“Uh-oh. I know that look, Bev. You’re about to impart your wise sisterly advice on me, right? Gosh, why do you have to besuch a great teacher?” I sit up straighter on the rocker and slap my free hand on my thigh. “Okay. Lay it on me. I’m listening.”
Beverly’s smile is genuine as she tilts her head, her messy bun flopping over from the move. She really is a beautiful young woman, named after Beverly Hills, California. I’m named after Madison Avenue in New York City. Our quirky mom explained how she always wanted the best for her daughters, which started with our classy names—well, classy in her eyes.
“For what it’s worth, you don’t accidentally meet people or towns. There’s a lesson and a gift in every situation.”
“I know,” I mumble.
“If something draws you to the farm or the little town of Heartsboro, don’t fight it. Accept it. You never know what might happen.”
“I know. I’m trying to, seriously. But my actions could cause me to potentially lose my job.”
“Who cares, Maddy. You’ve worked too hard for far too long at that company. And who knows? Maybe moving on is part of the plan. Maybe you’re ready and there’s something else in store for you. Something even better.”
I ruminate on my sister’s words. Perhaps she’s right? Maybe it’s time for me to slow down and practice a little self-care. To enjoy the fruits of my labor. To savor the good coffee and go on an actual date.
“You know I love you, right?”
“Love you back, sis,” Beverly replies.
She tosses the throw pillow from her lap at me, nearly causing me to spill my wine. We erupt in a bout of giggles.
“I’m going back in a few days. I promise I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”
“Good girl.” Beverly stands. “Now I’m craving seafood, thanks to you bringing up Tybee. Are you up to grabbing some dinner? It will only take me a minute to change. I’m thinking of the Steamhouse Lounge.”
“Mmmm. Lobster bisque,” I moan, thankful for my sister. “You always have the best ideas.”
Chapter Nine
George
Standing in the back end of my truck, I shift the produce crates to make room for the overflowing buckets of flowers. The sound of tires on the gravel makes me pause, and I lift my eyes to see Kip Johnson round the corner in his shiny black truck. Grimacing, I keep my head low and wonder why he’s here. It’s the weekend, when all the farmhands are supposed to be off.
“Hey,” Kip greets cordially.
I ignore him and continue to work.
“I said, hey,” Kip repeats in a louder tone.
Sighing, I stand tall in the truck bed and focus on my nemesis. I actually enjoy the feeling of being up high and literally looking down on him.
Kip is wearing running shorts and athletic shoes, his skin-tight workout shirt clinging to his bulging muscles. In all his years working with me on the farm, I’ve never seen Kip out of hisstandard farm clothes, the absence of his jeans, boots, and wide-brimmed hat perplexing.
“Hey,” I mumble.
Kip nods and comes closer. He hoists his body onto the open lift gate and sits, patting the empty space next to him. “I’d like to talk to you about something. Have a seat.”
I feel my stomach lurch with nerves. This can’t be good.
“What is it?” I stand there, frozen in place, unsure what to do.
“Sit down, okay? You can spare a minute of your time, can’t you?”
I think about it for a few seconds before I relent and ease my body next to his.
“Atta boy.” Kip grins.
I keep my focus on the ground, too nervous to engage. Kip coming to the farm on his day off is an anomaly. There has to be a hidden agenda. What could it be this time? Is his AC at home on the fritz and he needs a handyman? Did I forget to fulfill a Friday order and I’m about to get reprimanded for the millionth time? However, sacrificing his Saturday morning would’ve been out of character for the man since he usually loves to humiliate me in front of his crew during regular business hours.
