Chapter 4 #3
HAVE SUNDAY DINNER AND WEDNESDAY LUNCH WITH GRANDMA ELOISE
WAKE UP EARLY
EXERCISE
COUNT MY MACROS
Her emojis have me busting a gut. Job description or not, she’s funny. My smile slips, and a sweet ache tugs in my chest.
I want to see her again.
Hattie: WORK I WANT TO DO:
CUT OUT PATTERNS
CUT OUT FAbrIC
THREAD MY SINGER
THREAD MY BOBBIN
SEW CLOTHING
GO TO MICHAEL’S
GO TO ALLbrANDS
PICK SWATCHES
brOWSE THE AURIFIL WEBSITE
When was the last time I smiled like this? I honestly can’t remember.
Me: Now your email address makes perfect sense.
Hattie: BOBBIN IS MY FAVORITE WORD!!!
The crack of my laughter is so loud, I’m hoping Pop can’t hear it from downstairs.
Hattie: WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE WORD?
I wipe my eyes, shaking my head.
Me: Not sure. Haven’t given it much thought.
Hattie: DON’T THINK. JUST PICK ONE. YOU CAN CHANGE IT LATER.
Damn. This woman.
Fuck it.
Me: Harvest.
Hattie: OOOOH! GOOD ONE!
Hattie: IT’S A PRETTY WORD AND IT SOUNDS WHOLESOME. AND ANCIENT, AND IMPORTANT.
I nod at my phone.
Me: Pretty important from where I sit.
So important that I need to tell her goodnight so I can get some rest. I just don’t want to. Not yet, anyway.
I close my eyes and picture her sitting in the back of my truck. Then I open them and type.
Me: The day we met, you were pretty upset. How are things? With your family, I mean?
She takes her time responding, the dots jumping and disappearing for too long, and I wonder if my question is too intrusive.
Hattie: IF I WERE A MAGIC 8 BALL, I WOULD SAY “BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW.” MARGARET HAS APOLOGIZED FOR KEEPING HER MOVE A SECRET, BUT MY PARENTS HAVE ONLY APOLOGIZED FOR HURTING MY FEELINGS, NOT FOR KEEPING THINGS FROM ME, WHICH MAKES ME VOLCANIC .
IF YOU ARE SORRY FOR SOMETHING, YOU HAVE TO MAKE AMENDS.
TO CHANGE YOUR WAYS, BUT THEY DON’T SEEM TO THINK THEY NEED TO BE MORE OPEN WITH ME.
THEY PROVED THAT BY REFUSING TO BE OPEN ABOUT OTHER IMPORTANT THINGS.
I frown at my phone, remembering her mother’s behavior in the alley. Hattie is twenty-three. She’s intelligent. She’s capable. She’s a college student, for Christ’s sake.
Why don’t her parents trust her?
I want to know, but I won’t ask. Not tonight, anyway.
Me: Instead of saying “I’m sorry,” I’m going to say, “I wish you didn’t have to go through that.”
Hattie: HUZZAH!!!
Just like that, my frown is gone. But it’s getting late, and as much as I don’t want to, I need to say goodnight.
Me: I have to get up early, but I’m really glad we connected. And I’d like to see you again.
A moment passes.
Hattie: YOU WOULD??
There’s a good chance my face will be sore tomorrow from all the smiling.
Me: Like you wouldn’t believe.
I wait for her response.
And wait a little longer.
Long enough to ask myself what the hell I think I’m doing.
Early October is our busiest time. Our harvest is cascading, so we dig up the first of our crop in August. They’re healed and cured, now ready for market or delivery to the cannery in Opelousas.
But we’re in the middle of harvesting our second planting.
So when we’re not harvesting, we’re preparing the fields for our rotation crops and planting soybeans, corn, and alfalfa, depending on the date.
And then we’re moving sweets from the cure sheds to the store sheds.
And then we're delivering. And it goes on and on until the temps drop and the days shrink.
And then there’s my micro distillery and all the unfulfilled plans I have.
And then there’s looking after Pop.
My defeated sigh punctures night’s silence.
Hattie is beautiful and funny, and texting her for just a few minutes feels like intravenous Cotton Candy Bang.
But where the hell can I squeeze in the time for her?
Even if she wanted me to—which, judging by the radio silence, she might not.
And I need sleep. Maybe it’s better if—
My phone lights up.
Hattie: OKAY.
Okay?
Me: Okay, I can see you again?
I wait.
And wait.
Hattie: YES.
I frown at my phone. Then I thumb through our chat thread. Most of her messages have been long. And even if they weren’t long, they were enthusiastic. Emojis. Exclamation points. Hell, she used the word Huzzah.
With three exclamation points and a heart-eyes emoji.
Okay, so maybe she’s not over-the-moon excited about seeing me again.
But the thought of seeing her again? My chest fills and my pulse leaps.
And I have no idea how I can make this work.
Things will ease up around Thanksgiving, but I can’t ask Hattie to wait six weeks for a first date. And, sure, I’d love a first date that had her sitting in my lap on the tractor, but I don’t think she’d be too impressed. Especially if she’s not sure she wants this in the first place.
Then it hits me.
The Saturday Farmer’s Market at Moncus Park. Griffin will be here. After we get the stall set up and make it through the first rush of customers, he can cover it while I break away. I could buy Hattie a coffee from the Hunt’s Roasters stall, and we could take a walk through the park.
It won’t be fancy. But it might be nice.
And I can’t think of anything better just now.
Me: I’d love to take you out on a real date. Candlelight. Dinner. The whole thing. But it’s peak harvest time, and my days are freakin’ long right now. Would you consider meeting me at the Farmer’s Market at Moncus Saturday morning? We could get coffee, take a walk, and talk for a bit.
I press send before I can second-guess the sub-par offer. Hattie didn’t grow up on a farm. The dress she was wearing made it clear she’s not from a family that is just scraping by. If she’s used to eating in places like The French Press and vacationing in the Sierra-Nevadas, she might not—
Hattie: YES. WHAT TIME?
A rush of warmth replaces the chilly churning in my gut.
Me: How about 10? Our booth is in the middle row on the northeast side.
Hattie: I HAVE NO SENSE OF DIRECTION. I WILL USE THE COMPASS ON MY PHONE.
Hattie Mercier officially owns my grin. I picture her walking through the Farmer’s Market, navigating with her phone, and I want to wrap my arms around her.
Me: The side closest to Johnston Street. I’ll be looking for you.
Hattie: I KNOW WHERE THAT IS! I’LL FIND YOU!!
God, is it just the caps lock and the extra punctuation? Or is she this eager? Is it stupid of me that I want her to be this eager?
That I am this eager?
Fuck it.
Me: CAN’T WAIT!!