As she clicked around on her computer, I stood in front of her corkboard and took in the rectangles of lives lived outside our small community. “Did your grandparents like to travel when you were young? Did they ever take you anywhere?”
Mac’s movements stilled on her keyboard behind me. “No, they were too busy with the farm when I was a kid. They didn’t start traveling until they retired and passed things on to my dad and uncle.”
My eyes skated over a postcard from the Grand Canyon. Then I carefully asked, “Where would you go? If you could go anywhere. Pretend money is no object. Where would you want to escape to?”
Another long pause came from the desk at my back.
I desperately wanted to turn and see her face, read her expression. To see if she was as uncomfortable as I imagined her to be. To witness the naked longing on her face that I knew in my heart would be there.
“Italy,” she finally replied. “I’d go to Italy. I’d go to Venice and Rome. I’d see the Vatican and the Trevi Fountain. I’d take a train to the countryside. I’d drink wine and eat pasta and gelato and drive a Vespa.”
I smiled at the image. Then I did turn, taking in the way Mac’s sharp features had softened with want. A dream left in a shoebox under a bed.
“You should do it,” I said, probably a touch too emphatically.
Her face transformed. Confusion and suspicion replaced the hunger and longing in an instant. “What?”
I took two big steps in her direction, joining her behind her desk. “Ask for the time. The farm could spare you for two weeks in the off-season. Get on a plane and go.”
She laughed humorlessly, and I hated the resignation in it, wishing I could give her what she wanted and not understanding why she wouldn’t take it for herself.
Then Mac turned her attention to the screen, shutting her computer down and pushing in her chair. “It was just a hypothetical, Brady. You’re the one who said to pretend.”
“I know. But I still think you could make it happen.” Fear that she’d push me away or get angry had me reaching for the easy humor that I always kept close at hand. “Hell, I’ll go with you. I could use a vacation. And I like gelato too.”
Smiling my way, Mac stepped around her desk and grabbed her jacket off the coatrack by the door. “You’re a nut.”
With her preoccupied, I reached down and pried a letter off the old keyboard on the desktop. We might have been in the middle of a truce, but I still liked to keep her on her toes. And if I kept up this conversation and pushed her harder, she was liable to reject the idea of traveling on principle.
I slipped the letter in my pocket and followed her to the door. “Let’s go plant some sunflowers.”
The area for the sunflower garden was past the corn maze on the right. I could make out the top of the big red barn across the main path and the rows of Fraser firs planted in the distance. They went all the way to the mountain that overlooked the property. From here, the big house I knew was the original Clark homestead was barely visible through the newly budding trees.
“We’ll go about six inches apart and three feet between the rows,” Mac said, passing me a small sack of sunflower seeds.
We worked side by side for a time. I thought about this sunflower patch and how my sister Candace would probably like one over at the orchard. She’d already prepped the rear of the property for lavender, and it should be blooming in June or July. Her plan was to have it available for local florists and artisans—the soap makers and candlemakers and others who could extract the essential oils. We were planning on opening the orchard in July rather than August as a result. A pick-your-own sunflower and wildflower field might be a nice addition, too. We had the space, and it was pretty low maintenance. I’d talk to my sisters about it?—
“Hey, where’d you go?” Mac’s voice drew my attention. She was standing a few rows over, smiling at me.
“Sorry, just thinking about doing something like this over at Judd’s. Talking to Candy and Joanie about it.”
“You should,” she said. “It’s easy to manage. And while it’s not a super popular attraction?—”
“Not when you have an actual apple cannon,” I cut in.
Mac laughed. “Yeah, but it’s easy and good for photo ops and social media. Plus, it’s Becca’s favorite place on the farm, so I imagine Grandpappy’s won’t be getting rid of our sunflower patch anytime soon.”
I nodded. The tourist-turned-resident seemed to be pretty well accepted among the Clark bunch. Becca was friendly, and everyone in town loved her, too.
Mac stood and stretched after she reached the end of the last row. “This looks good. I’ll ask someone to come over and water it tomorrow.”
The last bit of her statement was drowned out by the sound of an approaching engine. I glanced behind Mac’s shoulder to see a baby-blue side-by-side coming up the path.
“Shit,” Mac breathed from beside me. “Just, um, say you were here to?—”
But we didn’t get the chance to get our story straight because Maggie Clark was skidding to a stop in front of us, a big smile on her face. Her dark hair with aprominent silver stripe was hardly even disheveled from her very obvious mad dash over here.
“Fancy meeting y’all here.” She beamed.
