I nod and eagerly take the glass from his hands. It’s cold to the touch and slick with dribbling drops of condensation. The man sits in a nearby rocker, and I wait for him to settle before raising my glass into the air, offering him heartfelt gratitude. “Thank you very much.”
Pressing my lips to the edge, I’m immediately taken aback by the first trickle of wetness in my mouth. The water isn’t cold; it’s downright frigid, as if the glass had been filled with big chunks of ice and chilled in a freezer before he filled it to the rim. But there isn’t any ice in my glass. The arctic liquid polarizes my throat, and if I’m not careful, I know I will surely end up with a brain freeze. The large gulp immediately quenchesmy thirst. It’s clean, crisp, and refreshing, the perfect beverage on a hot summer day.
Heaving a deep breath, I look at the man with wide eyes. He wasn’t kidding when he said this was the coldest spring water around. His expression holds mirth as he nods and puckers his lips with satisfaction.
“Told ya,” he chuckles.
Draining his glass in three gulps, I watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. He sets the empty glass on a wooden side table that has seen better days and exhales a satisfied “ahh,” angling his body to face me.
“Now that you’re comfortable and quenched, why don’t you go on ahead and give me your spiel so you can report back to your boss and let him know you did your due diligence.”
I lick my lips again and set my glass next to his. I like this man. He’s kind and direct, a gentleman showing chivalry on a sweltering day. He’s accommodating but still aloof. His easygoing vibe makes me feel safe, too, like I’m sitting next to my father.
“I’d love to,” I say. “But first, won’t you please tell me your name?”
The man harrumphs. “You know who I am. You tracked me down, didn’t you?”
I offer him a sincere smile and thrust my hand out again, my professional, tidy bun and manicured nails on full display. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Jamison.”
Chapter Three
Madison
I’m not sure how I did it, but somehow, I convinced Mr. Jamison to have dinner with me.
Not wanting to go into my “spiel,” as he called it on his front porch, I told him I was staying at the Wild Daisy Inn overnight and would rather talk to him at a nice restaurant. Truthfully, I was tired of feeling little beads of sweat dribble down my back, my silk blouse uncomfortable and sticking to my skin. I’d much rather shoot my shot in an air-conditioned restaurant with good food and wine.
Imagine my surprise when he said yes.
When I mentioned I was staying at the Wild Daisy Inn, Mr. Jamison suggested the café in the main lobby for dinner.
“I know the owner, Jenny,” he said. “She makes the best pulled pork. And don’t get me started on her strawberry cake. It’s to die for. If I remember correctly, I think the recipe was passed down from her grandmother.”
“I met Jenny when I checked in. Sounds perfect. I’ll see ya at seven then,” I say, opening my car door.
“Seven it is.”
“And tonight is my treat.”
“You mean it’s your company’s treat,” he chides.
I nod, my face beaming with a cheeky smile. “You got that right. We’re gonna order everything on the menu.”
Mr. Jamison laughs out loud, the sound deep and warm. “You betcha.”
“And please, feel free to bring the whole family if you’d like. The more the merrier.”
His face instantly clouds over for a beat before he replies, “I, uh… I just might do that.”
As I drive away, the car kicks up dust, the image of Mr. Jamison in the rearview mirror with one hand on his hip and the other thrown up in a polite, hazy wave, similar to farmhand, George. The way he stands there brings back a flashback of memory—my father waving at me when I drove off to college over a decade ago.
It’s the last memory I have of him.
Shaking my head, I’m determined not to get lost in the melancholy moment. I turn on the radio and find a local music station. The classic country energizes me as I travel the back roads toward town, and my focus is on my first meeting withMr. Jamison. I’m thrilled he’s accepted my dinner invitation, and I know my boss will be impressed.
Traffic picks up the closer I get to Main Street, the tiny town teeming with locals out and about during the summer afternoon. I park in the Wild Daisy lot behind the ancient brick building and climb the back staircase.
A narrow hallway runs the length of the first floor, and I peek into the kitchen at the small staff preparing lunch for the day. My stomach growls.
