“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 fromlavendula, which is Latin. Since 1840, the word means ‘palepurple.’ 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.”
