wait a minute. You’re not a land surveyor. Doesn’t your boss do that sort of thing ahead of time?”
“Yes… and no.”
There is a long pause, and I think the call may have dropped. “Bev? You still there?”
“I’m here. Spill it, sistah. I have a feeling there’s more to this story you’re not telling me.”
I roll my eyes and sit up. “Okay, okay. It’s not gonna make any sense, but I’ll try.” I set the phone on the mattress and clear my throat. “Mr. Jamison has a big decision to make.”
“Mr. Jamison, the owner of the farm?”
“Yes. He’s… he’s not well.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s got terminal cancer, and he has to decide what to do with his farm before he dies.”
“Oh, no!” Beverly exclaims. “Why didn’t you tell me this last weekend? How tragic.”
“But that’s not all of it.”
“There’s more?” she gasps.
“Yes. Mr. Jamison… Ralph is his first name. He has a sole heir to his homestead. It’s his grandson, who he and his wife raised.”
“Well, isn’t the grandson in on it? I mean, we’re talking millions of dollars, right? Don’t get me wrong, it’s sad that Ralph is dying of cancer, but if he decides to sell, then the money will go straight to the grandson, right?”
I take the tie out of my ponytail and shake my head, letting my hair fall over my shoulders. “It’s not that simple.” I chew on my lower lip for a beat before I ask my sister a question. “Have you ever had any special kids in your kindergarten class?”
“Come on, Mads, don’t change the subject.”
“No, it’s relevant. I promise. Did you have any special kids in your class last school year?”
“You mean special needs kids?”
“Yes.”
“Yup. Last year, I had four. Three of them were absolute angels and very sweet, but I had one little boy who had occasional meltdowns. His name was Robbie. I had twenty other kids to teach, and there were times he made it very hard.” Her exasperation is apparent in the tone of her voice.
“I’m sorry, Bevvy.”
“It’s okay. To be fair, Robbie had good days too, and I had a special education teacher in my classroom daily, so it was doable. It just took a hefty dose of patience is all. Why do you ask?”
“Well…" I pause, unsure how to explain George and his uniqueness. “Ralph’s grandson is neurodivergent.”
“Oh.” Beverly draws the ‘o’ sound out as if she understands perfectly.
“He’s a grown man and a hard worker, but he can’t run the business side of this farm by himself.
Don’t get me wrong, the guy is brilliant.
You should see his lavender fields. And did you know they export most of his flowers to the organic grocery chain Home Foods?
Bev, I’ve never seen such beautiful flowers.
The farm looks like a dream. Wait a second, and I’ll text you a few photos. ”
I click on the photo tab of my phone, and I’m startled to see George’s face fill the screen.
I scroll through a few more pictures, all of the handsome man in various degrees of mishap.
He obviously had the selfie function on when he was trying to take photos of me skipping through the field, his expression in the first few filled with genuine concern: furrowed brow, scrunched nose, wide blue eyes filled with panic before he figured it out.
Full, pouting, kissable lips.
I laugh out loud and touch the screen, wishing my finger could reach through in real time and tuck a lock of his dark hair back from his sweaty brow underneath his cowboy hat.
“What?” Beverly asks.
“It’s nothing.” I quickly text my sister the first picture I’d taken of the purple fields.
“Oh, wow. Your picture looks like a postcard.”
“I know, right? This is all George’s doing.”
“His name is George? You’ve met him?”
I lean back against a pillow and gaze at the tin ceiling. “Yes. I spent the afternoon with him. He gave me a private tour of the farm. That was another request by Ralph—that I get to know George.”
“Okay, let me get this straight. You’re staying in Heartsboro to get to know George and the farm?”
“Exactly.”
“What do you mean, exactly? I don’t understand.
Why didn’t you tell me all this when you were home last week?
I mean, I can appreciate why Ralph would want you to come back and survey the land because he’s got a lot on the line.
But to get to know George? That’s… odd. Is he high functioning and semi-normal? ”
“Yes!” I reply a little too loudly. Inhaling a deep breath, I tell my sister all about George Jamison.
“He’s very normal, Bev, just socially awkward. He doesn’t like… crowds. But he’s great if you’re with him one-on-one. He’s kind and chivalrous. He’s a good man. He just struggles with math. But you should see him on the farm.” I stretch out on the bed and lean my head against my arm.
“Did you know he can name every single flower by its botanical name? For instance, he told me lavender is derived from lavendula, which is Latin. Since 1840, the word means ‘pale purple.’ Isn’t that amazing?
He’s so smart when it comes to plants. He can tell you what kind of PH the soil should have and how much water they need.
The man is totally brilliant and not bad to look at either—”
“Oh, no,” Beverly interrupts.
“What?”
“You like him.”
“Bev, I do not.”
“Of course you do. You like the neurodivergent flower farmer. Admit it!”
I spring from the bed and pace in front of the windows with the phone in my hand. “I don’t like-like him, okay? I’m just… impressed by him, that’s all.”
“And he’s good looking, you said it yourself. Who does he look like?”
“Who?”
“George. Who does he remind you of? Like, which celebrity comes to mind? Geez, I sound like Mom.”
I know I’ll be teased if I tell Beverly who George looks like. She’s very much aware of my British supermodel obsession.
“Nobody in particular,” I lie. “He’s tall with dark hair, and he’s a farmer.”
“A handsome farmer. What color eyes does he have?”
“Umm, blue?”
“Hmmm, sounds exactly like your type, Mads.” She giggles.
I roll my eyes, knowing she’s on to me. “Okay, okay. Maybe he is my type. But I’m not interested in him like that. I want to help him and his grandfather through this transition. I want to do the right thing.” I stare out the window at the street below, suddenly concerned.
“I hear you, sister. You always do the right thing. And you know what else?”
“What?”
“They’re lucky it’s you they’re dealing with and not one of those other brokers who just wants the kill at the end of the day.”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
“I am right.” Beverly pauses. “So, what are your plans tonight? Are there any decent restaurants or bars in the tiny town of Heartsboro? I think you should go out and get some sangria anyway. It’s Saturday night. You deserve it.”
My lips twitch in a slight smile. My sister always has the best ideas. “You know what? I think I will.”
Later, I make my way downstairs and wave to Jenny. The café is packed, and there isn’t an open seat in sight. The owner snakes her way through the crowd and greets me with a big, ruby-red smile.
“I guess I should’ve made you another reservation, huh?” she laments.
I shake my head. “No, no, it’s okay.”
“I’ll tell you what. Give me a second, and I’ll call my sister next door. You can sit at her bar and order food from our kitchen. And you can get a glass of wine or a cocktail to boot.”
“That sounds perfect. Thanks, Jenny.”
“You’re welcome.”
I start toward the front entrance but stop short. “Hey, Jenny!” I holler.
“Yeah?”
“What’s your sister’s name?”
Her smile is instant. “Janie.”