Having dinner with Mr. Jamison tonight,I reply.
I add a GIF of a mic drop for extra measure and watch as the little text bubble percolates. Within a few seconds, my phone pings with her positive response.
Good for you, Maddy. Go get ’em!
Beverly is more than my sister. She’s my best friend. She’s never been jealous or made things a sisterly competition between us. She actively listens, respects my ideas, and only gives advice when I ask for it, especially when it comes to our eccentric mother, who divorced our late father when we were both in elementary school. And Bev was instrumental in helping me through my grief when our dad passed away.
We talk about our father often and complain about our free-spirited mom even more since she recently landed a job traveling the States as a hair stylist for a Broadway touring show. For the most part, it’s been just the two of us, except for an occasional holiday when Mom makes a rare appearance.
I wish I had invited Bev to come to Heartsboro with me. This town is right up her alley, and we could’ve had some fun antiquing and exploring together. Maybe even discover a local winery or brewery.
Love you.My grin is melancholy, knowing exactly how Beverly will respond.
Love you back!
Later, after a decadent nap and luxurious bubble bath in the claw-foot tub, I make my way to the downstairs café and sit at a four-top table, early as usual. Dressed casually in dark denim and a white peasant blouse, I palm my thighs, thankful to be out of my constrictive corporate attire.
I like being early to get my bearings before presenting my clients with a life-altering offer. The substantial seven-figure number my company agreed upon swirls around in my head, the shred of pink paper burning a hole in my pocket. I’m not sure how Mr. Jamison will react. But I know I can offer him something with fairness, his decision either way coming at a high cost.
Condensation glistens on the Mason jar glass in front of me filled to the brim with sweet tea, the waitress not hearing me correctly when I’d asked for unsweet. The first sip makes my teeth hurt. Truth be told, I would’ve preferred another glass of cold water from the Jamison farm or, better yet, a generous pour of merlot. But the café doesn’t sell any libations. I’ll have to go next door to Jenny’s twin sister’s bar at the Tipsy Daisy if I want a drink. I tuck that thought in the back of my mind for later.
The cozy evening atmosphere of the café, laden with antiques and mismatched china place settings, is comfortable, unpretentious, and just the kind of place where I can talk freely with Mr. Jamison. It feels like dining in someone’s home, not arestaurant. And a plate full of pulled pork, chicken fried steak, and fresh okra can’t hurt either.
Oh, and how can I forget the strawberry cake? He mentioned the dessert earlier, and I spied the pinkish-berry frosting displayed under a cake dome on the counter with a handwritten card in pretty letters making me grin. I took it as a sign.
There will definitely be celebratory cake.
At seven o’clock sharp, Mr. Jamison arrives. He’s right on time and holds his cowboy hat as he sheepishly approaches the table. His jeans are pressed with a crease down the center, and his collared shirt, the color of the summer sky, appears stiff from a good starching. I notice his clean-shaven face, and his aftershave scent smells eerily like my father.
“Good evening, Mr. Jamison,” I greet. I stand and offer him a sincere smile. “Won’t you please sit down?” I gesture toward the chair across from me, my ponytail swinging from the motion.
The man grins, sets his hat in the empty chair between us, and eases into his seat. His movements are slow and intentional, and his slight grimace before he settles is noticeable.
“You look pretty tonight, Ms. Adler,” he compliments. “You’re a little more relaxed.”
I smile again, enjoying the flattering remark. “Why, thank you. I feel like I could pass for a local now.”
“Hardly,” he chuckles.
We talk briefly about the weather after we order dinner, and I ask him a few questions about his property. His face lights up when he talks about the farm, and he’s generous with the details. He tells me all about the booming flower business and how they’re a top supplier to a popular organic grocery store chain, fulfilling orders in and around the Atlanta market.
“That’s incredible,” I congratulate. “You must have a great team behind you.”
Mr. Jamison nods. “I’ve got my long-time foreman, Kip Johnson, at the helm. But most of our success is due to my grandson, George.”
I demurely look over the edge of my Mason jar and take a tiny sip of tea. The drink’s sweetness and the mere mention of George’s name bring to mind his megawatt smile and chivalrous behavior. Earlier, I placed the sprig of lavender he gifted me into a short glass I found in the bathroom and set it next to my bed, the fragrant aroma infiltrating the entire room.
“Yes, I met George at the roadside stand earlier today.”
“You did?” Mr. Jamison seems surprised.
“Sure did. He was super nice and gave me some lavender on the house. It smells like heaven in my room upstairs.” I giggle and watch his mouth turn up into a melancholy smile.
“Sounds like him. He’s a generous boy.”
“Boy?” I guffaw. “I’d hardly call George aboy.”
My face grows hot when I realize my comment might have come across as inappropriate. But Mr. Jamison doesn’t seem fazed.
