The man stops in his tracks, obviously listening to my plea.
“This early June weather is mighty hot in these parts, and I could use a bottle of cold water. I’m dying of thirst from the long drive.” I wave my hand in front of my face like a damsel in distress, my accent tinged with a Southern twang I only bring out when absolutely necessary.
Maybe I shouldn’t have used the word “dying,” but it seemed to do the trick when he looked over his shoulder and gave me the once-over. I timidly offer him a smile and bat my lashes with innocence.
With a quick flick of his wrist, he waves me forward. “Well, come on, then. I’ve got the coldest water around. My well is fed from an underground spring. You’re welcome to a glass before you get on your way. Can’t have you die of thirst on my property now, can we?”
I accelerate my pace, my quick thinking opening the door to a business conversation. But I’m not about to push too hard. Oh, no. This is a delicate dance. And I’m more than pleased he’s made the first move.
“I appreciate it very much.”
“Where’re you from?” he asks. He’s focused on the vintage house before him, work boots crunching over gravel. His big, panting dog trots alongside to keep up. The man sure is sprightly for his elderly age.
“I came by way of Savannah. That’s where the corporate office is. But I live in Atlanta. Born and bred.” I struggle to match his pace in my heels, my calves taught from beneath my pencil skirt. I regret my choice of business attire while traversing the rural driveway. What had I been thinking?
“Ah, a city girl,” he mumbles.
He pegged me from the get-go; my polished, professional outfit and smooth bun settled at the nape of my neck, a poor choice in this environment. Even my nails are freshly manicured, the French tips sophisticated and pretty. I should’ve thought this through better and worn blue jeans and boots, my hair in a ponytail, and my shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Against the backdrop of the rolling hills and flower fields, I stand out like a sore thumb—a city girl’s manicured thumb.
As I climb the last step of the covered front porch, the man points to a wicker chair near the front window, not even bothering to turn around and introduce himself.
“Sit there. I’ll be back out with your water in a minute. Earl will keep you company.”
“I’m much obliged, sir,” I holler after him. When he doesn’t answer, I sigh. At least he hasn’t kicked me off his property yet.
Shifting my focus to the old dog, I smile. “Hey, Earl. How are you doing, boy?”
The big dog resembles a mixed breed, like a retriever or a lab. He makes a sound in his throat and eases his tired body onto the floorboards. The clever animal chose a spot underneath a spinning ceiling fan, his body rising and falling in deep pants.
“I feel your pain,” I giggle, fanning my hot face.
I scan the front porch area, delighted by several old-fashioned rockers among the suite of white wicker furniture with comfortable cushions. Lowering myself onto the faded pale blue and cream checkered fabric, I sit primly with my hands in my lap and look out over the farmland. Even though the scenery evokes serenity and reminds me of a pretty postcard, I can’t imagine ever settling down in such a rural environment so far from civilization.
A rusty windmill stands tall in the open fields. I watch it teeter and tilt, the spindly-looking tower rising from the land like a pinwheel spinning in the breeze. I wonder if the windmill is harnessed to the spring-fed well, pumping water up from the ground for irrigation.
A slight breeze dances across my heated cheeks, and the summer air is humid and hot. Looking around at my surroundings from the front porch, I feel a familiar aura I can’t quite put my finger on.
Sure, I’ve spent a lazy weekend here and there with my sister, Beverly, at an Airbnb on Tybee Island. The sleepy beachtown’s wide, sandy beaches and 18th-century lighthouse conjured something eerily similar to my current situation.
And there was that time years ago when I joined some of my closest sorority sisters for a reunion on top of Fort Mountain. Images of campfires, s’mores, and the scent of bug spray and wood smoke come to mind. Tittering girlfriends tipping back libations in the heat of the Georgia summer makes me nostalgic, and I smile.
I love reminiscing about those trips. When work wasn't even a blip on my radar and the only thing I cared about was what cocktail I craved or what kind of food I was in the mood for. And now, as I sit here on a farmer’s ancient front porch in the June heat overlooking the land with a big dog by my feet, my smile widens when I hear the faint ping of a wind chime tinkling in the corner.
The scent of sweet lavender tickles my senses and nudges at my memory again.
I close my eyes and listen. After a few seconds, I realize being here feels familiar. But how could it? I’ve never set foot in this part of the country before. But my feelings are definitely the same as those trips I’d taken. I snap my eyes open, and that’s when it hits me.
I’ve been completely amped up and anxious about this deal, knowing my job is on the line if I blow it. Constantly working from sunrise to sunset, I’ve had little to no time to enjoy my sister or my friends, my career consuming me.
Thinking about those past trips while taking in the beautiful view of Mr. Jamison’s farm makes me realize I need to slow down. I need some peace and quiet, fresh country air, and a cold drink. I need a few precious moments to breathe in the perfume-scented flowers and hum to the tune of a wind chime.
Maybe a little country getaway is just what the doctor ordered?
My thoughts are quickly interrupted as the elderly farmer pushes through the front entrance. The screen door slaps closed with a thwack, and in his hands are two tall glasses of water.
“Oh,” I squeal with delight.
“Mark my words; this is the coldest spring water you’ll ever find around here.”
