I sent the message and flopped back on my pillow, clutching my phone to my chest. This had to be a good sign. This was more than an invite to a meet and greet; it was an invitation to join an elite inner circle. The upper echelon of the local music scene knew my name.
I wanted to call Cash and tell him about Saturday so badly I could almost taste it. Wait…
Cash. Saturday. Taste.
The cookoff!
I sucked in another sharp breath, but this one was laced with a hint of panic. I’d just volunteered to pick up Cash’s produce from the farms on Saturday. How many different farms, I had no idea. And then there was that real estate thing I was supposed to do with Grandmother earlier that morning. My heart raced faster, and my palms began to sweat. That was a lot to get done before Cash needed me that evening.
But that was okay. I could do it if I played my cards right. All I had to do was spend the morningnotbuying that piece of property with Grandmother. The early afternoon would be reserved for making connections that would serve me for the rest of my career. And finally, I’d head out to the wilderness to pick up Cash’s produce and deliver it in time to watch him win that food truck.
Yes! That was the plan. They say that you can’t have your cake and eat it, too. But not only was I going to prove them wrong, I was going to savor every bite while doing so.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
The days leading up to my appointment at the studio had passed pretty unremarkably. Grandmother was so sure she’d already found the perfect property for me that she hadn’t scheduled any new real estate appointments for me to dodge all week. The only thing I’d had to endure was the occasional text. “Don’t forget about Saturday.”
No, Grandmother. There was no way I would forget about meeting the owner of a building I didn’t want to buy. It was definitely not something I was looking forward to, but the dread I felt about it, was overpowered by the thrill of being invited to the studio. My anticipation grew each day until I was bursting with as much excitement as a kid waiting for Christmas morning.
Well, today had been my Christmas, and Bobby Midas had not disappointed. He’d asked me to play one of my original songs, and I’d remember the look on his face as I played as long as I lived. I had “it,” as he called it.
But I couldn’t ignore the anxiety building in the pit of my stomach at the late hour. Cash was counting on me, and I still wasn’t on my way back to Austin yet.
A giant cloud of dust rose behind me as I raced down the dirt road as fast as I dared. The sun baked my skin through the windshield, the AC hardly able to put a dent in the heat building up in the car.
I’d been crisscrossing country roads for forty-five minutes searching for an elusive farm my phone told me didn’t exist. But according to the map Cash had sketched on the back of a napkin last night, it had to be around here somewhere.
He’d handed over his precious shopping list with instructions on what ingredients to buy from which farm. I’d already made two pitstops and had two cardboard boxes in the back seat to prove it, one filled with heirloom tomatoes and the other with several varieties of green leaf lettuce.
Two farms down. One to go.
I glanced at the time on my dashboard. I had one hour to find the third farm, grab the goods, and deliver everything to Cash in time for the cookoff. Not cool.
I never should have stayed so late at the studio, jamming out with Bobby—yeah, we were on a first name basis now. But when someone like that asks you to stay for one more set, you stay for one more set. Don’t get me wrong, that studio time had been like a dream come true, but now I was paying for it. And the only thing I could do about it was put the pedal to the metal and pray Cash wouldn’t be the one paying for it later.
Ironically, the only thing that had been easy about this day was my meeting with the property owner. And that was only because I hadn’t had to go. The owner had called to postpone until late this afternoon, but Grandmother had told him I couldn’t make it because I was “otherwise engaged”, aka making a grocery run for Cash.
I definitely hadn’t given her enough credit over the years. She cared enough about me to remember plans I’d made a week before, and probably had cared for a lot longer than I’d ever realized.
She offered to go to the meeting as my ambassador—whatever that meant—while I took care of my obligations. And I’d agreed. She planned to meet us at the cookoff later tonight to report any news and support Cash. Color me impressed.
The whole real estate situation had turned out perfectly. Another weekend Iwouldn’tbe buying property I didn’t want? Please and thank you! With any luck, the dude would sell to someone else this week, and I’d be off the hook for that “perfect property” for good.
Where was that farm?
A roadside vegetable stand came into view up ahead and I pulled up next to it. “Please tell me y’all are with 100 Acres Farm.”
A middle-aged man with a sweat-stained shirt shook his head. “Naw, that outfit’s an hour north on Old Mill Road.”
“An hour?” I was no mathematical genius, but even I could do simple math. There was no way I was going to make it home in time if I had to drive another hour north to buy the onions.
“We’re Crystal Farms. We set up here to take advantage of the traffic.”
I took a long look down the road in either direction. It stretched on for miles, but I didn’t see a single vehicle. “Business is booming, I see.”
He leaned back in his frayed lawn chair and propped his boots up on the table that held his fine produce. “We do all right.”
I smiled despite the panic building inside me. “I’m sure you do.” Then it hit me. A gem of an idea so great it was the answer to all my problems. “You’re a local grower, right?”
