“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 isdying 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.”
