With a heavy sigh, I return the brochure to the neat pile and lean back in my office chair. I glance out the giant picture window and notice the pink petals of a redbud tree raining down like confetti on the sidewalk, the colors of late spring prevalent this time of year.
I’m actually looking forward to the annual Lavender Festival at Jamison Farm tomorrow. George Jamison took over the property after his grandfather, Ralph, passed away. Amid the farm’s idyllic landscape, rows upon rows of vibrant budding flowers dance in the spring breeze, their intoxicating scent wafting all the way through town. The entire celebration is a picture-perfect scene that stretches for acres in pastel purple and deep violet. It’s almost surreal, and a local favorite.
I love springtime in the South when the air feels fresh, and there’s a certain aura of new possibilities budding on the horizon. Warmer temperatures and more daylight hours. Tourists and sunny drives through the country. And my favorite, fresh produce and hand-picked flower bouquets from George Jamison’s popular roadside stand.
I decide to close the office early. I want to do a drive-by of some of the land parcels for sale and make sure my signage is still intact. I’ll also check out my grandma’s property near the highway. Might as well. Maybe I’ll even grab dinner at the Tipsy Daisy and listen to some live music before calling it a night.
Who am I kidding? I never go out on Friday night. I’m a homebody, preferring my quiet, newly renovated apartment above my office and the slew of Netflix movies I’ve bookmarked to keep me company. If only I could go outside my comfort zoneand switch things up a bit. Maybe then I wouldn’t continually feel this nagging loneliness in my spirit.
Grabbing my purse and car keys, I lock up, and in no time, I’m picking up dust on the back roads in my little car. I zip past pale green meadows, acres of barbed-wire fence posts, and Azalea bushes and crabapple trees bursting with color. The world has transformed with the trees and foliage decked out in full spring splendor, the pinks and purples immediately brightening my mood. Instead of autumn leaf-peeping, my drive turns into a spring awakening.
I find myself smiling and rolling down the window, breathing in the scent of flowers and fresh-cut grass. I pluck the claw-clip from the back of my head and toss it in the passenger seat, my long blonde hair tumbling over my shoulders. I turn on the radio and sing along to an old Dolly Parton tune playing on the local country music station. I’m energized by the change of scenery, happy to be away from the dark confines of my office, and singing loudly in the strong breeze wreaking havoc through my hair.
My contentment is short-lived as I spy the old family property with the abandoned house up ahead. Once upon a time, I grew up in this home and was raised by my grandmother after my mother died when I was only four years old. This allowed my father time to build his empire in town. Fast forward to now, and the house seems smaller to me, the disrepair too much to contend with since my grandma passed while I was away at college. I never wanted to settle down in this house so far from town, especially as a single woman. Renovating the apartment above the office on Main Street was more my style, and I’vemade it into a cozy home. I’m hoping someone else might want this property. The house and three acres nestled near a creek I used to explore in the hot summers of my youth would make a great home for a little family.
I stare at the old farmhouse with memories swirling through my head. My focus shifts, and I notice my metal Heartsboro Real Estate sign lying in the tall grass of the unkept meadow. I make a mental note to call the landscaper I use from time to time to schedule a spring yard cleanup as I pull into the driveway. Pushing my hair back from my face, I park and march across the thick prairie in my heels and snatch the sign right side up. The ground is hard and unforgiving as I try my best to stick it back into the dirt. I realize I might need a hammer to keep it in place. With my hands on my hips, and the gentle wind blowing wayward strands of hair all around my face, I take a step back and watch with disappointment as the sign teeters and falls over again.
“Drat.” I look around for a fat stick or a rock I can use as a rudimentary tool to get the job done. When there isn’t one to be found, I decide to use my foot. Determined, I wobble uneasily on one high heel and use the other to mash the long rod below the sign into the earth. It only takes me seconds to realize this was a mistake. I lose my balance and fall backward with a thump on my behind.
“Oof!” I sit for a minute, hoping the impact hasn’t caused a bruise. “Bad idea,” I scold myself.
It suddenly dawns on me that I keep a small mallet in the trunk of my car. It’s no wonder I forgot, as it’s been ages since I’veactually staked a “for sale” sign in a yard. Shaking my head, I gingerly try to get up, but wearing high heels in a country field has me faltering. If only I had a ledge or a helping hand to hoist me to my feet.
“You okay?”
I jerk my head to see Mr. California himself coming my way, his dusty boots traipsing through the tall grass with his big dog panting by his side. I notice his camper van parked on the shoulder of the road, the hazard lights blinking in the sunshine.
“I’m fine.”
I try to get up again, but one of my heels slips right out from under me. By this time, golden boy is standing so close I can smell his warm skin mixed with flannel and coffee. My breath stills in my lungs when he offers me his sturdy hand.
“I’ve got you.”
I look up and squint in the brightness. Beams of sunlight surround him like an angelic orb, his dazzling smile causing me to waver.
“I won’t bite, I promise.”
“Okay.” I grip his hand, and he easily lifts me to my feet, not letting go. He even takes it a step further and cups his freehand against the crook of my elbow, holding me steady.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Nothing twisted or broken?”
I look right at him, his sunny disposition a welcome relief after my unfortunate stumble. I tuck my flyaway hair behind my ear, sure I appear totally windblown from my impromptu Dolly Parton car karaoke. “I’m fine. Just embarrassed.”
“No need to be embarrassed. Looks like I showed up right on time.”
He lets go of me, and I inadvertently palm my skirt, swiping off the dust and grass from my hands. I must look a fright. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiles at me, the humor in his eyes hard not to notice as he points at my feet. “I’m sure you already know this, but those shoes probably aren’t the best form of footwear out here in the boonies.”
I scowl, not sure if I like being chastised by this strange man. “I wasn’t planning on traipsing through any fields today. I was driving by this property and saw my sign lying on the ground. I stopped to fix it.” An exasperated sigh escapes my lips as I try to explain.
He chuckles in reply. “I hear ya. And by the way, my name is Adam.”
He shoves his hand toward me again, and I hesitate, my father’s long talks about “stranger-danger” as a teen coming to the forefront of my mind. I mean, who is this guy, and why is hehere? My eyes quickly scan the area behind him. I know for a fact there isn’t another house for miles. Just farmland, dirt roads, and fence posts. My mind conjures up worst-case scenarios.
But as I switch my focus to Adam’s handsome face, highlighted by the sun in the golden hour, I notice the bold line of his scruffy jaw. His messy hair that grazes his shoulders. The slow smile working its way across his full lips the longer I stare at him. His eyes crinkle with amusement.
I clear my throat and grab his extended hand, my grip a little too forceful. “Hi, Adam. I’m Keri Clayton, owner of Heartsboro Real Estate.”
